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ryomensgf · 19 days ago

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𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗠𝗦 !

RYOMEN SUKUNA X READER !!

CHAPTER : TWO

ᯓsypnosis. in a secluded shrine deep within the forest, you have spent all your life untouched by the outside world, a living paradox—blessed with blood that heals yet cursed with a presence that brings death. Your days are quiet, isolation absolute, until one stormy night when a presence unlike any other darkens her doorstep.

.𖥔 ݁ tags+warn. ryomen sukuna x fem reader, true form ryomen sukuna, concubine!reader, mentions of blood, violence and misogyny, heavy language, reader is powerful, eventual smut, possessive!sukuna, sukuna loves control, toxic jealousy, degradation, angst/fluff, light choking, size difference, time period heian era, goddess!demon, soft reader, more tags will be added later lmao. 2k

ch. 1

ch. 2

Kill. Kill. Kill.

It echoes in every hushed whisper, woven into the murmur of their words. They scrutinize, deliberate, weigh your worth against the fleeting measure of existence.

Do you belong in this world?

Are you a being worthy of humanity, or merely a mistake to be erased?

The chant is relentless. These words coil around you like an unseen noose, tightening with every beat of silence. The air thickens, suffocating in its familiarity. This judgment, this suffocating dread—it's all you've ever known.

You sit at the center of it all, draped in an immaculate white gown. It spills around you like untouched snow, your long hair cascading behind you, adorned with the delicate pattern of flowers. A stark contrast to the monks seated around you.

Or rather, the bodies of the monks.

Their robes, once grey, now drip with a deeper shade of crimson. Blood soaks their garments, clings to their skin, spills onto the tatami mats beneath them. Their faces are frozen in twisted expressions—terror, agony, and the fleeting resignation of death.

The sight of it consumes your vision. The smell of iron fills your nose. The only sound is the soft drip of blood, a rhythm as steady as your breath—or lack thereof.

You are the only one left breathing.

You blink.

Your gaze meets the man in front of you. The air around him feels poisoned, thick with the stench of decay. He reeks of death, not of one or two, but of thousands.

And yet, what he wants from you remains unknown.

You open your lips to speak, but the words falter, trapped beneath the tremor of your confusion. Even so, you force them forth. "What is it you seek?"

Is it your blood he seeks—the sacred ichor that flows through you, whispered to hold divinity's essence? Or does he seek to end you, to erase from this world the death that has dared to crawl upon its soil, embodied in your existence?

His expression remains unreadable as silence stretches between you, taut and fragile. Then, without warning, he moves. His hand clasps your wrist in a firm, almost possessive grip, and your eyes widen at his audacity.

Before you can protest, he pulls, forcing you to stumble forward. Instinctively, you clutch at your wrist—and his hand—trying to make sense of the man before you.

So, it is blood?

His nail grazes your skin, a deliberate touch that sends a ripple of unease through you. Slowly, it trails downward, pressing just enough to draw crimson beads to the surface. The sight is unnervingly familiar, yet no less disquieting.

He leans closer, the movement slow, predatory. His tongue flicks out, catching the droplets as they run along your arm. You feel the warmth of it against your skin, and your brows draw together in discomfort.

Then his nail digs deeper, his force so great it nearly bends your hand. The sharp pain isn't new to you, but the weight behind it—his intent—makes you part your lips in a stifled gasp.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low.

"This is the blood humans so desperately cling to," he murmurs, his eyes lifting to lock with yours. A flicker of amusement, or perhaps disdain, dances in his gaze. "Do you envy them? Those who revel in their fleeting comforts, while you sit here—a pitiful fool—waiting for something that will never come?"His gaze doesn't waver, and neither does the grip on your wrist.

You swallow. "Envy is beyond my understanding. This is my purpose, my destiny."

He chuckles, low and sharp, the sound rippling through the tense air. "Purpose? Destiny?" he echoes mockingly, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to make you aware of his strength. "Such noble words for a life spent bleeding for others. Does clinging to that illusion ease the ache of your insignificance?"

His eyes narrow slightly, studying you as though your answer might amuse him further. You feel the sting of his nail press deeper, another droplet of blood tracing down your arm.

"And yet," he continues, leaning closer until his breath brushes against your skin, "perhaps it isn't insignificance you fear. It's the weight of the power you're too afraid to claim."

You flinch inwardly but force your expression to remain steady. "If you've come here to mock me, you've wasted your time," you say coldly. "You speak of power as if it belongs to someone like you—a scavenger feeding on others to sustain yourself. I'll die before I let someone like you define my worth."

His smirk deepens, a shadow of something dark and predatory crossing his features. "Oh, you'll die, goddess of death."

Finally, he releases his grip, stepping back, though the air between you remains thick with unspoken menace. "But that is after you've outlived your usefulness to me."

You sit back, hands folded neatly in your lap, your chin held high. You may not know all the ways of outsiders, but you can sense their intentions.

"If it's my blood you desire, I suggest you seek the monk." You turn your head away from him.

A flicker of something almost imperceptible crosses your mind—does this fool not realize that by standing so close to you, he is already withering? Your presence, a slow poison, is already beginning to close in on his fragile existence. And yet, he lingers. Not out of fear, but rather amusement.

"Hm, blood such as yours holds no value to me," he continues, with a sigh. "It is only humans who cling to that wretched life, living it like parasites—weak, fragile, insignificant."

He begins to circle you, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as though measuring you with each stride.

"What I seek though, is your power." He pauses, his gaze lingering on your hands. "It's insulting to see you waste such a gift on those feeble, pathetic humans who sees no real worth in you."

You meet his gaze. "And you do?"

Sukuna's smirk widens, dark and malicious, as he steps closer. "Of course," he breathes, his words dripping with something darker, deeper. "You think you control this power, but you're nothing more than a fool clinging to a flame that will burn you alive."

He stops circling as he watches you. "You don't know what it means to truly wield power. But I'll show you. I'll tear you apart, piece by piece, until nothing is left but your broken, useless shell. The blood you protect so dearly will be nothing but a stain at my feet."

His gaze darkens. "The moment you stop being useful to me, I'll make you regret the day you ever drew breath. The world will burn, and so will you, right alongside it."

A chill runs down your spine at the dark direction his words have taken. He's not here for your blood, not to erase you from this world—he's here to test you. It's no longer a mere threat; it's a twisted promise, one that chills you to the core.

But if he understands the true essence of your power, why does he linger so close? He knows well enough that if you placed even a finger on him, he would wither away, consumed by the very force of your existence. So why does he risk it?

Your eyes dart when the sickening sound of blood splattering filling your ears—too far, too close.

Your servant.

The one who had been there, standing, waiting for you. Now she chokes, grasping at her throat in desperate, futile attempts to breathe. Her eyes lock onto yours with a desperate plea for help, but it is a plea you can't answer. She reaches out to you, but then she crumples, falling to the ground, her body convulsing, the light in her eyes dimming. Death claims her, swift and unforgiving.

This is something you've never seen before. Something your sheltered world had kept from you—until now.

You still for a moment, before your gaze shifts back to the man before you. But before you can utter a single word, the world vanishes into darkness. Pitch black.

Pitch black.

Wait.

Pitch darkness.

It's happened before, hasn't it?

If your entire life had been defined by silence and peace, this was the stark opposite. The dull ache in your body was what finally forced your eyes open. Above you stretched a dark, cracked ceiling. Dust swirled in the dim light spilling faintly from some unseen crack in the outside world.

You coughed, the sound rasping in your throat as you shifted to sit up. The movement brought with it a metallic clink.

Chains.

Your gaze dropped, heart sinking as you registered the source. A single chain binding your wrist to the wall behind you. Only then did the rest of the scene come into focus. You were in a dim, underground chamber, the air thick with dampness and the scent of earth.

Your gown, once pristine, was smeared with dirt, dust, and the faint stain of blood.

Where were you? Why were you here?

Your back ached from the cold, unyielding ground where you'd clearly been left for hours. Just as unease began clawing its way to panic, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted your thoughts.

The door creaked open, its protest loud and jarring in the silence.

"Call for Uraume," a deep voice commanded.

Your gaze snapped toward the speaker—a man dressed in a sleek black kimono. He stood tall and composed, his broad frame at odds with the softness of his youthful face. Handsome, even.

For a moment, you forgot the weight of the chain on your wrist. In your quiet, cloistered life, you'd only ever known the company of aging monks. Seeing someone so young and striking was almost disorienting.

The man steps into the room. His sharp eyes scan you briefly before they settle, studying your chained form with a mix of curiosity and indifference.

“Awake, are we?” he murmurs, his voice smooth but laced with authority. He crouches slightly to your level, the hem of his black kimono brushing the dusty ground.

You can feel your throat tighten as you try to speak, but no words come out. His gaze flickers over the bloodstains on your gown, the disheveled state you’re in. Something in his expression shifts—a faint smirk, barely noticeable, like he knows something you don’t.

“I wouldn’t bother struggling,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “The chains aren’t coming off unless I say so.”

“W-who are you?” you finally manage, your voice hoarse, either from lack of use or fear.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he rises to his feet, his movements deliberate, and turns toward the still-open door. “Wouldn’t bother to ask. You won’t see me again after this.”

Strange.

His words linger, unsettling, as he steps into the hallway and disappears. Minutes stretch by, heavy and oppressive, before another figure emerges.

“Uraume.”

The name settles in your mind like a jagged shard, bringing memories rushing back. You recognize them now—the monk from that day. Everything snaps into place like a cruel puzzle.

You remember.

The man. The beast. The monster. Whatever it was—it took you!

“Let it begin,” Uraume says, their voice calm.

The man from before nods and walks away without another glance. Uraume steps fully into the room, their gaze flickering over you like a cold breeze. There’s no recognition, no warmth, only detachment. They approach the chains.

“Why am I here?” you ask, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady.

No response.

You ask again, louder this time. The silence remains unbroken.

Uraume works at the chains, and with a sharp pull, they yank them free from the wall. The force drags you forward, making you stumble, your knees scraping against the hard ground.

“You will see,” is all they say, their tone void of emotion.

You frown at that. What you’ve pieced together so far is grim: you’re being kept captive, though the reasons remain unclear. Still, you’ve read enough scriptures to know one thing—those taken must fight for their freedom.

As Uraume drags you forward, your mind races, searching for an opportunity. Slowly, you raise your free hand, reaching toward them. But before you can make contact, the chain around your wrist jerks violently, pulling you off balance.

“Do not try something you’ll regret,” Uraume warns. They don’t even look back, as if they’d anticipated your defiance before you’d even thought of it.

You’re startled, though a small part of you—traitorous, perhaps—feels a flicker of admiration. You suppress it quickly. This isn’t the time to be impressed.

Perhaps you should’ve known this day would come. A day when those far stronger than you would come for you, dragging you away like prey.

Everyone seeks you—whether for your blood, your lineage, or, as the beast had claimed, your power. And once again, you’re reminded of your place. A doll to be dragged around, fragile and obedient.

As you’re dragged into the hallway, your surroundings steal your attention. The space is nothing like the small, cloistered world you’ve always known. The corridors stretch endlessly, their walls adorned with intricate red and gold patterns, gleaming faintly in the evening light. Servants move quietly through the halls, bowing slightly as Uraume passes. Their curious glances flicker toward you, though none linger long.

Despite your situation, you can’t help but marvel. Perhaps being “captive” isn’t so bad. After all, this is a glimpse into a world you were never allowed to see—an ornate, vibrant life beyond your previous understanding.

You notice the warm hues of the setting sun spilling through the open shoji doors, painting the halls in shades of amber and gold. Yet the stillness of the place feels unsettling. It’s too quiet, as if the air itself is waiting for something to happen.

When Uraume finally stops in front of two massive doors, you halt beside them. The doors loom high, carved with intricate designs you don’t have the time to study.

Uraume turns to you, their gaze colder than ever. “You’d better fight if you want to live.”

Before you can fully process their words, the doors are pushed open, creaking loudly.

“Hm-” You barely have time to react as you’re dragged forward.

Your breath catches in your throat. The room beyond is immense—far larger than anything you’ve ever seen. The walls seem to stretch forever, adorned with banners and torches casting flickering light. At the very back, a throne dominates the space.

And seated there, in all his terrifying glory, is a man you recognize instantly.

Him.

The monster.

He lounges lazily, legs sprawled out, his elbow propped up on the throne’s armrest. His chin rests against his fist, his crimson eyes watching you with a cruel amusement.

The room is filled with people—advisors, nobles, perhaps governors from their ornate attire. Their eyes are all on you.

Curiosity. Disgust. Contempt. Their stares pierce you in a hundred different ways, stripping away whatever dignity you have left.

You suddenly feel small, as though the room itself is pressing down on you. When was the last time you were observed like this? The memory lingers just out of reach, scratching at the edges of your mind, refusing to be fully acknowledged.

Uraume’s grip on the chains tightens, their movements deliberate and unyielding as they lead you to the center of the room. Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of countless stares bearing down on you. When they finally stop, Uraume releases the grip on the chains and bows low before stepping aside with graceful precision.

A hush falls over the room.

Ah, so this is what it’s about.

You’re here to be discussed—again. Your destiny, your worth, your purpose. It’s becoming increasingly, infuriatingly predictable.

You’ve given humans everything they’ve asked for, time and time again. Yet, a single lingering doubt is enough to pull you right back to where you started. Captive. Judged.

The man on the throne moves, a subtle nod directed at one of the others in the room. Another figure is dragged forward.

Your gaze shifts to him, and your breath catches momentarily. He’s enormous, towering over you by at least four heads, his frame broad and imposing. Chains bind him as well, rattling with each forced step.

His expression is carved from stone, a stoic mask marred by a jagged scar running down one side of his face. His head is shaven, his features set in a permanent scowl.

You can’t help but wonder: is he in the same predicament as you? Another pawn in whatever game these people are playing? Will he, too, be subjected to their scrutiny and judgment? What’s his story?

The room remains deathly silent until his voice cuts through, low and dripping with malice.

“Very well,” The man on the throne drawls, leaning forward on the throne, his crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Two pitiful humans dragged before me. One trembling like a frightened deer, the other begging to be unleashed."

His gaze slides over you first, piercing and unrelenting, before shifting to the massive man at your side. He chuckles, the sound dark and predatory, as though already savoring something.

“You’ve both been granted a rare privilege,” he continues, his voice laced with mockery. “To entertain me.”

You tilt your head slightly, confusion flickering in your gaze. Entertainment? You’ve read plenty about it in the scripts—stories of extravagant performances, comedies, and dramas, but it always served one simple purpose: to entertain. However this must be something else entirely. You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he wants you two to dance, to put on some absurd display of skill. But then again, each creature has its own twisted idea of entertainment.

“Fight.” he says, drawing out the word like a blade, “Let’s see which of you is worthy of taking another breath.”

Your eyes widen, the realization sinking in with a sharp, icy clarity. Not what you expected. No, this isn’t the playful kind of entertainment you imagined—it’s cruel, twisted, and merciless. Fighting to the death.

You’re suddenly reminded of the tales you’ve read about kings who took sick pleasure in the suffering of others. One story, in particular, about a poor man who had to fight for his life against thousands of hunters, simply because the king found it amusing.

The king was a monster, a cruel, twisted thing. Just like the one standing before you now.

With a flick of his hand, the chains binding you and the other man clatter to the ground.

“And don’t disappoint me. I despise boredom.”

The man beside you shifts, his muscles tensing as he sizes you up. His scarred face remains emotionless, but the way his fists clench tells you he’s already made his decision.

You’re not sure if you can fight. But you’re even less sure if you can survive not fighting.

You take a cautious step back, your heart pounding in your chest. Fight? You’ve never fought before. The very idea feels foreign, alien.

Sure, there have been times when desperate humans have broken into your sanctuary, pleading with you to save their loved ones, but those were not battles. Those were cries for help.

There were moments when they went so far as to threaten you with knives, brandishing their desperation like a weapon, but even then, you never fought back. You simply stood, calm and still, offering your blood like a saint.

The monks however had been more concerned with the outside world after that—tightening their watch over your sanctuary, preventing any more “incidents” from disturbing your peace.

Will you be able to fight? To hurt another person? You’ve never known what that feels like. And yet, the cruel twist of fate forces you into a corner, where your survival may depend on it.

Then It all happens in the blink of an eye.

You don’t have time to react, don’t have time to brace yourself, before a heavy punch crashes into your face. The force sends you reeling, your body hitting the ground with a raw scream, pain exploding through your skull like fire. Blood trickles down your face, warm and thick, pooling in your mouth as you stare at it in shock.

Pain. It’s foreign to you—something you’ve only heard about in stories, never truly experienced. But now, it crawls through you like a stinging parasite, relentless and suffocating, urging you to beg for it to stop.

It hurts.

Before you can even process the agony, your hair is wrenched from behind. The large man’s grip tightens painfully, dragging your head up to meet his wicked grin. His eyes are full of sadistic amusement, enjoying your suffering.

He raises his fist again.

You tremble, every muscle in your body tightening in fear. You know what’s coming. You can feel it, the pain that will follow. You shake your head, a desperate plea for mercy, though you know it will fall on deaf ears.

And then it hits you again.

The unbearable pain. It smashes into your jaw with brutal force, and you hear—no, you feel—the sickening crack reverberate through your skull. Your mind rings with a sharp, endless noise, a disorienting blur of agony and confusion.

It’s something you’ve never known before, a pain so intense it threatens to tear you apart, to swallow you whole. It makes you want to shrink away, to disappear, to escape from the nightmare you’ve suddenly found yourself in.

Tears well up in your eyes, the sting of them barely noticeable beneath the overwhelming ache.

The punches don’t stop. They rain down on you, merciless and unrelenting. Again and again, until you lose count. You don’t even remember the last punch that landed, each one a blur of violence and suffering. Everything around you begins to slow, the world hazy and distant, as if you’re watching it from far away.

That unbearable pain.

You can barely breathe. The air is thick, suffocating. Your vision blurs, and for a moment, you can’t process anything at all.

Are you going to die?

Is this it? Is the embodiment of death finally going to vanish from existence? Would it be better to disappear now? Would it be a release from this torment?

You don't notice when the blows cease. All you are left with is the searing, relentless pain that wraps around you like an unshakable fog. Tears, unbidden, stream down your face, yet you can't even feel them.

The large man steps away, his knuckles bruised and stained with crimson, but the sight of him is nothing compared to the ruin he has wrought. Blood stains the floor beneath you, pooling around your body. Your face is a mask of crimson, soaked in the evidence of your torment, and your hair—your once-pristine hair—drips with it, as though the very blood has bled from your scalp itself.

A long, drawn-out sigh escapes from above you. The man on the throne, his voice cold and full of disdain.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, his words heavy in the stillness. His gaze lingers on you, not with pity, but with something far worse—disgust, as though you are nothing more than an object meant for his amusement.

"Is this the so-called goddess of death?" Sukuna sneers, his voice thick with mockery. "I expected a far more impressive spectacle. How boring."

You cough, the taste of blood bitter in your throat, and with a great effort, you manage to raise yourself slightly, bracing on your elbows. Every movement feels like a battle against your own body, trembling, fragile. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long. But then again, your blood... it’s different.

Perhaps that’s the only reason you're still breathing.

Despite the fog in your mind, you lift your gaze. Through the strands of matted hair clinging to your face, you meet Sukuna’s eyes. Once amusement, now lies a cruel sick pleasure. His gaze is empty, calculating, as though you’re already a thing of no importance, just another broken plaything to be discarded once your purpose has been served.

Your blood runs cold at the thought. Once you exceed your usefulness, you are nothing.

Slowly, you turn your head, though the motion sends a sharp wave of pain through you. Your vision blurs, but you manage to focus on the man who stands tall, his posture proud as if he’s achieved something monumental. The crowd, once murmuring in anticipation, now falls into hushed whispers, their disappointed eyes trained on you.

They, too, share Sukuna’s sentiment. They, too, are bored.

"Looks like the little bitch still got a fight in her." The large man sneers, cracking his knuckles as he steps forward, ready to strike again. His fists are tight, his stance filled with anticipation. You groan, your body aching as you sit up. There’s no way out of this. No escape.

You close your eyes, drawing a ragged breath, trying to steady yourself in the face of the pain, the terror.

But when you open them again, you’re no longer on the ground.

You’re standing, at the center of the room. Your hands, trembling, are covered in blood—dark, fresh, crimson streaks marring your skin. And the man who had been about to strike you? He lies motionless on the floor, his body mutilated beyond recognition. His organs, torn from his body, spill onto the ground, a gruesome sight of death.

What...just happened?

A shaky gasp escapes you, your mind unable to process what your eyes are seeing. You take a step back, your legs unsteady beneath you.

Your gaze snaps to the man sitting on the throne. A wicked grin twists across his face, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if whatever you’ve just done—or whatever has just happened—was exactly what he wanted.

But... you remember none of it. You were just on the floor, bleeding, and now... now, you stand here, covered in blood, with a body before you that was once alive.

Gasps echo from the crowd, their faces filled with horror and disbelief. The murmurs spread like a wave, rippling through the room. You can sense their shock, their fear, but you still have no idea what they’ve seen. What they’ve witnessed.

"There you are," Sukuna muses, his voice dripping with dark amusement as his eyes glint with cruel satisfaction. "Right there, my little pawn."

A twisted laugh spills from his lips, cruel and cold, reverberating through the room. His gaze is sharp, predatory, as if he’s savoring every moment of your confusion and the carnage you’ve just unleashed.

This—this moment of unholy power—is exactly what he had hoped for.

tag list : @moonchhu @paradisestarfishh if you want to be tagged, make sure to comment!

#anime #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #nanami #jjk #gojo #sukuna x reader #jjk ryomen #sukuna x you #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #uraume #female reader

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wynnyfryd · 10 months ago

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Trailer park Steve AU part 59

part 1 | part 58 | ao3

cw: canon-typical horror/gore (like for real this time), emetophobia, reference to minor character death. ty to @thisapplepielife for indulging my weirdly specific research about headstones

Steve tries to follow her — gets shot down before he even gets within speaking range, Max shouting at him to give her a minute the second she spots him coming over the hill. He backs off, hands raised in surrender, and then…

Well, then he’s already out of the car.

Well then his feet know where to take him.

His dad’s grave isn’t far. Maybe a football field away, close enough that he’ll be able to hear it if Max calls for help. He moves toward it without thought, his legs carrying him past simple overgrown markers in the oldest part of the park — crumbling remnants of civil war soldiers, farmers and shopkeepers and factory workers, people who worked the mines, people who died before his grandfather was born. People who might have been loved once, before time and moss and water stripped their names off of the stones.

Up the next slope, the markers get more elaborate, shift from bronze to granite to marble, to monuments and mausoleums and a fucking obelisk; ostentatious displays of the town’s oldest money. The coal barons, the oil tycoons. Rotten bastards, Wayne might say.

The Harringtons aren't that rich. They're further down the hill in a neatly manicured row of Indiana limestone; fresh flowers on each grave, the weeds plucked, the grass trimmed.

Dad's buried right next to Grandpa Otis.

It almost looks nice.

Crisp, clean, dry. Nothing to suggest the messy wet red of his father's demise. Steve shoves his hands in his front pockets and steps up to his dad's plot, toes the edge of it, the rounded lump of earth, sparse grass and loose soil where his father's bones are laid. The ground gives a little under his weight, the dirt compacting. Could he dig this up with just his hands? Could he claw through until he reached the bottom, pry open the box and peer inside? Unbidden, the image forms in his mind: worm food and rot, half a man left inside, somehow still frowning in disappointment with his jaw bone shining clean.

Steve's stomach turns. A sick shiver runs through him, saliva flooding his mouth, sweat beading at his hair line.

This isn't right.

Something's not right.

There's a sudden chill in the air, frigid wind carrying a smell like roadkill in the summer — heat wafting from the pavement, death clogging up his throat. Steve covers his nose and wills his shoulders down from his ears; tries to mutter words of comfort to himself under his breath. “Just a graveyard, Steve. Just a totally… normal…”

Ice on the back of his neck. Steve tenses every muscle, turns his good ear toward the sound of whatever's creeping up on him; something taller than him, something slithering and wet, its rasping rattles of frozen breath sending goosebumps down Steve's arms. His hands twitch inside his pockets.

Then, a voice — a voice that isn’t his, that can’t be anyone’s, because the man it belonged to is dead. “That Munson boy was right about you."

Steve can't fucking breathe. Dark clouds roll in around him, violent as a blooming bruise, and that voice behind him echoes — distorted, vicious; hungry.

"You are a black hole."

Steve grabs two fistfuls of his own hair and tugs; wills the pain to dispel the nightmare, his eyes swimming from the sting.

The thing behind him laughs. "Look how you ruined your mother," it snarls. "Look how you tore her apart.”

"Shut up!" Steve barks with his hands over his ears.

“Steve…” The voice deepens, beckons, thick with malice and rot. Steve slowly turns to face it, trembling all over, pulse thudding in his ears, and his shoes squelch in the dirt, and when he looks down he sees that the dirt has turned to mud that now turns to oozing red, a viscous river beneath his feet, flowing up over his ankles, pouring from his father's grave. And there, in front of him, a mangled remnant stands. The ruined corpse of Richard Harrington, his skin shriveled and gray, the torn parts of him held together by his clothes. There’s a hole in his torso where the exposed ribs glint like knives.

Steve throws up on himself.

The ground gives way beneath him, goes spongy like rotting meat, and the thing wearing his dad's face cackles as Steve sinks into the earth, the grave swallowing him whole, up to his calves, his knees, his thighs. "Join me," it offers, lipless smile full of teeth.

The glamor peels back to reveal a monster underneath, its scarred skin crawling in mucus-coated vines; naked, long-limbed, stitched together with burnt flesh.

Steve screams as he scrambles for purchase, up to his hips now in the muck, his feet on the lid of his dad's casket. He claws blindly at the loose ground but it’s all thick and wet with red, and the air itself is red; blood in the sky, in his eyes, in his lungs. He's going to die here. The voice tells him so. It's in his head now, a bellowing echo as the monster draws near, one hideous hand outstretched, an all-consuming join me, join me, JOIN ME—

“HEY!!!”

Max shouts directly in his face, shaking him hard by both shoulders where they're crouched on the cool ground, Kate Bush leaking from the headphones slung around her neck. Steve gives a startled shout and jerks back out of her grip, falling hard on his ass, landing harder on his elbows.

The world shifts back to blue. To dry, clean grass. To breathable air.

Steve pants up at the sky. His shirt clings to him where he's soaked it through with sweat. When Max offers him a hand, he stands on shaky legs, looks at the ground beneath his feet and screams again, scurrying back until his ass hits a stranger's headstone.

There’s a dent in the earth where he was standing. A smudge of packed dirt where he really did sink in. Steve stares at it; feels it reaching out for him, the dark patch thudding like a heart beat, spreading out like snaking vines.

He clutches at his heaving chest. Max’s eyes are huge on him.

"Okay, what the fuck?" she begs.

"What the fuck yourself!"

No heat behind the words, but they burn him, anyway, pushed out on a weak gasp. Is this what she was talking about? Is this what she calls nothing?

This doesn't feel like fucking nothing.

“Shit," she says, and her eyes go even wider. Steve can see the veins in them. "Shit, Steve, your nose…”

He swipes his arm across his face.

It comes back red.

—

part 60

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #max mayfield #vecna

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shintin · 1 year ago

Text

Forbidden Flames

↳ Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

One-shot

Summary: Satoru Gojo receives a letter, inviting him to a secluded cottage in the forest. Is it a trap by curse users or a haunting memory trying to scratch his wounds?

Or a story about how You and Satoru Gojo fucked after years.

Word count: +11 k.

Genre: explicit smut, romance, angst (Jujutsu Kaisen au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, reader-insert, no Y/N, post-breakup, soft Satoru Gojo, curse user reader, no death, too much fluff and kissing, cunnilingus, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex (c’mon! we all want this), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, tear licking, emotional trauma, emotional sex, no manga spoilers.

Notes: Hey there! I wrote this because Gege Akutami left an emotional mark on me. So, you know...

You can read the "Disclaimers" at the end.

Song Recommendation: Forbidden Flames Playlist

You can read my fics on AO3. If you have any questions, don’t be shy and ASK.

Back to masterlist

As the afternoon sun cast long shadows through the dense foliage, a mysterious man with stark white hair and a black blindfold stepped into the heart of the desolate wilderness. Satoru Gojo. The air hung heavy with the earthy scent of wet soil mingling with the musty aroma of decaying leaves, a reminder of the rainstorm that had visited the night before.

Every step he took got lost between the giggles and hisses of harmless curses hiding behind the trees with fear. The ground beneath his feet was carpeted with a mosaic of fallen leaves, their vibrant red, orange, and gold colors now muted and lifeless, as if drained of all vitality. Some of them, with still a breath to take, crunched beneath his weight, the sound of a heartrending dirge that reverberated through the desolation.

Tall, gnarled trees stood sentinel on either side, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers as if yearning to trap the unwary. Their towering forms were shrouded in darkness, their essence reduced to withered remnants. They whispered mournful laments in the wind, their voices carrying tales of forgotten sorrows.

The forest, once flourishing and thriving, now seemed like a tragic tableau frozen in time. The canopy above formed a suffocating barrier that only got disturbed by the man's ethereal presence. Wild ferns brushed against his legs, leaving behind a trace of dew upon his black trousers. The moist ground yielded beneath his every step as if reluctant to release its grip from his boots' footprints.

As he pressed further into the jungle, the darkness deepened, the path twisting and turning like a labyrinth of despair. The shadows grew longer, stretching out like grasping tendrils as if eager to ensnare his soul. The silence became oppressive, broken only by the occasional painful cry of a distant creature.

The cottage he had received its address stood as a solitary figure amidst the gloomy jungle, a crumbling monument to forgotten dreams. Its dilapidated walls whispered of lost hopes and shattered promises, its windows veiled with white curtains.

With his hands casually tucked into his pockets, he watched the scene before him, a twisted smile playing upon his lips. He thought it was a perfect place, a trap waiting to spring him. But who would be foolhardy enough to challenge the strongest of all times?

But wait!

He couldn't feel any cursed energy! His six eyes were dumb. There was only one who could blind their watchful gaze.

So, when Satoru Gojo approached the house, his heart quickened after a long time, anticipation and anxiety coursing through his veins. The stage was set, the elements conspiring to test his resolve. Would he emerge from this shadowed encounter unscathed, or would the jungle claim yet another victim, lost to the depths of its sorrow-laden clutches?

Satoru's focus fixated on the doorknob, a slight gulp revealing his hesitation. Taking a deep breath, he turned and pushed open the door. The scent of something sweet enveloped his nostrils, a reminiscent embrace that momentarily distracted his senses. However, as his eyes met the sight that awaited him, an unexpected revelation struck him with a force that resurfaced long-forgotten memories.

The inside resembled an aged hideout, with wooden walls and colorful chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting warm, dappled patterns on the worn tatami floor. In the center of the room, a round table took its place, adorned with a vase of delicate forget-me-not flowers. Flanking the table were two chairs. And then, in the small kitchen stood the person who had left a void in his heart.

"You're late," your voice rang out in a cheerful tone, beckoning him forward. "Come inside. It's chilly out." With your back facing the door, you stood at the counter, appearing preoccupied with unwrapping something.

Caught in a maelstrom of emotions, Satoru's thoughts fragmented like scattered puzzle pieces, their intended purpose obscured by the inner turmoil. His hand held the doorknob tightly, trapped in a state of ambiguity, unable to release its grip.

Was this a mirage? How could it be that when you seemed precisely the way he had traced the outline of your body in the air while lying in bed, unable to sleep?

Yes, of course, there were nights when the desire to run his fingers through your hair filled his dreams. It was inevitable; your scent permeated everything, even riding on the breeze. There were days fatigue misled him, mistaking weariness for the embrace, he craved, only to discover the hollowness within his very bones. Your body was no longer curled around him, no comfort, and in your absence, each day left him icy, with lips turning blue and hands yearning for the warmth of your touch. He felt adrift in a blizzard, seeking the faint flicker of a fire you had extinguished.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Satoru? Think! Is this a manipulation technique?

And then, as if compelled by an unseen power, you turned your head, causing his heart to skip a beat—countless beats. You were undeniably real.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Seeing you was akin to being hit in the knee with a bullet. Satoru's legs nearly gave way, his heart raced, and his hands turned clammy, almost causing him to collapse. He had never felt this urge to tear off his blindfold before, as your departure had happened so abruptly that he didn't have a chance to see you. Although he had committed every detail of you to memory, but this…this… witnessing it in person was an entirely different experience.

He stepped back, feeling the heaviness of the past, necessitating some distance. The harsh truths loomed, threatening to engulf him as he wrestled with the profound effect of your presence. Yet, he couldn't tear his gaze away from you, his mind struggling to comprehend the unfolding situation. The reality was so surreal, making it difficult for him to grasp that it was really occurring.

"Why are you just standing there?" you asked, holding a pack of his beloved Kikufuku mochis in your hands. A radiant smile graced your face, illuminating the damp room with its brightness.

He couldn't give two fucks about mochis when your face had that effect on him, always causing him to lose track of where he was, who he was, and what he might say or do. And that familiar smile, it killed him a little. His gaze remained there, lingering for too long, his concealed eyes giving away his thoughts. "Why do you have that look on your face?" you asked, tilting your head with curiosity and stepping closer to him.

As you stood before him, the closeness amplified the wave of emotions within him. Joy and disbelief raced through his veins. The fragrance that surrounded you, so hauntingly acquainted, sparked a rush of nostalgia.

Satoru Gojo was born with a specific purpose, a set of perfect eyes, and the weight of his lineage on his shoulders. He was reserved and calculated. When he mastered the Limitless technique, he concluded that infinite solitude was the only way to survive. Because how he could describe the experience of seeing everything, for when you see everything, you see nothing. An excess of color turns into pure black, an infinite void.

Yes, he was born with those six eyes. People never let him forget. But to you, his eyes were simply eyes. He recalled the first time you teased him about them and how his heart caught in his chest because he had never seen someone as vibrant and colorful as you.

It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but it was something like that. The first time he saw you, he felt it. An ache. Like a little electric burn. He felt his life changed.

Gradually, his loneliness began to dissipate. He found a place for himself in this chaotic world. With you, he could laugh, cry, joke around, and even be a brat. It was something no one could genuinely grasp—the feeling of finally being alive as a person. Before you, he felt he hadn't truly existed, merely scattered atoms in an indifferent universe following a predetermined path. But you changed everything. You dismantled and rebuilt him anew. You molded him, nurtured him, and despite him being the strongest, you kept him safe.

Without a noble title or material wealth, you were everything that went against the expectations of the Clan Elders. Yet, you stood faithfully by his side, precisely where he believed you belonged. Or at least, that's what he presumed.

Then, on that fateful day, the day he desperately wished was nothing more than a dreadful nightmare, reality unfolded before him. How could it be real? He stood there, confronted by the lifeless bodies of two Higher Ups and their protectors, with you covered in their blood. It was inconceivable. He couldn't accept that you were responsible for such a gruesome scene. Yet, you showed no remorse. You firmly believed it was the only solution, fed up with their destructive actions that brought ruin upon sorcerers deemed insignificant. You had accepted the notion that a problem without a remedy should be eradicated like an unwelcome weed.

On that day, he considered shaking your shoulders and demanding that you deny it all. He even contemplated going against everyone because what was the fucking point of wielding such power if he couldn't safeguard the woman he loved? The thought of quitting and escaping with you crossed his mind, too. He was willing to sacrifice everything: power, wealth, status, even his own life. However, you didn't desire any of those things.

His friend, Suguru Geto, once posed a question: Was he Satoru Gojo because he was the strongest, or was he the strongest because he was Satoru Gojo? At that time, he had no answer. A 17-year-old couldn't possibly find a response to such a profound question. However, when you entered his life, everything changed. Being the strongest lost its significance. He was just Satoru Gojo, and he was who he was because you loved him. His existence held meaning because you touched his life. He saw because he needed to gaze upon you. He spoke because he longed to hear your voice.

And then, similar to his best friend, after causing a bloodbath, you also walked out of his life. Yet, this time, it wasn't solely loneliness that engulfed him. It felt like one of his lungs had been taken away, and he heavied without you by his side through each passing moment. He became nothing once more. There was a hole in his life where you used to fit perfectly, and no matter what he did to try and fill it, nothing worked.

It was a strange anguish, a pain he never anticipated or conceived of. It consumed him from within, setting him ablaze with a profound emptiness. Then, defying the assumption that someone as formidable as him could experience sorrow, he was burdened with the task of erasing you. It was as if you were deemed nothing more than a blemish, a dishonor.

"What... what look?" he struggled to say, his voice tinged with a desperate yearning. Regret lingered in his tone as his words fell short. With a touch of vulnerability, he shut his eyes beneath the comforting confines of his blindfold, seeking refuge in the veil of darkness. Taking a deep breath, he consciously filled his lungs, using them as an anchor amidst the swirling storm of sensations enveloping him.

"That look," you remarked, your voice carrying a mischievous tone that floated in the atmosphere. "It's as if you don't trust me," you added teasingly. A few playful strands of hair escaped their intended position and delicately framed your face, casting a bewitching allure. An irresistible urge welled within him, compelling him to extend his hand and tuck those strands behind your ear—stupid muscle memory. However, he restrained himself, his hand suspended mid-air, resolute in resisting the magnetic pull of his desires.

"Why did you invite me here?" Satoru voiced, his grip on the doorknob loosening as the impact of reality settled upon him. The initial shock transformed into a lucid understanding. He wasn't oblivious. He knew that you were aware of his assignment to eliminate you. So, why? Was it because you recognized your unstoppable nature? Was it because you had realized that the blackhole existed within you, devouring everything you once held dear unless someone intervened?

"You could have refused to come, yet here you are," you whimsically remarked, a devilish glint in your eyes as you punctuated your words with a wink. You strolled over to the weathered table and set the pocket upon its aged surface.

"Cut it out!" Satoru snapped, his frustration mounting. "You know, I had no idea it was you!" His heart thumped in his chest, urging his feet to move forward, even as his mind screamed at him to flee. A sense of unease gripped him, acknowledging the futility of engaging in a battle he felt ill-prepared to win.

You turned towards him, a hint of a smile gracing your lips as your hands stayed concealed behind your back. Leaning against the chair, you arched an eyebrow, your eyes locked on him. "I have a feeling you knew it was me as soon as you arrived at the house," you declared, a jovial tone lacing your words. "After all, I'm the only one capable of concealing my cursed energy from you."

"We both know that I shouldn't be here. I—" Satoru's sentence dissolved, left unfinished, as your hand reached out, bridging the gap between you with a gentle touch. Infinity never worked with you. Even the very essence of the cursed energy recognized that you posed no threat to him. Furthermore, he would gladly provide you with any justification to touch him.

Lost in his reverie, Satoru suddenly became acutely aware of your presence. The magnitude of his longing and the depth of his yearning surged within him. In that instant, he recognized the immense emptiness you had left and how much he had missed you. Emotions swirled together, blending past and present, uncertainty and desire, in a delicate dance that would shape your fates.

"Why are you here, then?" you inquired, and his eyes met yours, reflecting the same yearning that dwelled in his heart. "Tell me, did you come in to kill me?" With a deliberate movement, you folded his fingers, molding them into the shape he would use to unleash his hollow purple. Bringing his hand close to your heart, you held it there. Despite the gravity of the situation, a soft smile adorned your lips.

He couldn't do this.

Taken aback by your unexpected gesture, Satoru swiftly withdrew his hand from your grasp. Anger and heartbreak swirled within him, entwining in a tumultuous storm. The realization hit him like a relentless wave, crashing against the shores of his consciousness. How had you drifted so far apart? When had the divergence between your paths become so profound that he failed to notice? The weight of your choice, to embrace the life of a curse user, to tread a road stained with blood, bore down upon him with a heavy burden. The pain on his face mirrored the fracture within his heart, a sense of loss mingling with a flicker of betrayal.

He wished he could say something. He wished he could start yelling, expressing all the thoughts and desires he had harbored since then—whether shouting, pouring out his heart, or expressing frustration. However, he adhered to the predetermined script you anticipated because he loved you unconditionally, unable to deny you anything.

"I didn't think so," you murmured, closing the gap between you, pressing your lips against his in a way that effortlessly eroded his resistance.

You tilted his face down, your hand caught somewhere behind his neck and the base of his jaw, and you kissed him softly and slowly, heat filling his blood with dangerous speed.

One of his hands naturally found its way to the back of your waist, holding you with a gentle yet possessive grasp, while the other securely clasped your arm, pulling you closer.

He felt incredible against you, your bodies fitting perfectly. Nothing ever came easier than kissing you. Every thought and worry wicked away, replaced by the feel of his mouth against your skin, his hand claiming your body.

In that moment, his eyes, his legacy, his clan's name, and the orders given about you faded away. This was his true purpose.

As your tongues entwined, a surge of electricity coursed through his veins, his body responding to the intoxicating enchantment of your touch. Your fingers traced the outline of his blindfold while others clung to his uniform as if he were your sole fulcrum in a world spinning out of control. Your back arched, and he embraced you tighter, his grip firm yet tender, his long fingers leaving an indelible mark upon your skin.

Breathless, as if you had just completed a marathon, you reluctantly pulled back from the heated exchange. Drawing him nearer, he yielded willingly, allowing you to guide him wherever you desired because wherever you led was where he believed to be his destination.

"Take this off," you beseeched, desperation and sorrow permeating your words as your forefinger lifted his blindfold and let it fall to the floor. His tousled hair cascaded softly over his forehead, unable to hide the azure eyes that had once captivated your heart.

In his eyes, tragedy and beauty could be seen, a stoicism that wouldn't be shaken, and childlike joy that couldn't help but flow.

He swallowed, and you shifted your hand to his ear, lightly grazing his earlobe with your pinkie before tracing down his jawline. There was no rejection, yet no clear confirmation either. Your hand brushed against his undercut as you continued.

"There you are," you whispered, your voice laden with kindness. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes, a solitary droplet making its way down your cheek as you gently cradled his face in your hands. He looked down at you, counting each tear on your lovely cheeks.

He clasped your hand, kissing your palm before guiding it to rest upon his heart. It was the same foolish heart, steadfastly beating for you, never having faltered. Through teary eyes, you looked at him, and he remained struck by the sheer beauty that not even your tears could diminish.

As your bottom lip quivered beneath his touch, quickly, with a light sweep of his hand, he wiped away the tears that stained your stunning eyes. You missed him too, didn't you? Was it painful for you, too? Silly girl! You couldn't maintain your carefully constructed facades for more than ten minutes when it came to him.

The realization washed over him, dispelling any remaining doubts.

Without a second thought, he effortlessly lifted you, your legs encircling his waist while your hands secured around his neck. Engrossed in a fervent kiss, both of you surrendered to the moment as he clasped your back firmly, pulling you closer to himself, relishing the flavor of your lips.

Letting go wasn't an option when every fiber of his being had missed you.

Determined and resolute, he carried you out to a room he presumed to be the bedroom, even though it didn't matter whether there was a bed or a simple mattress; what mattered was the way your touch kindled a blazing fire within him, and he had no intention of bearing that flame alone.

Keeping you securely nestled in his arms, he forcefully kicked open the door and lowered you onto the welcoming comfort of the bed. The urgency to discard his black jacket left no room for delay. At the same time, your nimble hands deftly undid the buckle of your pants, but before you could remove them entirely, his hands moved with an instinctual hunger, swiftly stripping you of the garment and casting it aside as if propelled by an untamed fervor. The passion between you burned fiercely, filling the room with an all-encompassing energy that eclipsed any other thoughts or worries.

With a quick movement, he discarded his black t-shirt, revealing the well-defined curves of his chest that shimmered with a touch of sweat. His desire was tangible, his lust unmistakable as he straddled between your parted legs, his hands grasping your nape.

The taste of his lips met yours, initiating a sequence of fervent kisses that persisted without pause, each delving deeper than the last. The world around you lost its significance as your breaths synchronized in rhythm, the heat between your bodies escalating.

In the meantime, your hands moved swiftly, deftly unbuttoning your shirt.

As his lips briefly separated from yours, he uttered a whispered confession. "I hate how bad I want you," he admitted, his voice carrying a raw sincerity. However, before you could reply, his attention shifted to your neck, where his teeth gently grazed your sensitive flesh, leaving behind tracks of tantalizing nibbles and passionate kisses.

You couldn't help but release a gasp as pleasure and a twinge of pain electrified your senses, sending delightful shivers coursing down your spine. In the throes of passion, your hand curled into a fistful of his hair, a silent request for more. Call it masochist, but he loved it when you did this. He tenderly pulled at your hair in response, tilting your head back ever so slightly, baring more of your vulnerable neck to his hungry mouth.

Then, you did what came naturally to you. With a voice brimming with longing and ecstasy, you spoke his name, "Satoru," the sound slipping from your lips like a hushed prayer.

His actions came to an abrupt pause. His lips separated from your skin, and his grasp on your hair loosened as if a sudden realization had hit him like a splash of icy water. It was ironic how you still possessed this power over him, a power that could both thrill and unsettle him.

The sound of his name on your lips had become something he treasured, and damn it, he had missed hearing it again. Just like every fucking tiny thing he had missed about you.

With a sudden movement, he withdrew his head from the crook of your neck and brought his forehead close to yours. His hands found solace in brushing back strands of your hair with comforting strokes.

He shut his eyes, and in a whisper, his voice carried a hint of fragility, a rawness that tugged at your heartstrings. "Say it again," he pleaded, his voice breaking under the pressure of unexpressed sentiments. It was as if that simple word held immense significance, a lifeline to his heart that he desperately craved.

Without hesitation, you took a steadying breath, the name forming on your lips.

"Satoru."

"S-Say it kinder."

"Satoru."

"Say it slower."

"Satoru."

"Say it gentler."

"Satoru."

"Say it louder."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you wanna tell me you miss me."

"Satoru…"

"Say it as if you're annoyed that I eat so many sweets."

"Satoru!"

"Is this why you made the trip to Sendai just to get me those mochis?"

…

"Say it."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you ever cared, spared a single thought for me."

"SATORU."

"Say it as if when you lied in bed, you remembered something I once said."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if it hurt you too when someone said my name with yours."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if every time a door opened, you too expected me to walk out of it, that every time you cooked, you hummed my favorite songs."

"S-Satoru…"

"Say it as if you need me."

"Satoru."

"Say it again."

"Satoru."

"Again."

"…Satoru."

"Say it as if you want to tell me something important."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you want me to know you won't stay."

"Toru."

"No. Not like this."

"Satoru?"

"Please."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you want me to know you're gonna run away again."

"Satoru…"

"Huh. Better. Now say it as if you wanna tell that you slept badly without me, that you only dreamed of me, and in the morning, you woke up exhausted without having any desire to live."

"Satoru."

"You don't have a line, do you? No remorse. No regret. Not even a single thought for the man you left behind like a walking ghost. And you won't ever stop."

"Satoru."

"Once you were gone, they gathered all your belongings as evidence. See this hair tie on my wrist?" He lifted his hand. "This and your sweatshirt, which no longer carries your scent, are the only things I have left. Say it as if you still have that shirt of mine."

…

"Say it!"

"Sa-to-ru."

"Did you know that I actually thought if I messed myself up, went all self-destructive, and threw a massive tantrum, you'd come back? I mean, why should I bother taking care of myself? That was supposed to be your job, right?"

"Sa…toru."

"Oh, by the way, I completely wrecked that bench on the hill where you used to sit. And then I went ahead and destroyed the whole damn place, then just sat right there amidst the wreckage. I mean, why should I even give a damn when you stopped caring about me? Say it as if you get where I'm coming from."

"Satoru…"

"Yet you know what's funny? Ask me if I still love you like the first day?"

"Satoru?"

"It can't be just me, right? You can't be done with me. Tell me you love me."

…

"Okay. It's—"

"Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru…"

Everything he thought he knew flew right out the window. He had noticed the tremor in your breath and the shake in your voice, but the desperate murmurs of his name caused his eyes to flutter open. Your face was marked with the faint traces of tears, glistening in the light.

You blinked, revealing a spectrum of sadness and beauty unlike anything he'd seen before. The ability to convey so much with just a glance caught him entirely off guard.

Without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his lips against the curve of your cheeks, softly caressing them. Nuzzling his nose against your skin, he lovingly kissed away the salty tears, his tongue delicately brushing your face with a soothing touch. Each tender movement provided a comforting solace during your emotional moment.

As he lovingly attended to your tears, you reached behind your back and unclasped your bra. He paused, eyes widening in surprise. However, before any words could escape, you leaned in and kissed him. In that single gesture, you conveyed your desires, and he, in turn, found his answer within the depths of that passionate kiss.

As soon as his palms glided over your smooth skin, delicately capturing your erect nipple between his fingers, the bra was tossed somewhere amidst the bedding.

"Lie back," Satoru instructed. He then crawled onto you, your bare chests meeting. He supported himself with his arms on either side of your head to ensure he didn't crush you under his weight.

He positioned himself atop you, overwhelmed by the yearning that had built up in your absence. The thirst to have you beneath him had grown insurmountable. He had craved the sight of your body begging him to take you, the undeniable desire radiating from you.

He locked eyes with you, keeping you in his gaze as he absorbed every aspect of your beauty. The polished planes of your face shimmered with fresh tears, adding a new layer to the bliss. Your eyes were rimmed with redness, solely for him, and this sight rendered him speechless.

Because what if he accidentally stumbled upon the wrong words, and the magic vanished, snatching you away once more, leaving him with nothing but a pumpkin carriage and a single pair of shoes?

He didn't want his arms to be deprived of your warmth. Your touch. Your lips. God, your lips. Your mouth on his neck. Your body wrapped around his. He couldn't bear losing you again, and the realization was like a pendulum the size of the moon. It wouldn't stop slamming into him.

Blinking his white lashes, he swallowed back the fear building in his throat.

What an irony!

The strongest wasn't fearless.

With his knee between your thighs and his body pressing closer, he realized he was paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in his lungs.

"When we were together, I became you," he stated. "You became the reflection I saw in the mirror, and I liked it more. So, I stopped being myself. It was fine because I had you. But when you left, I lost myself along with you."

"Satoru," you called, your voice soft, so soft. He wasn't unfamiliar with the touch of women, but yours were gentler, yet deadlier than them all. "I'm sorry for bringing us to this point." You drew his form closer. The resonating beats of your heart were audible, pulsing deeply within your chest. "Will you ever forgive me?"

Your words unleashed a tumult of feelings within him. Goddammit. He wasn't lost before he met you, but he found himself after having you, only to get lost more after losing you.

Satoru's tears stung as they fell backward down his throat, burning as they went. "Kiss me, and I'll forget everything," he uttered.

And you complied. You kissed him as if swimming through rivers of honey, as if being dipped in pure gold, like diving into an ocean of bliss, and he didn't realize you two were drowning because he was too caught up in the current to notice. Nothing held significance anymore—neither rules, nor the room, nor even the entire fucking Jujutsu society.

All that mattered was this.

This.

This very moment. These lips. This delicate body pressed against his, and these warm hands always discovering new ways to hold his heart.

Oh, My!

He wanted so much more of you. He wanted every part of you. And he kissed you back. Like a mild breeze. Like cherry blossoms. Like a blue spring.

Again.

Satoru drew away. It remained a secret, but piecing himself back together hurt just as much as falling apart. It felt like an ache that needed to be soothed.

You were the cure, so his finger lightly grazed the corner of your mouth, tracing its shape, curves, and subtle crevices. As he kissed the corner of your eyebrow, he whispered your name. His lips brushed over the shell of your ear, causing a slight squirm in your body. He planted a kiss on your neck, just beneath your earlobe, and you tilted your head, inviting him in. Perhaps you resisted the urge to plead for more, for a faster pace.

You used to love this, remember?

His lips moved down the expanse of your neck, delicately tracing the sensitive skin of your collarbones. Not content to be passive, your hands ran down his back, roaming over his broad shoulders, pressing into his back dimples, and clutching his hips. With a handful of his hair, you pulled him closer, leaving small kisses on his neck, arms, and chest.

It was incredible. Being with you, touching you, having you like this. The adrenaline rush was so powerful and euphoric that it made everything feel within reach.

He muttered your name, his lips mouthing the letters, barely speaking.

He pressed his lips against your upper lip.

He ran his tongue along your lower lip.

He planted kisses beneath your chin, on the tip of your nose, along your forehead, temples, and cheeks across your jawline. Then he moved to your neck, behind your ears, and the space between your breasts. Delicately, he nibbled on your sensitive nipples, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down to your belly button until his entire form moved down your figure, disappearing as he shifted downward, and suddenly, his chest was hovering above your hips.

As his lips descended towards the hem of your underwear, he lifted his head right before crossing that boundary, locking eyes with you. His gaze carried a mix of intense reverence and a silent question.

You met his gaze, the unspoken understanding passing between you. Your nod conveyed an affirmation, a wordless permission to continue. With your approval, he lowered his head once again. Before you knew it, he skillfully used his teeth to remove that small piece of fabric while the captivating scent drove him wild with desire.

Having removed your panties, his lips continued exploring, leaving heated kisses and lingering caresses from your toes to your thighs. Firmly holding your calves, he parted your legs, creating just enough space for his head to fit between them.

Your thighs were lifted, obscuring him from your sight. All you could see was the top of his head, the curve of his shoulders, and the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Eventually, even that view vanished as his lips closed around your clit, causing your head to fall back and muffled moans to escape your lips.

Satoru's large hands trailed down and up your exposed upper thighs and ribs, tightly gripping your hips to keep you in place. He delighted in how you squirmed each time his hair brushed against your groin, until his tongue slipped into your hole, and the taste of you made fireworks explode in the back of his head.

With his right hand pressed against your stomach, his tongue danced and teased, evoking ecstatic cries from your lips. His mouth explored the known territories you had never witnessed, yet he remembered them intimately.

While fully engrossed in eating you, he suddenly and intentionally slipped his middle finger inside, and his mouth fervently sought to suck the soul out of your essence as if seeking retribution for all the times he had jerked off thinking about you creaming around his shaft. That's why he left you on the precipice of climax, working his way up your body. Satoru was never cruel enough to deny you the release you craved, so his fingers remained ready.

With an eagerness to witness the pleasure etched across your face, he slowly ascended your body, his touch kindling a burning anticipation within you. Continuing his exploration, his adept fingers navigated their way to your most intimate region, gently pressing against the delicate entrance.

"Let me know if it hurts, alright?" he whispered, his nose caressing the skin of your stomach, placing sporadic kisses around your breasts and collarbones to alleviate any tension. His disheveled hair and moist lips were evidence of the indulgence in your sweet taste.

"Take it easy— ahhh!"

He wore a satisfied smile as two of his large fingers effortlessly slid into your slit. Your nails dug into the sheets, whimpers escaping your lips as his hand rhythmically moved up and down within your tight walls.

Your mouth opened in a soundless moan, and he peppered you with kisses all around. Tears glistened in your eyes, and tiny strands of hair clung to your sweaty forehead. When his thumb rubbed, and the fingers hit all the right spots, your throat wailed in frustration.

You firmly grasped his free arm and tugged him towards you, bringing him closer until he was on top of you. You might have turned into a cold-blooded curse user, left dead bodies behind, or broken his heart apart, but you were still the same girl beneath him. The girl who would laugh with joy and steal his treats. The girl who would fiercely fight by his side and protect him. The girl who would easily surrender and moan in his ear.

He pressed his lips against yours, a reminder of the residual sweetness on his tongue. Just like in the old days, a soft moan escaped your lips as soon as you felt your own taste. If this gesture could convince you to stay with him, why not revel in it? He willingly opened his lips, inviting you to delve deeper, your tongues intertwining and brushing against his teeth.

The stinging bitterness of the past was long gone. He had forgotten everything. Although there was something he knew he shouldn't forget, he couldn't recall why or what it was. With his hard length suffering in his boxers and his digits thrusting backward and forward, paying attention to anything else was hard.

Seeing your desperation for his touch proved to be his downfall. He could die from this, he decided. From wanting you, from the pleasure of being with you.

He wore a smile as you locked eyes and reciprocated with your smile. He pressed his forehead against yours, his skin flushed with heat. With his other hand, he held your head steady while your hands clutched his neck, your palms gliding over the area just above his neckline, and your fingertips tenaciously pressing against his undercut.

"Sato..." you managed to utter, your voice quivering with pleasure as the orgasm washed over you, consuming your senses. Waves of euphoria rippled across your body, inducing uncontrollable tremors. Amidst your release, a single tear broke free, tracing a glistening path down your cheek, much like the cascade of emotions that flowed within you.

While he remained atop you, his voice reached your ears, his lips near your earlobe. "Can you sit up?" he whispered, burying his face in the curve of your neck, allowing your ragged breaths to brush against his shoulder.

Still struggling to catch your breath, you managed to mumble, "Yeah, but..." However, before you could complete your sentence, the bedding beneath you shifted as Satoru pulled you into his arms, clutching you tight.

He exhaled and looked at you, but this time, there were stories in his eyes, thoughts, whispers, and feelings of things he had never told you. He looked like he was hanging on his sanity by a fraying thread—you.

He touched your flushed cheeks as if uncertain of your tangible presence. His four fingers caressed the side of your face with tenderness before sliding behind your neck, caught in that in-between spot below your ear, and his thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, then grazing your bottom lip.

He pondered the countless things your lips had done. They had touched, kissed, and pressed against sensitive areas of his skin. They had spoken lies and made promises, and the words they had formed, the shapes and sounds they had shaped, he yearned for them all.

Satoru inched closer, cradling you like you were made of precious crystals. Holding you and looking at his own hands as if he couldn't believe you were real and truly there.

"I'm right here, baby. Look at me," you whispered, grasping his hands and kissing them.

All six of his eyes obeyed and stared at you. Gone was the curse user targeting Higher Ups. This woman before him had never done anything wrong. You were perfect and kind, untouched by the horrors of death.

He took hold of your hands and pressed your palms against his face, reclaiming the tears you had bestowed upon him. With an eternity of love, he whispered your name in the softest of whispers.

What if this was a dream?

He shook, shuddered, splintered into teardrops, and you embraced him like no one had before. Overwhelmed by the intensity, he struggled to contain himself, but seeing you cling to him as you might never let go stirred something within him. It was a heady sensation, knowing that you were there, caring for him, desiring him, needing him in this way. It made him believe that this was indeed real.

Gently, you stroked his silvery locks of hair and placed a kiss on his forehead. Gradually, your arms became the arms around his neck; your lips became the lips pressed against his, your body the warmth he felt. Funny how the moment he felt your touch, it burned a hole right through his head and pulled all his thoughts out.

He wasn't even breathing, but he was alive, and he was kissing you. Deeply, desperately. His hands fervently caressed the small of your back as he lifted you onto his lap, and instinctively, your legs wrapped around his hips.

Then, it was your turn to reciprocate. You planted kisses all over him—his cheeks, eyelids, chin, the tip of his nose, and the space between his eyebrows. You trailed along his forehead and traced his jawline, covering every inch of his face. These kisses conveyed more than words ever could.

And you took your time.

As your mouth moved down his neck, he let out a gasp. It was a moment to relish. Your tongue continued to worship the hills and valleys of his well-defined arms, tracing the graceful curves of his collarbones. Inhaling the intoxicating scent of his skin, you savored his taste. Your hands explored his abs, tracing along his navel and the delicate trails of hair beneath.

He broke apart with your small licks here and there, breathing hard, and stared at you dumbfounded. His mind remained hazy, unable to fully comprehend how your fingers toyed with the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Tilting your head to a side, you pressed your lips against his again, seeking him with a burning need, a new kind of desperation. Your other hand threaded in his hair, your lips so soft, so urgent against his, like fire and cinnamon exploding in his mouth.

Satoru nibbled your bottom lip in a flash before pulling back slightly. You were flooding his body with so much heat and desire. You parted your lips to sigh in his mouth, and that slight sound of pleasure drove him to the edge of madness.

Just as he was about to bring his mouth to your nipples, your hand suddenly slipped into his underwear and encircled his erectness pressing against your groin.

Oh.

Well.

He clenched his teeth, suppressing a groan. Oh God! He had fucking missed you holding his member in your palm. But you didn't stop at that. He gasped as you began to rub the tip with your thumb. His body ached everywhere as he tasted the colors and sounds that existed nowhere else. Your forehead rested against his chin as you continued to stroke his hardness up and down beneath his boxers. You were untamed, cruel, yet remarkably gentle.

"Take it off, Satoru," you whispered in his ear, your breath ragged. "I want you in me. Deep. Right. Now. Please."

He was beyond the reach of rational thoughts. Beyond words, beyond comprehension. The world was beyond understanding because nothing could ever compare with this. Nothing could ever capture the way he was feeling right now. He was left with only this very moment: You on his lap, your warmth against his hands, and your lustful eyes fixed upon him, making him absolutely insane.

Satoru held onto your waist with a firm grip, lifting you slightly, and in the blink of an eye, his briefs glided down his long legs until their whereabouts became irrelevant in the heat of the moment.

The wetness between your thighs was no longer a hidden secret, just as his hardness was revealed when you surrounded each other everywhere.

He watched as you reached down and guided his erection against your slippery entrance, making a few strokes to ensure the perfect alignment. His racing pulse could probably be felt in your palm and soon inside you.

Using both hands, he gripped your hips and pulled you downward, drawing you closer to him. A gasp escaped your lips as he entered you, always surprised about his size. He intended to allow you time to adjust, but you fervently clung to his neck, hitching your legs around his waist, urging him to penetrate you completely. A scream escaped your lips as you bit into his shoulder blade, but he remained composed, relishing the sensation of stretching you. He cherished the feeling of your inner walls squeezing him and the weight of your body against his balls. To be honest, he would stay like this forever.

Feeling your readiness, his hold tightened, and he started moving your body up and down. You cried out as you nestled your cheek into the curve of his neck, and he felt like dying and somehow being brought back to life in the exact moment, in the same breath.

Fuck! You were full of him.

He raised your thighs, stifling a groan that threatened to rip his throat as your lips met his. It left him bewildered, pondering why he hadn't perished, burst into flames, or snapped in half.

The room was consumed by silence, punctuated only by the sound of your heavy breaths. Your chests pressed against each other, colliding with the rhythm of your pulses.

As he sensed your arms tightening around him, he reciprocated with heightened strength, lifting and thrusting you with an intensity that transcended the bounds of restraint. Each movement struck the place he knew too well.

His teeth captured your bottom lip, eliciting a momentary jolt of pleasure. Your nails pressed into his shoulder as his fingers ran through your hair, pulling you nearer, immersing you in the fervent abyss of his mouth. The taste of you was a captivating fusion of sweetness and passion, an intoxicating blend that left both of you craving for more.

He kept trying to say your name, but he found himself unable even to catch his breath, let alone speak a single word.

The pace increased slightly; each thrust was hard, deliberate, wringing gasps, whimpers, and long, rolling moans from you.

Your eyes tingled with tears, falling fast down and traveling quietly down your cheeks. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs two parentheses in your mouth, touching your tongue and the saliva within. It was as if he had discovered an oasis in the vast expanse of a desert, gazing at you with eyes ablaze like fire reflected in water.

"I love you," he whispered over and over, his voice fragile and uneven. His lips covered yours in a tender kiss. He kissed you and tasted your tears, the lasting essence of pleasure in your mouth. He kissed you and kissed you until time toppled over, and your heads spun into a blissful oblivion.

Your head rested against his, and as you delicately nipped at his earlobe, he felt stripped down to his very core, just as he had unraveled you from within. Your sweet little tongue was frantic when you whispered, "I'm yours to love."

Something inside him melted. Hearing your words, he held still for moments, sucking in the air because he felt almost dizzy with satisfaction, running his hands over your thighs.

You. You belonged to him. You didn't erase the pain you had caused. You didn't fix everything you'd broken, but that wasn't what he needed anyway. All he needed was you, and with you, everything would be alright.

He firmly grasped your buttocks, burying his face against your shoulder as he sped up. He was shattered to pieces, but with you, he got put back together differently, better, and more himself than he ever could have been. Gritting his teeth, he succumbed to the impending climax. His hands glided along your back as you shuddered, your inner walls pulsating around him so hard that he couldn't hold back his release. With a growl, he thrust wildly, once, twice, until everything around you both turned to a world of vibrant colors and radiant light, where the sun shone, oceans sparkled, and Sakura trees bloomed.

Both of you were lying on a pillow, breathless and sweaty. Satoru's face was buried in the crook of your neck.

Your hand had delicately weaved its way into his hair, fingers stroking the silky strands as you both sought to ground yourself in the aftermath of your orgasms.

You rested your cheek against his head, your voice carrying a hint of breathlessness as you began to speak. "How is Shoko doing?

"She's probably smoking even more now," he murmured, his lips grazing against your shoulder as he pulled you closer. Despite the physical closeness, a deep ache echoed within him, yearning for an even deeper connection that felt just beyond his grasp. The desire to merge both body and soul, to be completely intertwined with you, was tangible in his touch.

His arms tightened around you as if attempting to bridge an unseen gap that couldn't be seen, but he could feel it. Each hug and touch was an attempt to mend the distance that pained him. The depth of his need reverberated through his being. It was visible in the depths of his eyes. It sucked to be this close yet feel so far from someone. But he didn't want to worry. As long as you were together, he believed nothing terrible could happen.

"Why probably so?" you asked, your curiosity piqued as you turned your head towards him. Your lips touched his soft, silky white hair. "Is it because of the numerous missions you're taking?"

"You seem to know every detail of my life," he remarked, turning his head towards you, the closeness so intimate that your noses nearly touched. His hand found its way to your arm, his finger tracing a path down its length, lost in contemplation.

"I've always kept tabs on you. I'm not even ashamed of it," you declared, your attention fixed on his ocean-blue eyes.

He let out a shaky sigh. "There's no longer a reason for me to stay in Tokyo like I used to," he whispered, his voice hinting at wistfulness. The words floated in the air, pregnant with unspoken meanings. As he locked eyes with you, his gaze transformed into a sea of emotions, reflecting a profound depth of feelings that transcended mere words.

"What about your students?"

"They're doing well even without me," Satoru said, his voice filled with fondness and melancholy. As his hand gracefully slid into your hair, he tucked back the strands that obscured your face, revealing the beauty of your features.

His thumb stroked your cheek in a soothing gesture. "Megumi came close to expanding his domain," Satoru continued, his voice filled with a hint of excitement. "Yuji would be thrilled to—"

"No, Satoru!" you interjected, your voice resolute. Your firm interruption halted his sentence as your face displayed a frown, your eyebrows furrowing with determination. "The answer is no!"

Satoru's hand dropped weakly onto the sheets, his fingers losing their previous touch. When his gaze met yours, a deep sadness flooded his eyes, turning the serene ocean within them into a turbulent storm.

He struggled to find the right words to make his case but couldn't resist trying to reason with you. "Come back with me. I have enough power and privilege to protect you—"

"I don't want your protection!" you exclaimed, your voice carrying a sharp edge that cut through his being. The words resounded with a harshness reminiscent of the day you decided to leave, which had left an indelible mark on both of you. It was a day that Satoru had always blamed himself for, haunted by the belief that he had failed to notice you drifting away.

His eyes, filled with sorrow, locked onto yours, silently begging for understanding as he summoned the bravery to express his deepest desires. "Don't you want a life with me?" he questioned, his voice brimming with the dreams and aspirations he had envisioned for both of you. "What about living in a house with blue shutters, windows overlooking the ocean, and—"

"How are you still such a wide-eyed, dreamy little boy, Satoru?" you remarked, your voice tinged with tenderness and sadness. As you spoke, your hand extended, interlocking your fingers with his. "Stop living in a fantasy world," you urged. The words pleaded for him to accept reality and let go of dreams no longer aligned with his chosen path. "Even if I had the chance to go back, I wouldn't want to," you continued. "The Jujutsu society is a broken bone that won't set right, and no matter how much you try to mend it, it won't work. I started hunting Higher Ups because I have a purpose. I can't be by your side."

As you raised your head, a glimmer of compassion and understanding shimmered in your eyes. The pain etched on Satoru's face was evident to you. In a gentle tone, you encouraged him, saying, "We've made different choices. Don't judge me because I never questioned why you didn't follow me. Our approaches may differ, but we share the same dream of creating a better world. So, I don't regret leaving, but if there's anything I regret, it's not cherishing every moment I had with you. But I'm doing it right this time. I'm memorizing every detail, so I have something to hold onto."

Your words bounced around in the fog of his head, blurring his senses, misting his eyes, and muddling his logic. In his bones, there was just ice. His entire being wanted to vomit. Reality slapped him in the face, punched him in the jaw, and dumped him into the ocean.

Until today, he thought he had fully come to terms with everything. He believed he had adapted to living with your absence, like a disabled person learning to avoid putting weight on his injured leg. However, deep down, he knew he was living on eggshells, always wondering when something would break, when everything would crumble.

But with your answer, stacks of sorrow grew inside him, settling on his bones as if a cable had twisted around his neck, a worm crawling across his stomach. It was the night, midnight, and the twilight of indecision. Too many pains to bear.

He realized how foolish he had been to believe he could simply blend in and lead an ordinary life.

Satoru.

Satoru Gojo.

Satoru Gojo, The Strongest.

The mere thought of it filled him with mortification.

He shook his head, coughing as his lungs were tormented, heaving strange, horrible gasps until his whole body spasmed into submission. His head was spinning, thoughts knocking into one another. With clenched fists, he fought against the misery, forcing it back down. Not again. Not again. Not again.

"Satoru?" you called out to him, and a thousand pieces of feeling stabbed you in the heart. Realizing how deeply he loved you kept hitting him in the face, the skull, and the spine. He ran a hand across his face and through his hair, displaying signs of wanting to scream, to break something, as if he was on the verge of losing his sanity.

You hugged him, bridging the gap between your bodies and leaning your cheek against his rock-hard chest. Your hands caressed his stomach as your lips left random pecks here and there.

"It's not just your shirt that I have," you expressed. "I also have our shared blanket from our room and a collection of photographs I'm too afraid to look at. I fear that if I see them, I'll go right back to you and beg your forgiveness."

You dropped a kiss on his chin. Then, on the curve of his shoulder and his shoulder blades. Five kisses down his throat, each softer than the last. You kissed his cheeks, hands, and eyelids for every moment of loneliness he had ever endured.

You continued, "My body hasn't realized we are no longer together. It calls out for you at night, unaccustomed to not having you tightly enveloping me like a second layer of skin."

He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, trying to gain control of himself. "Why are you putting me through this?" he asked, his hand caught in his hair. "Why are you scratching my wounds?"

"Because I want to remake you again, Satoru. You should get broken apart and rebuild in a way that won't cause you pain anymore." You kissed the hand covering his mouth, not holding back. Keeping your head there, you leaned against his heart.

"It's not as straightforward as a simple yes or no," you said, your voice cracking as you spoke. "Let's just enjoy this moment together..."

A sudden searing heat flashed behind his eyes, and his heart leaped at your response. His hand trembled, and his eyes were willing and wanting but filled with sadness.

He shifted his gaze towards you, his eyes open, jaw clenched tightly, and muscles tense. Breathing heavily, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. The ache in his chest had grown more assertive, more painful.

You lifted your head and reached up to stroke his cheek. "Love is the most twisted curse," you murmured as you tilted his chin toward your mouth. He blinked rapidly. Words were whispered upon his lips that no one had ever spelled out for him. "And we are the most cursed of all, aren't we?" you told him, watching the movement in his throat and his effort to keep it together. It didn't take you long to kiss him again. Tenderly.

Unable to find the right words, he relied on the language of touch, pressing his lips against yours. A sigh escaped into your shared kiss, and you responded by kissing him even more passionately, almost desperately, as if trying to pass over your breaths to him. The taste of salt lingered on your tongues. The wet drops falling on your cheeks made his flesh burn. Unsure of whose tears they were, he continued to cling to you, even if it was almost for the final time.

The saddest world in this whole wide world was "almost." You almost came back to him. He almost had you. You two almost made it.

You woke up with a smile, feeling a pleasant warmth enveloping your skin, remnants of the memories from the previous night. The room was filled with a fresh ambiance, hinted at by the open window that welcomed a gentle breeze. The scent of damp earth filled the air, evidence of the rain that had visited during the night.

Letting out a sigh, you brushed your face against the pillow. Your hand instinctively reached out to where Satoru was supposed to be, but a pang of emptiness washed over you. He wasn't there, and your eyes flew open, a sourness clouding their once-serene gaze. Something felt wrong.

Suddenly, sitting up, a sense of panic pulsed through your veins. The realization dawned upon you—Satoru had left the bed, and his absence spoke volumes. Your glance darted around the room, searching for any signs of his presence, but his clothes were nowhere to be seen.

An agonizing grip took hold of your heart. Conflicting emotions wrestled inside you. You had voiced your decision to part ways, to not be by his side, yet the depth of your desire for him remained steadfast. The pain and the desperate desire for his warmth was a stark reminder that not wanting to be with him didn't mean you were prepared to let go of him completely.

The bitter yet undeniable truth surfaced: as much as you and Satoru were meant to be, fate had not deemed you to last.

You could still feel the lasting presence of Satoru's cursed energy, an invisible thread you could identify even blind. Simply by scent, you would recognize it. It was a power that transcends physical senses, one that would recognize it in death, at the end of the world.

You swiftly snatched your robe and hastened out of the room. And there he was, Satoru, fully dressed, his blindfold tightly secured, sitting still in a chair, facing the untouched mochis. The hair tie was also on the table, indicating that he had removed it from his wrist. You couldn't determine whether it hurt you deeply to see him letting go of a part of you or noticing that he had left his beloved treats untouched.

He wasn't looking at you, so you had time to observe things you hadn't noticed yesterday. He had visibly lost weight. His hair showed signs of splitting and thinning, probably due to stress. Nightmares didn't let him sleep. His uniform appeared wrinkled, and his breaths were unsteady. You knew it wasn't your place to worry about him anymore, but you couldn't help it. Taking care of him had become a habit. He appeared weary, displaying the same profound exhaustion you experienced, filling you with fear.

His shoulders quivered up and down, and you could tell he was crying even though he was silent as a corpse. Your heart quickened as you approached him. With trembling hands, you reached for his blindfold, a desperate attempt because, goddammit, you fucking loved his eyes.

"What are you—" you started to inquire, your voice fading as you recognized that your touch couldn't reach him. He had activated his Infinity. Manually. Deliberately. A wave of profound sadness washed over you, tears welling up in your eyes, yet you swallowed them back, resolved to keep your composure. Your hand hung suspended, mere inches away from him, a symbol of the unbridgeable gap that had grown between you.

Then, in a sudden movement, Satoru stood before you, donning a black jacket that draped his figure. His voice emerged raspy, filled with a raw intensity that conveyed the turmoil within his heart.

"I can't handle this anymore. I can't continue being whatever I am to you," he admitted, his words heavy with a sense of resignation. The understanding that the current situation was no longer viable had taken hold of him. "If you want things to remain this way, I can't ignore the fact that we are enemies at the end of the day." He subtly avoided meeting your gaze, averting his eyes from your messy hair and the persistent sadness in your eyes.

"Can you honestly believe that?" you questioned, your voice brimming with incredulity. You took a step forward, narrowing the physical gap between you. It was essential for him to grasp the magnitude of your anguish and directly witness the toll your choice inflicted upon your heart.

Satoru took a step back, his brows furrowing beneath the blindfold that veiled his eyes. "It doesn't matter what I believe," he declared.

Despite the barrier that prevented physical touch, you closed your eyes, driven by the overwhelming desire to bridge the divide. Ignoring the protective shield of his Infinity, you leaned in, your lips seeking his in a desperate act of defiance. Tears streamed down your closed eyes as he relinquished the barrier that kept you apart. You pressed your lush mouth against his. It never took him long to respond, to part his lips. He kissed you back, holding your head steady with his hand while his other embraced you tightly. He had your heart, and you loved him quite horribly, too. This fact always smacked you over the head so hard you felt dizzy.

You held each other tightly, his arms enveloping you as his fingers intertwined with your hair. In that stolen moment, you caught a glimpse of the life you longed for—a life filled with love. Having this every day was within reach, but the harsh reality of the jujutsu world loomed, casting a shadow over your fragile dreams. The awareness that he would be exploited until his final breath burdened you deeply. Unable to witness his suffering, you knew you couldn't change your decisions. You had to reset this Jujutsu World. For him. For his students. For the happiness you owed yourself.

As your lips reluctantly separated, a bittersweet trace of saliva remained between you. Satoru gripped your shoulders, and as you glanced up, you noticed his blindfold was damp, indicating the tears he had shed.

You lowered your head. "I wish you had never crossed paths with me," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground until he reached out and lifted your chin.

"I wouldn't take that chance. Not in a million infinities. Because there was love, even if it didn't change anything, even if it made the pain worse, love was there," he said, staring at your mouth. "I'll love you in this life. I'll love you in death and in whatever lies after. And likely even beyond that," he whispered. The words did something to you. They burned something inside of you. You swallowed hard. A fire consumed your mind. "No matter what, I'll always love you," he declared, and pain filled your veins. You could feel it in your blood.

"Satoru," you whispered. Your eyes fogged up, but you blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears away. You couldn't let a second of this be blurry. You couldn't afford to allow any of this to slip away. His absence felt like a missing limb, and his longing for you was a bullet in the head. How could he still love you? How could he find relief in your touch?

"But if we meet again," he said, his thumb brushing against your earlobe. "Just kill me. Because I'll be forced to kill you, and it's the same thing." As if the longer he held you, the more he would want you, he let go of you.

The enormity of his duty and the unyielding constraints of the jujutsu world, forcing him to make an unbearable choice, hit you like a cold gust of wind, leaving you feeling isolated and abandoned. The chill of that moment seeped into your bones, and you couldn't help but wonder if he had felt this same frigid loneliness when you had left him behind.

Satoru walked towards the door, each step carrying the finality of his decision that settled upon the room. Pausing at the threshold, a silent plea lingered in his words. "So, please, I beg you to stay away from me." With those words, he severed the last thread that had linked you, leaving you with a deep sense of loss.

The door closed behind him, leaving you in an empty and heavy space with unspoken regret. You were alone again, bereft without him, half dead without him. You opened your mouth and screamed. You screamed and screamed until your voice cracked beneath the pressure. Until you feared your throat would shred from the force. You wanted to crawl outside of your body so desperately so that you could escape this feeling.

No one ever warned you how men with such pretty eyes, who smelled like vanilla, tasted like rain, and talked like silver, were the reason behind tear-soaked pillows, half-finished poems, and so many sad dreams.

One last shout ripped out of your throat, this one so full of pain that brought you to your knees. You crumbled. The raw sound tapered off, fading into a hoarse, staccato cry. You sucked in a deep breath, filling your lungs with oxygen you didn't want, but you were too lost in your grief to scream like you wanted to.

It seemed like Satoru Gojo's story had peaked, and anything that followed wouldn't hold the same significance to him. Because for him, there was before you, and there was during you. For some reason, he never thought there would be an after you. But there was, and he was in it. He would be in it forever.

Moving forward, he silently implored his bones to remain firm, to support him for the remainder of the day and beyond. He ventured through the forest, his steps disturbing the mud and leaves as his footprints gradually faded away until there was nothing but the empty silence of a long, lonely dusk.

Tag list: @istanuwow @anime-lover1234 @rentaldarling @enchantedforest-network

Disclaimers:

This creation draws significant inspiration from the incredible artistry of @animaybi (TikTok) and features quotes from the captivating writings of @starlightonthewaves (TikTok). Both of these talented artists deserve immense praise for their remarkable contributions.

Art is created by me.

Are you cursing me for writing this? :D

488 notes · View notes

bzurk · 4 months ago

Text

frozen to the core

simon x johnny x reader, 3.1k, sfw

cw: drowning, freezing, kidnapping

Thud, thud, thud.

Your boots were relentless against the frozen ground, crushing leaves and soil beneath you as you ran, kicking up the white powder and leaving an all-too-visible trail. The biting cold of the winter air seared your lungs with every gasping breath, the icy tendrils of fear wrapping themselves around your heart like a vice. Snow-laden branches clawed at your face as you raced through the dense forest, the thudding of your boots on the frozen ground echoing like a death toll in the oppressive silence.

Behind you, the relentless pursuit of the stranger fuelled your desperation, his heavy footsteps crunching through the snow as he closed in with terrifying speed. His shadow danced between the trees, a menacing silhouette against the stark white landscape, his breath ragged and laboured as he chased you with unwavering determination.

You risked a glance over your shoulder, your heart lurching in your chest as you saw him gaining ground, his weapons glinting ominously in the muted light of the moon as it pierced through the trees. Panic surged through your veins like wildfire, driving you forward with renewed urgency.

With each stride, the snow grew deeper and more treacherous, threatening to consume you whole as you struggled to maintain your footing on the slippery terrain. Ahead, there was a break in the trees - a fatal opening if you continued straight into it. He had a gun; you'd be an easy target without the cover of trees and boulders. So instead, you took a sharp left turn. You heard him slip and stumble behind you before his footsteps and ragged breathing resumed - now dangerously close.

Running parallel to the clearing, you could make out a long stretch of ice, its shimmering surface a deceptive promise of escape, but you knew that crossing it would be a deadly gamble. Your snow boots hadn’t failed you yet, unlike your pursuer’s.

You pressed on, ignoring the voice of reason that screamed in your mind. You latched one palm around a passing tree, yanking yourself ninety degrees to the right and into the clearing, the pounding of your heart drowning out all other sounds as you raced towards the frozen expanse. The ice crackled ominously beneath your feet as you dashed across its surface, each step a delicate dance between life and death. A gamble.

A gunshot rang out, the sound reverberating through the silent forest like a thunderclap, and you felt the searing heat of your blood pour down your leg. The ice groaned beneath you, its frozen surface fracturing with a sickening snap as your foot plunged through into the icy depths below. The bullet had skimmed your leg, lodging itself in the ice.

Panic surged through you as you fought to steady yourself, dropping to one knee, the freezing water clawing at your leg like icy fingers as you struggled to pull yourself free. The stranger drew closer, his evil laughter echoing through the frozen air as he closed in for the kill.

With gritted teeth, you dragged yourself forward despite the sharp, biting pain that shot through your numb limbs. Your frozen calf screamed in protest as you kicked out with all your might, shattering the ice around your leg to pull it free. The frigid water seeped into your bones, causing your muscles to spasm and shake uncontrollably.

Desperation had blessed you with numbness, the ability to ignore your frantic shaking and shivering, ignoring the way your legs scrambled on the ice like a newborn foal, ignoring the blood that stained your hands and clothes and the ice beneath you.

You pushed on, the stranger's laughter ringing in your ears like a haunting melody, driving you forward as the fear and desperation coursing through your veins propelled you. Your heart was a furnace within your chest, driving you ever onward as you desperately sought to outpace the man after your life. The sheer force of your willpower and adrenaline was all that kept you going.

You stumbled and fell, your body skidding prone across the ice with a sickening thud. The pain shot through you like lightning, jolting every nerve in your body back to life as you gasped for breath, the bitter cold seeping into your bones like a relentless tide. The stranger loomed over you, silhouetted by the moonlight and casting an eldritch shadow across the glimmering ice, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile as he raised his knife.

You scrambled to regain your footing, but it was no use. Your muscles refused to obey, frozen stiff by the icy embrace of the lake. On the ground, stripped of your momentum, you had no power left in your body.

He drew closer, his features twisted into a cruel sneer as he reached out to grab hold of you, his fingers closing in like the jaws of a predator, dark and all-consuming and cold. Icy fingers wrapped around your ankle and you struggled to break free but it was useless. The ice had taken hold of your body, petrifying you into submission. Your heart pounded in your chest, the frantic rhythm a contrast to the stillness that enveloped the forest.

As the stranger reached out to pull you closer, the ice beneath him gave way with a deafening crack, sending him plummeting into the freezing depths below. For a moment, you were frozen in shock, watching as he disappeared beneath the icy surface, his mocking laughter silenced by the frigid waters.

You felt the icy grip of his fingers around your ankle tighten, dragging you down with him into the darkness below.

Your heart pounded in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you fought against the icy grip of the lake. It felt like being thrust into the heart of winter's embrace, the shock of the icy water stealing your breath away in an instant. The cold seeped into your bones, sending a jolt of agony through your body as the freezing water swallowed you whole. Your lungs seized, your heart paused, your nerves tingled and backfired. It felt like a thousand needles piercing your skin, each drop of water a dagger of ice against your flesh. It was a jarring sensation, a visceral assault on your senses as the freezing cold seeped through your clothes, penetrating deep into your bones with an unforgiving chill.

With a surge of strength born from desperation, you kicked and thrashed, clawing your way to freedom as you felt the stranger’s hold loosen. With one final kick, you broke free from his grasp, your body propelled upwards by the sheer force of it, your hands scrambling for purchase against the ice.

Your numb fingers clung to the jagged edge of the fractured sheet, your nails digging in as you pulled yourself out of the icy depths, gasping for air.

The forest spun above you, the inky blackness of the night swirling around you like a vortex, pulling you back into its unrelenting grasp. The cold, so unbearably cold, had seeped into your very soul, stealing the warmth from your bones and turning your blood to ice water. Your heart pounded in your chest, the only sound in the stillness of the night, the only evidence that you were still alive.

You stumbled to your feet, each step an agony, your sodden clothes clinging to your shivering form, weighing you down like lead. The night air bit into your soaked body, the chill of the wind a thousand lashes as it found its way through your wet clothes and chilled you to the bone. The trees stretched around you like sentinels, their branches reaching out for you like icy fingers, beckoning you to join them in their wintry embrace.

It didn’t take long for you to collapse once you hit solid ground.

You wake with a start, your breath coming in panicked gasps as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings and the weight across your body. The air is thick with the scent of musty fabric and stale sweat, assaulting your nostrils with every inhale. Your skin prickles with the remnants of cold, a ghostly echo of the icy waters.

As you blink away the remnants of sleep, your eyes slowly adjust to the dim light filtering through the curtains, casting the room in muted shades of greys and warm yellows. Shapes materialise out of the darkness at the edges of your vision, the unfamiliarity of the space burning at the back of your mind, trying to urge your body into a panic. Your ears ring with the silence, broken only by the frantic rhythm of your own heartbeat and the shallow breaths that escape between chattering teeth.

With trembling fingers, you reach out to explore your surroundings, the rough texture of the sheets beneath your touch providing a small measure of comfort. You could feel the sweat pooling against your skin, seeping into the blankets underneath you. You turned your palm up, fisting the heavy blankets, grasping through layers.

The simple movements of your arm were enough to exhaust you back into a haze, your bones heavy in your skin and your muscles aching under their weight. You were hot, you were sweaty, you should be panicking but it was all just so tiring. To remove the blankets was to remove the weight, to expose yourself to whatever was beyond the unfamiliar sheets.

Just a few more minutes, you chimed to yourself. A few more minutes to wake up…

The weight shifted around your middle, a soft caress against the bare skin of your stomach. A forceful brush of air against the back of your head.

You were certainly awake now.

Turning your head slowly, you find yourself face to face with a stranger, their chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own. The heat of their body radiates against your skin, a stark contrast to the lingering chill that refuses to dissipate. You are held in place by an iron grip, their arm wrapped securely around your waist, leaving you feeling trapped and burning against his skin.

The sound of your heartbeat fills your ears, a frantic drumbeat that echoes in the silence of the room. With each thud, a wave of adrenaline courses through your veins, heightening your senses and sharpening your awareness.

You try to manoeuvre your body, seeking any opportunity for escape. Your eyes dart around the darkened space, searching for any clue or glimmer of light that might lead you out of this nightmare. But in the oppressive darkness, no such signs reveal themselves. You feel the stranger's breath tickle the side of your face, the back of your neck, the warmth of their body growing more stifling with each passing second.

As your heart races with fear and confusion, the stranger's voice breaks the silence of the room.

“You’re awake,” he states the obvious, his voice heavy with sleep and raspy, rumbling against your back.

You instinctively tugged at his arms again, to no avail. He hissed when you dug your nails in, clawing at his skin as your head spun with the need to escape. You were boiling, burning, trapped and held down.

“Stop that.” His hands snapped over yours, enveloping your fingers entirely with his bearish palms and squeezing in a warning. “Calm down. You’re okay.” His voice was soft and smooth, underlined with urgency as you stopped to consider his words, the noise distorted in your frenzy.

When the fog of panic receded, shame took its place. This wasn’t the man from the forest, not the knife-wielding maniac pulling you through the ice. His voice was different, lilted with an accent, Scottish maybe, low and rumbly and warm. He was warm.

A squeak lodged in your throat when his hands shifted back over your stomach.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about this, lass. God, what a fright, huh?” He rubbed small circles into your skin with his thumbs, a deep hum rumbling in his chest. “Had ta' warm you up. Was the best way. Didn’t do anythin’ else, I promise.”

You were frozen in place, your body trembling with a mix of fear and confusion. His touch seemed to both comfort and terrify you, a paradox that left you unsure of how to respond. You had never felt such a powerful mix of emotions all at once. And he was right, you were okay, at least physically. There was a persistent ache in your bones and a weariness in your muscles and your lungs felt ready to pop, but nothing seriously debilitating. Maybe it was the adrenaline.

And yet, the darkness still loomed around you, casting a heavy shadow over the room. You had no idea where you were or who this stranger was, and the thought of being so vulnerable terrified you to the bone. Your brain flooded with questions, the walls of your skull battered by a tsunami.

Who are you? Why are we topless? What happened? What about the man from the lake? What about my cabin?

“Where are we?” You managed to croak out, mind blurting out whichever question popped into mind next, your voice barely audible amidst the din of your own thoughts. Why am I not in a hospital, or dead? Why did you help me?

His hands stilled, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your face. “We heard the shots and panicked, so Simon went out to see what was happening. Said he found you all beaten up and half frozen to death on the lake.” You swallowed hard, feeling his breath ghost across the back of your neck.

His fingers trace a path along your clammy skin, causing you to shiver involuntarily beneath his touch. The warmth of his body was a comforting cocoon, but the fear still clung to you like a shadow, making you claustrophobic in his embrace. He was so warm, soothing, your saviour perhaps, but he was still a stranger. He let out a low hum, observing the reaction that he's managed to draw from you. The silence that falls is uncomfortably thick, a near-solid void stretching between the both of you. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know this man, nor how he’d react.

“Thank you,” you whispered, hands flexing against the man’s arms again. They were strong and defined, marred by the occasional dip beneath your fingers. You slowly uncurled yourself, legs stretching under the blankets and tugging at his hold again, contorting your neck and torso to see their face. “Thank you, really. I could have- would have, died.”

His handsome features are marred by a ruggedness that only adds to his allure. His blue eyes seem to hold a world of secrets, and you can't help but feel drawn to him despite the fear that courses through your veins. His brown hair falls messily across his forehead, framed by a buzz on each side, contrasting with the hard lines of his strong jaw which is covered in stubble and a long scar that runs down his chin.

You try to steady your breathing, pushing through the pain and tension in your chest as you ask, "Do you have a phone I could use? I should let somebody know I’m okay- how long have I been asleep?"

His breath catches in his chest, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. His arms wrap tightly around your middle, higher now, trapping your arms against your chest. His piercing blue eyes flicker between yours before dropping with guilt.

"Lass..." He starts slowly, his voice heavy with despair. You tense up immediately, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. Nothing good comes from that tone. "He'll kill you if you try to leave."

"The man from the lake?" You whisper, your tone wavering as your vision blurs.

Deep down, you know you're wrong. That man had drowned under the ice and there was no doubt about it. You watched him sink. You shouldn’t even be alive, and you were semi-submerged. There was no way that the knife-wielding maniac had made it out.

The man at your back shakes his head disapprovingly, his lips curling into a deep frown that digs lines into his forehead.

"No," he says firmly. "Simon said there was no saving him. But..." He trails off with a sigh and shakes his head again, ducking his chin to his chest and tightening his grip around you, as if you’d fly away untethered. "He won't let you leave now. Not when you've seen the place, seen us."

Hot tears stream down your cheeks, pooling under your temples as an ugly sob escapes your throat. The weight of your situation crashes down on you like a ton of bricks.

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t even know who you are, or where I am,” you croaked. “Who could I tell? What would I say? You saved me, right?”

Silence elongates the room, bending and warping the darkness around you. The air grows heavy with your shared silence, punctuated only by your ragged breathing and choking and the slow metronome of his heartbeat against your back. His grip loosens slightly, a question in his touch. A plea for understanding, perhaps, or forgiveness, sympathy. All that answers him is a soft sob that wracks your body, sliding down your throat like broken glass.

"Please," you whimper out, pulling at his arms around you, struggling against the weight of him. "I won't tell anyone about this place, or about you. Just let me go. You saved me, I’m all better, see?" You croak out with another strong tug, voice roughened by fear and the icy tendrils of despair that wrap tightly around your heart. “I don’t know your name, or- or where we are, or why you’re hiding away or why you helped me, you could just drop me by the nearest road and let me go! Or, or just point me in the direction and I’ll go through the woods, yeah?” You were very obviously rambling now, devolved from wet pleas to desperation. "Why- why won't you let me leave?"

“If I let you go,” he squeezes you again, for his sake more than yours. “He’ll hunt you down. He’ll kill you. Cops will look for the body in the lake if you tell them about it, it'll bring them straight here. Can’t afford anyone knowing who we are or where we are, lass. We’re in the middle of nowhere for a reason.” He sounds hesitant, guilty, reluctant. “I can’t let him hurt someone like you. Not because of me.”

“Because of you?” You choke out.

“Aye,” he shimmies out his left hand from underneath you and rests it above the blankets. Resting snugly over scarred, calloused fingers is a simple silver band on his ring finger. “I can’t leave either, love.”

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mysticstronomy · 5 months ago

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DID MARS EVER CONTAIN WATER??

Blog#428

Saturday, August 17th, 2024.

Welcome back,

While the icy moons of Jupiter and Saturn contain water, Mars remains dry. Despite dozens of space missions, the Red Planet has yet to provide convincing proof that it conceals significant water reserves beneath its surface.

Yet Earth's little cousin hasn't always been so secretive. Various studies have shown that a little over 4 billion years ago, it experienced a "watery" era when lakes, rivers and perhaps even oceans could maintain themselves on its soil. Branching valleys and ancient terrains rich in hydrated clays are evidence of this blissful period of abundance.

Subsequently, the loss of part of the Martian atmosphere led to a reduction in the greenhouse effect followed by a gradual disappearance of water. The question is how long this process lasted and under what conditions. This is what the American Space Agency's (NASA) Curiosity and Perseverance spacecraft have been trying to establish since their arrival in 2012 and 2021 in the Gale and Jezero craters.

"Lakes occupied these depressions 3.5 or 3.6 billion years ago," explained Nicolas Mangold, a director of research at the French National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS) Laboratory of Planetology and Geosciences in Nantes.

By studying the sedimentary and clay deposits left by the former and exploring the ancient river delta that fed the latter, the aim is to determine whether the climate at the time was wet and cold, or dry and hot. The Perseverance rover is also collecting samples, to be brought back to Earth as part of the MSR mission [Mars Sample Return, NASA-European Space Agency (ESA)]. They should provide precise information."

For the moment, things are hazy. If water has flowed on Mars, where has it gone? Was it sucked up into space with the Martian atmosphere or did some of it remain on site, buried underground? Many teams around the world are working to find answers by searching for clues to its presence other than those offered by polar ice caps and glaciers.

As water cannot remain in a liquid state for long on the surface of Mars, these investigations often consist of spotting recent traces of its passage using instruments placed in orbit. This opens the way to all kinds of controversy about how to interpret observations of this world, whose morphology is radically different from that of Earth. "Some of these controversies, such as those concerning gullies – ravines 1 or 2 kilometers long, discovered by the hundreds along certain landforms in the early 2000s – have finally been settled," said Susan Conway, a CNRS researcher at the Laboratory of Planetology and Geosciences in Nantes.

Her team recently demonstrated in the journal Nature Communications that seasonal deposits of dry ice explain the phenomenon, and not water flows.

Other clues continue to fuel debate and even controversy among scientists. The nature of "equatorial dark flows," the background noise of radar signals suggesting the existence of an underground sea beneath the North Cap, the presence of possible channels in the ejecta of impact craters and the hypothetical formation of "rides" in areas of glacial retreat. If water exists on Mars, it is well camouflaged.

Why not deep underground, frozen in the cryosphere? Or preserved in liquid form in aquifers, or inside the thin film of perchlorate brine that supposedly exists at the base of the permafrost that covers Mars at high latitudes? The Marsis and Sharad radars of the Mars Express (ESA) and MRO (NASA) probes have pinpointed promising regions. And when NASA's Phoenix lander dug a few centimeters into the frozen ground just after it arrived in 2008, it immediately uncovered blocks of water ice – a further reason for hypothesis and speculation.

Originally published on https://www.lemonde.fr

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, August 21st, 2024)

"DID LIFE EXIST ON VENUS??"

#astronomy #outer space #alternate universe #astrophysics #universe #spacecraft #white universe #space #parallel universe #astrophotography

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inyourgravehcs · 9 months ago

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♡ Sweet dreams ♡

❥ TAGS: gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff. I'm a little late, but happy birtday, Xiao, my beloved.

The clear sky, unencumbered by a single cloud, a blossoming tree spreading it’s wide branches in all directions, the gentle warmth of the sun's rays tickling his skin playfully. A beautiful scenery, previously unknown to Xiao. The blood stained soil, a devastated battlefield, chains of despair curling around his limbs and restraining them — this was what he was used to, not this gentle idyll.

But more important than anything else is the fact that you're here.

He always feared that if your image suddenly appeared in his dreams, he would plunge into the very depths of his ugly mind, disfigured by thousands of years of torment. That he would have to fight himself, protecting a fragile figure that had nothing to do with the vile spawn of the adeptus’ inner demons. What if he had failed to shelter you from this hidden danger? Was his title as your guard valid in that case? How weak would he be if he couldn't even keep you safe from his own subconscious? One thing he knew for sure: If that had happened, he could have been considered to have succumbed to darkness from that moment on.

But it didn't happen.

No, it’s exactly the opposite. With your appearance, it was as if you had healed the bleeding wounds of his mind, and with a gentle touch you had quelled the insatiable karma. With every step you took, flowers bloomed on the ground instead of the scars of the past, and the frozen earth came alive again, giving birth to something beautiful.

He no longer hears voices. He hears only the quiet rustling of the grass beneath your heels, coming closer with each step. It was truly astonishing, How the peaceful silence suddenly puts an end to the calm and gives rise to a newfound anxiety, the source of which is unknown. A new sound beats in Xiao's ears, different from anything he has heard before. Yaksha listens intently to the unknown with his eyes closed, trying to determine its direction - only to realize that it's his heart coming alive because of your growing proximity to him.

There you are, right here, less than a meter away from him. So many thoughts run through the Adeptus’ head at once, almost overwhelming in their intensity, but that ends when you reach out and gently take Xiao's face in your hands. So firmly, but at the same time so tenderly, that peace falls over your lover’s mind. His shallow breath falters from second to second, and he doesn't even notice himself snuggling into the oh so cherished by him palms, squinting his eyes contentedly. So warm and serene... When was the last time he felt like this in a dream? His love-stricken consciousness sighs for you so much that Yaksha can't realize tears coming to his eyes, threatening to roll down his cheeks in thin streams that will never end if so happens.

But that's why you're here. For him. The sight of your lover is pitiful, but also admirable — how strong does he have to be to hold back such untold amounts of pain and grief for centuries? Outlining the delicate skin of Xiao's cheek with a kind stroke, you admire his cathartic state that was yearning to come out for so many years. Your thumb reaches for the corner of your lover's eye as if of its own volition, picking up a heavy tear and brushing it away at the same moment.

He stares at you with a sudden realization, not taking his eyes off you for a moment. Golden irises glisten and shimmer, moistened by such a sudden but welcomed flood of tears. The glow of the wet glare of his eyes gives him a far more emotional appearance.

In that moment, it seemed as if your hearts united. That they beat as one - in unison.

Sighing lovingly, you press your lover's face against your chest, hugging the back of his head. At the same moment, Xiao's breath stops: like a frightened cat, with his eyes wide open, he presses himself against his beloved's heart, not daring to move a millimeter. At this moment, adeptus seems amusingly adorable because of the contrast with his already established image. But really? He was really nothing more than a lost soul, flitting from place to place, hoping to find his ultimate destination. A bewildered creature who had suffered much and put on a thick protective shell. You knew that — knew it better than anyone else, and you knew how to handle it.

A slight smile had been on your face all this time. That's how your lover really is, a lost little chick who's heart is so fragile. You could play an entire symphony on the strings of his soul, and he wouldn't even be able to resist you — but you won't. You're here to save and heal Xiao.

That's why you touch his hair, stroking it and playing with the short, curly strands. A gesture of comfort, full of genuine concern. He accepts it, and accepts it willingly; he clutches tightly to your chest and sighs with relief. The moment was impossibly tender in its sweetness - not even the most exquisite almond tofu could stand next to it. It seemed like it couldn't get any better, and trying to interrupt the perfect moment of union with each other would be a sin — but you had a talent for making everything better. Cautiously, you lifted his chin with your index finger, causing your eyes to meet again. Smiling casually, you lean closer and closer, shortening the distance between your faces…

“Xiao, what's next?! You've been beating around the bush for how long now, constantly stammering!”

...No. He couldn't just recount that moment of the dream to you like that.

“Don't look at me like that!” Xiao exclaimed with his eyes wide open, pressing his hands to his cheeks in an attempt to hide the acute embarrassment he felt. “It's... Personal.”

“How can it be more personal when we're already a couple?”

After taking a deep breath, you roll your eyes, sighing defiantly. No, he certainly looks really cute right now, but you need to know what was next!

“Hmm. Since you won't tell me about that part of the dream, why don't I reconstruct the course of events in reality and see how it ends?”

A sly smile lights up your face, while Xiao is at a loss for words and stammering incoherently, trying to squeeze out some sort of answer.

Of course, you couldn't waste any time at such a perfect moment. You'd shortened the distance between you two in just a few quick steps, and you were already holding Xiao’s face in your hands, recalling in your head his warm descriptions of his dream today. His anticipatory look of excitement couldn't help but awaken in you the very same tenderness he must have been looking for in you the most every time.

“So that's how you see me....”

The Yaksha's confused eyes softened, and his troubled breathing normalized. Swallowing tensely, he only nods eagerly a couple of times, forfeiting the need to be blunt and straightforward with his answer.

Closing your eyes, just as in his dream, you cradle his head against your chest — stroking, caressing the scalp and dark green hair. A perfectly reproduced moment that makes the hearts of both of you belt out an excited tune.

Not without its nuances, though, ‘cause the real you was far more multifaceted than your dream version.

“Xiao," you whispered his name playfully, "I'll be sure to recreate every moment like in your sweet dream... But I'll have to improvise on the part you were too shy to describe.”

♡ ── ✦ ──『♡』── ✦ ── ♡

Please note that english isn't my native language and can be awkward at times.

Please don't translate or repost my works without asking for my permission first!

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #xiao x reader #xiao x you #xiao x y/n #genshin impact x you #genshin impact drabbles #genshin xiao #genshin impact #genshin drabbles

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rainforestakiie · 14 days ago

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hi everyone,

i am back with part 02 of Frozen out! i hope you like it, it's a bit different. i just wanted to write something like Anna's villain song music video.

i hope you like it and let me know what you think below!

youtube

Adam huddled beneath the fading light, his body curled into itself, hands trembling in the cold, desperately trying to coax the earth into life. He stretched them out, fingers shaking with the effort, but there was nothing. Nothing but the barren ground beneath him, as lifeless as his heart had become. Why didn’t anything ever grow for him anymore? His chest tightened, a familiar ache blossoming like a wound that had never quite healed. Had falling really changed him this much? Was this his punishment—his torment—for simply... following the rules?

Tears welled up in his eyes, hot and fierce, before trailing down his cheeks. His bruised, blackened fingers dug into the earth, grasping at the cold soil as if begging it for mercy, but the earth refused him. It refused to nurture him. It refused to forgive him. There was nothing. Always just the emptiness.

He tried not to, but his thoughts turned to Lucifer. Why had he changed so suddenly? Why did he care now when he never had before? Adam could still remember the days when it was just the two of them in Eden—the days when Lucifer had remained distant, untouchable, an archangel whose gaze never lingered on him. Adam had loved him, with a love so pure it hurt. He had adored the archangel with every beat of his heart, longing for his attention, wishing for nothing more than to be seen. But Lucifer had never seen him—not really.

Then Lilith was born, and everything shifted. Lucifer's gaze no longer strayed from Eden. Adam’s heart had twisted at the sight of it—the way the archangel’s eyes seemed to light up when Lilith entered the picture. He was no longer the one Lucifer would turn to for comfort or companionship. He was no longer the one Lucifer would seek out.

…He had been... replaced.

Adam’s breath caught in his throat. He hiccupped, the sharpness of the thought catching him off guard. His hand flew up to his face, rubbing away the tears that burned against his skin. Oh.

Was that it?

Was that all he was—just a placeholder? Had Lucifer only shown interest in him because Lilith was gone, and Eve hadn’t come yet? Without them, he was the last remnant of Eden, a fading echo of what once was.

The bitter realization settled over him like a weight he could hardly bear. He had thought... no, he had hoped... that maybe, just maybe, Lucifer had truly seen him now, had come to love him in a way he never had before. But it wasn’t love, was it? It was just loneliness, a fleeting attempt to fill a void left behind. The sharp ache in his chest burned like fire. He was just a replacement.

Adam’s head hung low, tears falling freely now, each one a mark of a love unreciprocated. He had been so blind, so naïve to think that Lucifer’s touch, his attention, could mean anything more than just a distraction. A temporary solace. He sniffed, trying to quiet the sobs that threatened to tear him apart.

It hurt. More than he could put into words. The sting of rejection, of never being enough. The pain of loving someone who could never love him back. It was too much. It was always too much.

And yet, despite everything, Adam couldn’t stop loving him. Even now, even in this moment of brokenness, the love for Lucifer still burned within him.

Adam flinched, his body seizing as an unnatural chill crept over him, seeping deep into his bones. He shuddered, his arms wrapping around himself instinctively, trying to hold onto some warmth that simply wasn’t there. The cold wasn’t just surface-deep, no, it was crawling beneath his skin, a cruel, biting frost that spread across his flesh like ice. It was a strange sensation, one that didn’t belong in this place—this forsaken land that was supposed to burn with fire and agony, a place where the air itself clung heavy with the oppressive heat of Hell. But here he was, trembling as if the very marrow in his bones had turned to ice.

His breath came in shallow, jagged gasps, misting in the air, which only seemed to make the chill feel more real, more terrifying. He couldn’t remember when the cold had first taken hold of him. Was it when he fell? Or had it started before, when everything had begun to unravel, when the cracks had started to form and nothing felt right anymore?

He clenched his fists, trying to ignore the sting in his fingers, but the numbness was creeping in, dulling everything—every sensation, every feeling. His body, once alive with the power of creation, now felt like a hollow shell, a ghost of the person he once was. When had he become so... empty? When had the warmth that had once pulsed through him gone?

Adam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find a thread of warmth, a spark of hope to hold onto. But all he felt was the icy grip tightening around him, pulling him further away from himself. He tried to remember the last time he had truly felt warmth—truly felt alive—but his mind felt like it was wrapped in fog, a thick, impenetrable haze that only deepened the ache inside him.

He thought of Eden, of the days before everything had changed. Of the moments when the sun had kissed his skin, and the earth had bloomed beneath his touch. It all felt like a lifetime ago, as if he were remembering someone else’s life, someone who had known what it was to feel whole. To feel loved.

The cold inside him grew, curling around his heart, threatening to extinguish the fragile light that still flickered within.

He wanted to scream, to lash out at the injustice of it all. But what was the point? The earth had already turned its back on him. Lucifer had already walked away. And he? He was left here, alone in the cold, with nothing but the ghosts of his past to haunt him.

The tears that had stopped flowing moments ago began again, silent and bitter, tracing the frozen path down his cheeks. It wasn’t just the cold that hurt—it was the weight of it all, the crushing isolation. He had never been meant to endure this kind of emptiness. Not in Eden. Not here. Not anywhere.

But he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop the freezing that was overtaking him, inside and out.

“Huh. That’s weird,” he mumbled, running his blacken hand over his arms. His greyish skin was cold too. His hairs didn’t even stand up on end.

Adam shrugged it off.

Adam's steps were slow, hesitant, as he made his way back toward the lounge. His head hung low, his thoughts tangled like the cold that still gripped him. His wings—once majestic, once full of life—felt numb against his back, as though they too had begun to wither, to fade into nothing. The weight of them was almost unbearable now, but it wasn’t just the wings—it was everything. His heart, his mind, his very sense of self felt like they were unravelling.

Each step brought him closer, yet further away. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened, of the emptiness that clung to him like a second skin. Nothing had ever felt so cold, so distant. He wasn’t sure what he was walking toward, or if he even wanted to find out. But his feet carried him, as they always did, toward that place where the others gathered.

As he drew near to the lounge, he heard voices—loud, excited voices that cut through the cold fog in his mind. Adam paused, brow furrowing in confusion. The voices didn’t sound like the usual tired conversations or the murmurs of indifference he had grown accustomed to. They were... different. Livelier, more urgent. And there, beneath the noise, was something else—something he couldn't quite place.

Curiosity tugged at him, against his better judgment. With a hesitant step forward, Adam reached the doorway, and there they were.

Charlie spun around in a whirl of energy, her face alight with excitement, her eyes wide as she saw him.

"Oh, Adam!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing on her heels. "I was just about to come find you! You would never believe what's happened!"

Adam blinked, still unsure of what to make of this sudden burst of energy. He barely had time to register Charlie’s exuberance before she clapped her hands together, her smile nearly bursting with glee. She seemed on the verge of bursting with excitement, her voice practically singing with delight.

"I just received word from Heaven!" she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. "They want us to meet with them instantly! Sir Pentious—a sinner we thought was... well, you know..."

She trailed off, her eyes darting away briefly, as though reluctant to revisit whatever terrible story she had been about to tell. "Anyway, he was revived! Up in Heaven! As a winner!"

Charlie squealed, her hands flying to her cheeks in disbelief. "I was right! I knew it! Sir Pentious was redeemed! He’s been redeemed!"

Adam stared at her, his expression frozen, his mind struggling to process her words. Redeemed? Sir Pentious?

The same vile, twisted being who had caused so much suffering, so much destruction?

His gaze shifted to Lucifer, who was standing quietly off to the side. The archangel’s expression was... strange. Concerned, maybe even... troubled. That was not what Adam had expected. It was almost as if he, too, was trying to make sense of Charlie’s exuberance. But why? Why would Lucifer care about this?

Adam frowned, feeling the confusion deepen.

Charlie’s words faded into background noise as his mind began to spiral, consumed by a swirl of thoughts and questions he couldn’t answer. It worked? Charlie’s ideas—her hotel, her dreams—had worked? Sinners... sinners could be redeemed? Could they really be saved?

But then his mind flickered back to Sera.

Sera had told him it was impossible. She had ordered him to carry out her plans, to do what Heaven deemed necessary. She had claimed that some lives—like the lives of his children—were a price worth paying, a sacrifice Heaven deemed required to maintain order. But how could they? How could Heaven forgive someone like Sir Pentious?

Adam’s heart raced, and his breath hitched in his throat. His hands trembled at his sides as a wave of shock and disbelief washed over him. He murdered thousands of his babies, Adam thought, his mind reeling. He was the one who tore them apart—because Heaven ordered it. Because it was necessary for some twisted balance.

But now, now he was redeemed? He was a winner?

The thoughts clashed together in Adam’s mind, violent and raw. His knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed into the doorway, grasping the frame for support. His head spun, and the cold in his chest seemed to tighten with each breath, as if it were a vice squeezing the air from his lungs. He could barely focus, the words spilling out around him, but they didn’t reach him. They couldn’t.

His eyes burned with unshed tears, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make sense of this new world. A world where everything he thought he knew was twisted, turned upside down, and crushed beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. A world where sinners were redeemed. Where murderers, monsters, could come back and be forgiven.

And yet here he stood—left to freeze, to wither. Left alone. He had followed the rules, the orders from Heaven, because that was what he was supposed to do. He had never asked for any of this. He had never wanted to hurt anyone.

But somehow, it all felt wrong. It felt... unjust.

His head throbbed with the overwhelming weight of it all, and for a moment, it was as though the room around him was fading, blurring out of focus. He was losing himself in the enormity of it all, the pain of the world—and his place in it—becoming too much to bear.

T he tension in the room thickened, suffocating the air around Adam as his mind spiraled further, trying desperately to make sense of the confusion, the injustice, and the impossible weight of it all. His thoughts crashed together, but before he could stop himself, he was retreating into himself, his shoulders curling inward like a fragile shell.

Lucifer, however, seemed to sense the shift in him almost immediately. His eyes narrowed with quiet concern, and without a word, he moved toward Adam with a grace that was almost predatory—but not in the way it had been before. There was no malice in his movement. Only a deep, silent understanding.

"Adam," Lucifer murmured softly, his voice a soothing balm against the cacophony of thoughts tearing through Adam’s mind.

His presence felt like a quiet, magnetic pull. It didn’t demand attention, but it beckoned with a quiet comfort, a silent promise that he wasn’t alone. Lucifer stopped just a few paces away from him, his gaze heavy with something Adam couldn’t quite place. Sympathy, maybe. Or something more.

Charlie, still caught up in her excitement, finally noticed the shift in Adam’s posture. Her enthusiasm faltered as she saw his distant, almost lost expression. She blinked, a look of realization creeping across her face as she turned to Lucifer.

Lucifer, without looking at her, spoke softly, his voice carrying an unspoken command. "Charlie, it might be too much for him right away."

Charlie gasped, her face softening with a sudden realization. "Oh, Adam..." Her voice trailed off, eyes searching his face for some sign of understanding, some flicker of the strength she had come to expect from him. But Adam only stood there, frozen, caught between the urge to escape and the desperate need to be seen.

Adam shook his head slightly, a small, jerky movement as he pulled away from Lucifer’s gentle approach. He took a breath, trying to steady himself. His chest tightened, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. He wanted to appear unbothered, indifferent, but his words betrayed him as his voice cracked under the weight of it all.

"I—I want to join the meeting," he said, his tone more forceful than he felt, his attempt at sternness hollow.

Charlie and Lucifer exchanged a glance, both expressions filled with a silent understanding, but also concern. They were both clearly unsure, but neither of them pushed him away. Instead, Charlie’s expression softened further, her brow furrowing in quiet sympathy.

But Adam couldn’t bear it—not the pity, not the concern. It was all too much. His heart raced in his chest, the sudden vulnerability forcing him to look away from them. He stared at the floor, suddenly very small under their gazes, and in a voice barely above a whisper, he added, "Please."

Charlie’s gaze softened even more. She took a step toward him, but stopped herself, clearly torn between respecting his request and protecting him from the turmoil she saw in his eyes.

Lucifer, too, seemed torn. His face was full of unspoken words, as if he were fighting the urge to touch Adam, to comfort him, but he hesitated. His hand twitched slightly, as though it were reaching out, but then it fell back to his side. His expression shifted—something warm, tender, but also uncertain. He wasn’t angry. No, he wasn’t angry with Adam at all. There was only a deep sorrow in his eyes, a sorrow that made Adam’s chest tighten even more.

"Are you sure, Adam?" Charlie asked, her voice gentle, almost a whisper.

Adam nodded, his expression hardening, though the mask of indifference was still fragile, barely holding together. He didn’t look at Lucifer, but he could feel his presence, looming in the background like a steady pulse.

"I want to... speak to Sera," Adam said, his voice quieter now, carrying a weight of desperation and something else—something he didn’t want to admit to himself.

Lucifer’s frown deepened, but it wasn’t the anger Adam had feared. No, it wasn’t anger at all. It was something else—something dark, something raw. Lucifer’s gaze darkened as he stared at Adam, but it wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at something far more distant, something beyond Adam.

His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he took a breath, and with a soft, resigned sigh, he nodded.

"Of course, you can join us," Lucifer whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. "You have the right."

And in those words, Adam heard something he hadn’t expected. A kind of permission, but also something else. Something softer. A promise, maybe, or a silent acknowledgment. Lucifer wasn’t just allowing him to join; he was accepting him in a way Adam hadn’t known he needed.

But before Lucifer opened the portal, he turned to Charlie, his expression unusually serious.

"Hey, Charlie," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Can I speak to Adam alone for a moment?"

Charlie raised an eyebrow, her playful energy faltering slightly. She glanced from Lucifer to Adam, her gaze lingering on her father with a mix of understanding and concern. She let out a dramatic sigh, hands on her hips.

"You’re not going to push him too much, are you?" she warned, her tone teasing but with an undercurrent of protectiveness.

Lucifer pouted, a playful, exaggerated frown pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Man, you have so much trust in me," he said, his voice dripping with mock hurt.

Charlie rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, but the hint of a smile tugged at her lips.

"You’re lucky I do," she said. "Just don’t overdo it."

Lucifer nodded, a smirk tugging at his own lips as he turned to Adam.

"I won’t, I promise," he said, before Charlie flashed him a final warning look and walked off, giving them the space they needed.

Adam, still reeling from everything that had been happening, watched Charlie leave. His confusion only deepened as he turned his gaze back to Lucifer.

"What is this?" he asked, frowning. "I can’t think about whatever's going on between us right now, especially after... after all that with the redeemed sinner thing."

His voice wavered slightly, but he was trying to hold onto his resolve.

Lucifer’s gaze softened, his usual sardonic edge gone, replaced by something more vulnerable. He took a slow, deliberate step closer to Adam, keeping his distance just enough to give him space, but close enough that Adam could feel the weight of his presence.

"I know," Lucifer said, his voice quiet and earnest. "I know it’s a lot. And I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do."

His eyes were searching Adam’s, like he was looking for some sign, some flicker of understanding. "But I want you to know something—something important."

Adam didn’t know what to say. He felt the strange tug in his chest, the complicated pull of emotions that didn’t quite make sense. He was drowning in so many conflicting thoughts, unable to make sense of any of them.

Lucifer continued, his voice almost a whisper, the words laced with sincerity. "I really like you, Adam. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait. For as long as it takes, I’ll wait for you to give me a real answer."

He paused, just inches from Adam, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop. "I want us to give this a chance."

Adam opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The confusion, the hurt, everything churned inside of him, and he was speechless, overwhelmed by it all. What could he say? How could he even begin to sort through everything he felt? Lucifer had hurt him so many times, had pushed him so far, and yet now… now he was saying this?

"Answer?" Adam finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, full of disbelief. "Answer for what?"

Lucifer didn’t answer with words. Instead, he gently reached out, taking Adam’s hand and placing it over his chest. Adam’s breath caught as he felt Lucifer’s heart racing beneath his fingertips. It was an intimacy Adam wasn’t prepared for, but there it was, raw and real.

"I really love you, Adam," Lucifer said, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke the words. "I really want to give us a chance. Please—let me prove it to you."

Adam’s mind went blank, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to react. His chest tightened, his heart racing. I love you?

He couldn’t understand it, not fully. Not after everything Lucifer had done. He wanted to speak, to shout all the things he was feeling, but the words were tangled, caught in the mess of his emotions.

Lucifer’s eyes were soft now, full of something Adam hadn’t expected—vulnerability.

"I know you don’t believe me," Lucifer continued quietly. "I know you don’t trust me, and I don’t blame you. I haven’t been good to you, Adam. But I want to try. I want to earn your trust, and I want to earn your forgiveness." His voice was sincere, almost pleading.

Adam’s throat tightened, and he felt the sting of tears threatening to overwhelm him, but he couldn’t bring himself to let them fall. Everything was so confusing. So much anger, so much hurt, so much betrayal. Lucifer had destroyed him, twisted him, and now he was standing there, saying he wanted to make things right.

Adam wanted to speak, to tell Lucifer everything that was in his heart—the bitterness, the sorrow, the confusion—but the words never came. He couldn’t make sense of it all. How could he? How could he even begin to process what was happening?

Lucifer seemed to sense this. He gave Adam’s hand a soft squeeze, his gaze lingering for a moment longer before he sighed, pulling back slightly.

"I won’t force anything, Adam," Lucifer whispered, his voice full of quiet understanding. "I don’t expect an answer right away. But I want you to know—I'll wait. As long as it takes."

Before Adam could gather his thoughts, a sudden movement caught his attention. Charlie reappeared, her arms looping around Adam’s and Lucifer’s. She tugged them both to her side, her smile wide and bright, though her eyes seemed to hide a trace of curiosity, like she’d been listening to their conversation from a distance.

"Shall we go now?" she said, her voice cheerful, as if everything was perfectly normal. She shot Lucifer a teasing grin. "You’ve got that look in your eyes again, old man."

Lucifer smirked, his usual playfulness returning as he shrugged. "Of course. Let’s go see that laptop."

Charlie gasped, her eyes widening in mock shock. "Dad! You can’t keep calling Sera that!"

Adam blinked, his mind still in a whirl. Sera?

He turned to Lucifer, confusion written all over his face. But Lucifer just laughed, clearly amused by the situation.

"You haven’t noticed, Adam?" Lucifer said, his tone light and teasing. "She literally jumps at every opportunity to get at Metaron’s feet. She’s practically her lapdog."

Adam blinked, still processing, but as Lucifer’s words sank in, something in his chest loosened. His lips twitched, an involuntary smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, though it was small and uncertain.

Lucifer snapped his fingers, and the golden portal appeared, shimmering and swirling with bright, dazzling light. Adam felt a deep knot in his stomach. Whatever was waiting on the other side of that portal, it didn’t feel like something he was ready for. His heart pounded, and he swallowed hard.

He didn’t have a good feeling about this.

"Ready?" Lucifer asked, his voice light but carrying a certain edge of anticipation.

Charlie looked between the two of them, her expression unreadable, but she seemed to be hiding something—a curiosity about the quiet exchange that had just taken place.

Adam’s throat was dry, and as he stepped toward the portal, he could feel the weight of everything that had just happened—the words, the emotions, the promises, the pain—crushing down on him.

But he had no choice. He had to go through with this. He had no idea what awaited him, but he couldn’t turn back now.

The golden portal flickered shut behind them, the weight of its closing a sickening echo that reverberated through Adam’s bones. His gaze swept the room, cold and hollow, as Charlie led the charge into the sterile, unforgiving space. The walls, gleaming white and almost painfully bright, reflected his unease. This place, this place, it felt like a tomb, and he was trapped inside it.

Lucifer’s grunted displeasure broke through the tension. “Ugh, I hate this place. It’s still such an eyesore.” His voice, normally a note of command, felt hollow here, an echo in the expansive emptiness.

Adam couldn’t even summon the energy to agree. He stood stiff, a statue of silence, trying to will himself into the cold floor beneath him. His hands trembled at his sides, fists clenched. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to face anyone here. Especially not Sera.

"Why did you make a throne anyway?" Adam's words slipped out, distant, as if the question was something he had asked a thousand times in his head and never once expected an answer.

Charlie, ever the inquisitive spirit, jumped on it. "Yes! I want to know that too! I mean, Dad, look at it. It’s ugly and takes up half of Hell’s side!"

Lucifer blinked at them, feigning innocence, then gave the throne a slow, appraising look. It was garish, too big, too much—something born out of ego. Still, he couldn’t hide his defensiveness.

“What are you two talking about? It’s... lovely.”

Charlie snorted, folding her arms and clearly unimpressed. "Sorry, Dad, but it looks like, in all words, shit."

Adam barely registered the exchange. He was too busy trying to keep himself together, his stomach twisting into knots. Focus, Adam. Focus. But it was impossible. His chest felt like it was caving in, suffocating under the weight of memories he didn’t want to revisit.

Then the doors opened, and the air around him seemed to freeze. Sera stepped into the room, her presence icy, impervious, and everything Adam wanted to forget. His body tensed, instinctively pulling away. He wanted to vanish. He wanted to run, but his feet were glued to the floor. The last time he’d seen her, he’d been forced into a corner, forced to make decisions that shattered him.

Behind her, Emily bounced in, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Isn't this amazing?" she said, practically glowing at the thought of the possibility of redemption. "Sinners becoming winners, how incredible is that?"

It was all white noise to Adam. He could barely focus on what Emily was saying as he tried to push back the tide of overwhelming emotions that threatened to drown him.

The conversation swirled around him—plans, possibilities, the redemption of souls—but he was far away from it all, his mind trapped in a maze of guilt and fury. Sera’s icy gaze flicked over him, and in that moment, Adam couldn’t breathe.

"I… I have something I want to ask you," Adam’s voice broke through the suffocating quiet, a thin, trembling sound that quivered under the weight of centuries. It was fragile, yet it reverberated with the rawness of betrayal, demanding attention. He felt the eyes on him—piercing, judging, waiting—and he hated them. Their stares felt like knives carving him open, exposing the shattered remnants of a man who had once believed in something.

Sera’s expression flickered, a shadow of surprise darting across her usually impenetrable facade. "Yes?" she said, her voice cold and controlled. "What is it?"

The room seemed to contract, as if the very air tightened in anticipation. Even Emily and Charlie, who were never far from their usual chatter, fell silent. Charlie gave him one of her soft, hopeful smiles—an anchor meant to steady him—but it only deepened the ache in his chest. Her kindness was a blade, cutting against the harsh truth that he was already breaking apart, the cracks in him spider-webbing into pieces too sharp to hold.

He swallowed hard. The question in his throat was heavy, jagged, a stone he had carried for far too long. Dragging it out was agony, every word tearing at wounds he had thought were long scarred over. But he forced it out, the sound of his voice slicing through the room.

"Did you know," he began, his voice shaking under the strain, "before Sir Pentious was redeemed, that it was… at all possible?" He locked eyes with Sera, the accusation burning in his gaze. "That sinners could be redeemed? That they could become winners?"

The silence that followed was suffocating, oppressive. It clung to him like a second skin, cold and unyielding. Adam’s heart thundered in his ears, the sound deafening in the stillness. He searched Sera’s face, desperate for something—anything. A spark of regret, a flash of guilt. But there was nothing. Her eyes were hard as steel, her lips pressed into a thin, unmoving line.

Emily shifted beside him, her excitement dimming as irritation overtook her features. She opened her mouth, ready to fill the void with her usual sharp retort, but before she could speak, Lucifer’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Answer the question, Sera!" he snapped, his tone laced with fury. "Stop dodging it!"

Sera’s eyes narrowed, a flare of irritation breaking her mask. But she didn’t lose her composure. Instead, she stood there, motionless, her expression as calm as marble. When she spoke, her words were deliberate, measured, as though she weighed every syllable against the consequences they might bring.

"What does it matter now?" she said, her voice smooth but hollow.

Adam staggered back, as though she had struck him. The room seemed to shift, the walls closing in on him. Her words echoed in his mind, repeating over and over until they became a cacophony of pain.

What does it matter now?

It mattered. It mattered because everything he had done—everything he had sacrificed—had been built on a lie. He had suffered for them, bled for them, killed for them. He had followed their commands, torn apart his own heart and soul, all in the name of something greater. And now, it was meaningless.

"I killed them," Adam choked, his voice breaking. He wasn’t even sure who he was speaking to anymore. The room? Himself? Sera?

"I killed my children—my babies—because you told me it was righteous. I slaughtered them in your name, for your so-called Heaven. I destroyed what I loved most in this world because you said it was the only way. And you knew. You knew there was another way."

Sera’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something colder in her now, something detached.

Cain. Abel.

His boys.

He had loved them more than anything, and he had lost them. Not to some grand, righteous purpose, but to a lie. He thought of the animals he had once cherished, slaughtered so his family could survive. He thought of Eve, of how he had stayed after the apple—how he had forgiven her, because he thought there was still something worth saving. He thought of the sinners, of the lives he had destroyed, of the souls he had condemned to oblivion.

And Cain. Oh, Cain. His firstborn. His child who had stumbled and sinned, who had needed only love to find his way back. Cain could have been redeemed. His soul could have been saved. But Sera had lied. They had all lied. Heaven had wanted blood, not redemption, and Adam had been their willing executioner.

The realization broke him.

Adam’s trembling turned to fury, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as his voice rose, shaking with a power he had never allowed himself to wield.

"You knew!" he bellowed, the force of his words slamming into Sera like a physical blow. "You knew they could be saved! And you still sent me to slaughter them. My children! My babies, Sera!"

Sera flinched for the first time, her composure faltering as his words hit her like shards of glass. She opened her mouth to respond, but Adam wasn’t finished. He took a step toward her, his face a storm of anguish and rage.

"You made me an executioner!" he roared, his voice cracking with the weight of his pain. "You sent me to lead those exterminations—to butcher souls that could have been redeemed. You forced me to do it. You held my faith against me, twisted it into a blade, and drove it through everything I loved!"

"Adam, please!" Sera’s voice, usually so commanding, was soft now, almost pleading. Her expression, for the first time since she had turned her back on him, cracked. "It wasn’t for nothing! You—you did well, Adam. You did everything Heaven asked of you. You fought for us, protected us. I—I saw what you did, and I—"

"Don’t you dare!" Adam’s voice was a thunderclap, silencing her. He took another step forward, his face pale, his eyes blazing with a cold fire. "Don’t you dare try to tell me now, after all this time, that it meant something! You’re only saying it because I’m biting back. You never cared, Sera. None of you did! I was nothing to you!"

Sera recoiled as though he had struck her, but Adam didn’t stop. He was trembling, his breaths ragged as the weight of his fury and despair crashed over him.

"How could you do it?" he demanded, his voice breaking. "How could you look at me—at the man who trusted you, who loved you—and force that onto me? You knew the truth! You knew souls could be redeemed, but you still sent me down there! You made me the monster!"

He paused, his words catching in his throat as a new horror dawned on him. His face went white, the fire in his eyes dimming into a cold, empty abyss. Slowly, he looked down at his bruised, blood-stained hands.

"I have so much blood on my hands because of you," He whispered, his voice barely audible. "I killed them. I killed my babies in your name—for Heaven. And all this time, they could have been saved? I could have done something—anything else—to help them?"

His knees almost buckled as he looked back up at Sera, his expression one of pure, unfiltered anguish. His voice was a broken plea, trembling with the last threads of hope he didn’t even realize he still held.

"Tell me it’s not true. Please, Sera. Tell me sinners can’t be redeemed. Tell me I didn’t kill them for nothing."

Sera’s lips parted, but no words came. Her eyes shimmered with something that could have been regret—or maybe just shame. She hesitated for a moment too long, and Adam’s heart sank. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, filled with sorrow.

"They always could have been redeemed," she admitted, each word striking Adam like a hammer. "But we couldn’t risk it. Not all souls can be saved, Adam. Some are too corrupt, too depraved. Just one twisted soul slipping into Heaven could—could stain it forever. We were protecting—"

"Protecting yourselves?" Charlie snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. Adam’s head turned to her, but she was glaring at Sera, her usual optimism replaced with anger. "You always act like sinners are out to get you! Like they don’t deserve another chance just because they’re not perfect!"

Lucifer, silent until now, bared his teeth, his voice low and venomous.

"You turned Heaven into a fortress of cowards," he growled. "Sacrificing those who needed you most just to keep your hands clean."

Even Emily, usually so loyal, crossed her arms and looked away, disappointment written across her face. "You made us believe we were helping them," she said softly, her voice heavy with disillusionment.

Sera gasped; her composure fully shattered. She looked at Emily with wide, desperate eyes.

"You don’t understand," she pleaded. "You haven’t seen the most corrupted souls, the depraved things they’ve done. They would destroy everything we’ve built—"

"Of course, they’re corrupted and depraved!" Adam cut her off, his voice rising again. "What did you expect, Sera? What did you think would happen when Heaven wasn’t there to guide them? When you turned your back on them the moment they stumbled?!"

Sera stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as if searching for a response. But Adam wasn’t done.

"What did you expect?!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. "You wanted me to keep a garden alive with poison! Are you crazy?!"

The room was silent, the weight of Adam’s words settling over them like a storm cloud. Sera’s lips trembled, her once-unshakable authority crumbling in the face of his fury.

Adam took a step back, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. He was done. He had nothing left to give.

"Maybe the sinners weren’t the monsters," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Maybe it was us all along."

Sera’s lips parted, trembling as if she had something left to say, but the words never came. The room was unbearably still, the silence dense and suffocating, broken only by Adam’s laboured breaths. His shoulders heaved, his head bowed as though the weight of the truth was finally crushing him.

For a long moment, no one dared to speak. Even Lucifer, whose rage burned hotter than anyone’s, seemed caught in the aftershock of Adam’s words. Emily shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between Sera and Adam, her usual certainty replaced by something fragile.

Finally, it was Charlie who stepped forward. Her voice was quiet but firm, trembling only slightly as she looked directly at Sera.

"You used him," she said, each word like a needle threading through the silence. "You used all of us. And for what? To keep Heaven safe? Or to keep yourselves comfortable?"

Sera flinched, but her expression hardened again, a spark of defiance returning to her eyes. "You think this is easy?" she snapped, her voice cracking under the strain. "You think it’s simple to make these decisions? To decide who deserves salvation and who doesn’t? We were trying to protect everything! If just one irredeemable soul made it into Heaven, it could have unravelled everything we built—"

"Everything you built," Lucifer interrupted, his voice a low snarl. "Don’t pretend this was about the greater good. You built a Heaven where only the ‘perfect’ were allowed, and you left the rest of us to rot. You called us sinners and cast us out, and when we begged for mercy, you sent Adam to slaughter us. Don’t stand there and call it protection. Call it what it is: selfishness."

"You don’t understand!" Sera shot back, her voice rising, desperation seeping into her words. "You’ve never seen the worst of them! The ones who—who delight in their corruption, who revel in destruction. Those souls can’t be saved!"

"Of course they revel in it!" Adam’s voice cut through hers like a blade. He stepped forward again, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with a fury that made even Lucifer glance at him uneasily. "You abandoned them, Sera! You left them in the dark and called them monsters when they stumbled. What did you expect?!"

Sera froze, her breath catching in her throat. Adam’s words hung heavy in the air, each syllable hammering against the walls of her certainty.

"You wanted me to be your executioner," Adam continued, his voice shaking but relentless. "You gave me a sword and told me it was holy. You told me I was saving them, but I wasn’t. I was condemning them. I was killing them. You made me a butcher, and you called it righteous."

He looked down at his hands again, the bruises and scars seeming deeper now, etched into his skin like a permanent reminder. His voice dropped, trembling with raw, unfiltered grief.

"I have so much blood on my hands," he whispered. "Because of you. I killed my babies. I killed them for Heaven. For you. And they could have been saved."

His voice broke on the last word, and he stumbled back, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. He looked up at Sera again, his eyes wide with disbelief, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"I could have done something else," he said, his voice barely audible. "I could have helped them. I could have—"

He stopped, shaking his head as though trying to banish the thought. "How could you do this to me? How could you do this to them?"

Sera opened her mouth, but no words came. Her hands trembled at her sides, her usually composed demeanour shattered. For the first time, she looked afraid—not of Adam, but of the truth he had forced her to face.

"You lied to me," Adam said, his voice rising again, a raw edge of desperation creeping into his tone. "You lied! You told me I was saving them. You told me I was doing the right thing. And all this time, it was a lie. I killed them, Sera! I killed them, and it was for nothing!"

"It wasn’t for nothing!" Sera’s voice cracked as she finally found the strength to speak. "Adam, please, listen to me—everything you did, everything we asked of you, it was all to protect Heaven. You—"

"Protect Heaven?" Charlie interrupted, her voice sharp and cold in a way Adam had never heard before. "From what? From people who needed help? From souls who needed someone to show them the way? You didn’t protect Heaven. You turned it into a cage."

Emily, usually the first to defend Sera, crossed her arms and looked away. "You always act like the sinners are waiting to pull us down with them. But they’re not. They’re just… lost."

Sera turned to her, her expression one of disbelief.

"You don’t understand," she said, her voice trembling. "You haven’t seen the worst of them. You haven’t seen the depravity, the corruption. If even one soul like that slipped into Heaven—"

"Then maybe Heaven isn’t as strong as you think," Lucifer said, his tone icy.

Sera’s eyes widened, her breath hitching as she looked around the room, at the faces of those who had once stood by her side. Even Emily wasn’t meeting her gaze anymore.

Adam shook his head, his voice quiet but laced with fury.

"What did you expect, Sera?" he asked. "What did you think would happen when you turned your back on them? When you left them to rot and then called them monsters for what they became?"

He stepped closer to her, his voice rising again, each word dripping with venom. "You wanted me to keep a garden alive with poison. Are you crazy?"

Sera said nothing, her silence louder than any argument she could have made.

Adam took a step back, his hands falling limply to his sides. He looked at her one last time, his gaze filled with a mixture of rage, sorrow, and something that looked almost like pity.

Adam’s laugh came first, sharp and humourless, breaking the tense silence in the room. It wasn’t a laugh of joy, but something jagged, almost painful. His eyes burned as he stared at Sera, who now stood frozen, her hands trembling at her sides.

"Did it all mean nothing?" Adam’s voice cracked as he gestured wildly, his movements frantic. "All of it—everything I did, everything I gave—was it all for nothing?!"

Sera’s lips parted, but no words came.

"You don’t understand what you’ve done to me," Adam continued, his voice rising, his anger giving way to despair. He turned to Lucifer, pointing at him like an accusation. "You were supposed to be my guardian archangel! God created you for me! Do you remember that? You were supposed to protect me, guide me—and look what you did to me!"

Lucifer’s eyes widened, his mouth opening as if to protest, but Adam didn’t give him the chance.

"When Lilith was created, I didn’t understand. She frightened me, Lucifer!" Adam’s voice cracked, tears threatening to spill over as he relived memories, he’d spent centuries trying to bury. "But all of you—you pushed me towards her! You told me it was my duty to care for her, to make her feel comfortable and safe. To make her feel loved."

His voice turned bitter, almost a snarl. "To breed with her despite how much she scared and hurt me."

Lucifer flinched, his usually impassive face breaking with something that looked like regret.

"And then you took her away!" Adam roared, his voice shaking with betrayal. "You pushed me towards her, told me to love her, and then you ripped her away from me! And when she was gone, Heaven gave me Eve! Like I was some kind of pet that needed a new toy to play with!"

Emily gasped softly, and Charlie’s glare shot toward Lucifer, her eyes narrowing as if seeing him clearly for the first time. Lucifer, for all his charm and arrogance, looked down, his expression wide-eyed and shaken, as though he hadn’t truly realized the weight of Adam’s words until now.

"Eve was supposed to be perfect," Adam said bitterly, his voice trembling. "But she bit the apple. She gave in. And we were cast out because of it. I was cast out because of it! I didn’t eat the apple! I didn’t break the rules! So why was I punished for her actions?"

He turned back to Sera, his eyes wild and desperate. "You knew. You all knew! Lilith wanted to explore the earth. She dreamed of it. She wanted the world. And instead of letting her have it, you banished her to Hell! And she got everything she wanted there! She became a queen while I was cast into the world she wanted—a world I hated!”

“And for what?!" His voice broke, his hands trembling as he gestured to himself. "What did I do, Sera? What crime did I commit other than existing?"

Sera opened her mouth, her hands raising slightly, but no sound came. Adam’s voice cracked again as he stumbled forward, his knees almost giving out beneath him.

"And you…I had nobody, but…but I thought I had you…" His voice softened, raw and broken, as he looked her in the eyes. "I loved you, Sera. I looked up to you. You were the only one who didn’t treat me like a thing. You were the only one who didn’t look at me like I was some… some tool. I saw you as my mother."

Charlie and Emily gasped, and Adam could feel their shock, but he didn’t care. His eyes never left Sera’s, his tears finally spilling over as his voice cracked.

"You were supposed to care about me. You were supposed to love me."

Sera’s composure shattered completely. Her wings spread wide, glowing faintly as tears began streaming down her cheeks. Her voice trembled as she spoke, her words barely more than a whisper.

"I do love you, Adam," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Like a son. I always have."

Adam laughed, but it was hollow, heart-wrenching, like the last gasp of a dying flame. He shook his head, his tears falling freely now.

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You don’t. You’re only saying that now because I’m biting back. Because I’m no longer the obedient little puppet you wanted me to be."

"That’s not true!" Sera’s voice rose in desperation, her wings trembling as they began to shine brighter. "Adam, please, I can make this right! I can fix this! You can come back to Heaven. You can—"

"Why now, Sera?" Adam interrupted, his voice breaking into a scream. "Why the sudden change of heart? Is there something else you want from me? Is that it?!"

Sera flinched, her tears falling faster, but she said nothing.

Adam shook his head, his laughter turning bitter again. "I’m done, Sera. I’m done with Heaven. I’m done with Hell. I’m done with Earth. I’m done with the Winners, Sinners, humans! I’m done with everything."

His voice dropped, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world was finally too much to bear. "There’s nothing left for me anymore. Nothing."

He looked up at her one last time, his gaze hollow and broken.

"I would tell you to go to Hell," he said softly, his voice trembling, "but since that’s the only place left for me, I don’t want you there."

His words hung in the air, a haunting echo that seemed to sap the room of all its warmth. Adam laughed again, a pathetic, broken sound, as he muttered to himself.

"I just wanted…"

His voice trailed off, the words caught in his throat, and he stood there for a moment, silent and still, before pushing himself up from the table.

Every eye was on him as he walked away, his steps slow and heavy, each one dragging him further from the shattered pieces of the life he once believed in.

Adam didn’t know where he was going…he was just going to let his feet led him somewhere.

…anywhere was better than here…

~#~

The corridors of the palace shook with the sheer force of Charlie’s rage. Her hair whipped wildly around her face, untamed and alive, as though it carried the storm brewing within her. Her horns, usually small and unobtrusive, had grown and twisted like jagged thorns, and her red eyes glowed with a bloodthirsty fire that made even the air around her feel dangerous.

The second she and Lucifer stepped out of the meeting hall, she spun on him, her voice a roar that echoed down the gilded halls.

"Why didn’t you say anything?!"

Lucifer stumbled back, taken completely off guard by the ferocity in her tone. "Charlie, please, I don’t—"

"Don’t you dare!" she cut him off, her arm thrashing out. A violent gust of wind tore through the corridor, rattling the chandeliers and extinguishing several lanterns. Shadows danced on the walls, their jagged shapes mimicking the chaos inside her.

"You lied!" Charlie screamed, her voice raw with emotion. "You lie, and you lie, and you lie! Mum hurt him! You treated him like a pet! Heaven used him! Of course, Adam would be lost and broken! What the fuck did you expect?!"

Lucifer’s mouth opened, but no words came. His normally unshakable composure faltered, his crimson eyes wide as he watched his daughter unravel before him.

"You spread those lies," Charlie hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and betrayal. "You and Mum spread them. Everything you told me about Eden—about Adam—it was all lies, wasn’t it?"

Her voice cracked, the realization hitting her like a blow to the chest. "Lilith told everyone he was a monster. That he was dominating. Abusive. That he treated her horribly. But it was all bullshit, wasn’t it?"

Lucifer hesitated, and that hesitation was answer enough.

Charlie laughed, a hollow, disbelieving sound that was more heartbreaking than anything else. "That textbook I loved so much, the one about Eden? About Adam and Lilith?"

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. "It’s all bullshit."

Lucifer reached out, his voice soft. "Charlie, it’s not that simple—"

"Don’t!" she snarled, stepping back as though his touch burned. Her horns glinted menacingly in the dim light, and her glowing eyes narrowed into slits.

"Don’t you dare try to explain this away! He was your charge! Adam was your responsibility! You were supposed to guide him, protect him. You were supposed to be his friend! But you didn’t even like him, did you?!"

Lucifer’s face twisted with pain, but Charlie wasn’t done.

"You never cared about him. You only ever saw him as a toy, something to entertain you for a while. And Mum?" Her voice turned sharp and bitter, filled with an ache that was almost unbearable. "She hurt him. She frightened him. And you let her!"

"Charlie," Lucifer started again, his voice pleading now, but she cut him off with a scream that shook the walls.

"You let her hurt him, and then you had the nerve to make him the bad guy? To spread disgusting rumours about him in Hell? You made him out to be some monster when the whole time, it was you and Mum who—" She stopped, her voice breaking, and for a moment, her rage gave way to something else. Something darker. Something more devastating.

Charlie’s voice dropped, trembling with disbelief. "How am I supposed to save anyone? How am I supposed to teach sinners that there’s good in the world, that there’s hope, when I come from you two?"

Lucifer’s breath caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to protest, but her next words hit him like a dagger.

"You were supposed to believe in him," she hissed, her sharp teeth clenched as her voice wavered. "You could see his soul! Out of anyone, you should’ve known the truth! But instead, you believed Mum. You believed her lies."

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "And you think Adam should give you a chance now? After everything you’ve done to him?!"

Her laughter died in her throat, replaced by a hollow silence that made Lucifer’s chest ache.

"I knew Mum wasn’t a good person," Charlie said quietly, her voice trembling. "But this… this is beyond anything I could’ve imagined."

Lucifer stood there, speechless, as Charlie’s words hung in the air. For the first time in millennia, the King of Hell didn’t have a single thing to say.

Charlie’s shoulders sagged, the fire in her hair flickering and slowly falling back down to her shoulders, cascading like molten gold. Though her rage still simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over again, she forced herself to steady her breaths. She looked at Lucifer, her red eyes duller now but no less piercing.

"You really think Adam should give you—a single one of you—a chance?" she asked, her voice low and trembling, carrying the weight of disbelief and heartbreak.

Lucifer flinched, as though her words were physical blows.

Charlie shook her head, her gaze unfocused as if she were looking through him, seeing something far beyond. "No one ever gave him a second chance. Hell, he didn’t even get a first chance. He was set up to fail from the very beginning. And you—"

Her voice cracked, but she swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed on. "You let it happen. You let him drown while everyone else held his head underwater."

Lucifer’s mouth opened, but no words came. What could he say to that?

Charlie took a shuddering breath, her hands trembling at her sides. "Every time… every fucking time," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "He was thrown into a situation he didn’t understand. Eden? He didn’t ask for that. Lilith? He didn’t ask for her either. And when she frightened him—when she terrified him—you pushed him toward her anyway. Told him it was his ‘duty.’ Told him to make her comfortable, to breed with her like he was some fucking stud animal."

Lucifer flinched again, but Charlie didn’t stop.

"And when Lilith left—when she chose to leave—Heaven gave him Eve," she continued, bitterness dripping from every word. "And when Eve bit the apple, when she made the choice to fall, they punished him. They threw him into a world he didn’t want, a world he hated. And for what? Because he followed their rules? Because he did everything, they, no, you asked of him?"

Her voice rose slightly, the anger returning in sharp bursts. "He never wanted any of it! Not Eden. Not Lilith. Not Eve. Not Earth. But you—all of you—kept telling him it was his purpose. That he was special. That he mattered. But he didn’t, did he?"

Her voice cracked, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. "He never mattered. Not to you. Not to Heaven. Not to anyone."

Lucifer tried to reach out to her again, his hand trembling slightly. "Charlie, I—"

"Don’t." She stepped back, her voice cold and cutting. "Don’t try to defend yourself. You can’t. Not after what I just saw. Not after hearing him."

She looked at him then, truly looked at him, and Lucifer felt exposed under the weight of her gaze.

"He saw you as his guardian angel," she said quietly, her words soft but no less devastating. "He thought you were supposed to protect him. He thought God created you for him. But you didn’t protect him, did you?"

Lucifer said nothing, his jaw tightening as his daughter’s words bore into him.

"You didn’t care about him," Charlie continued, her voice trembling but unwavering. "Not as a person. Not as someone with hopes and fears and a soul. You saw him as a pet. A tool. Something to be used and then discarded when you got bored."

Tears streamed down her face now, but she didn’t wipe them away. "And Mum…"

She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and broken. "Mum hurt him. Terrified him. Lied about him. Spread stories to make him out to be some kind of monster when he was the victim all along. And you let her. You let her!"

Lucifer looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

Charlie laughed again, shaking her head. "And you think Adam should give you a chance now? After everything? After you betrayed him? After you helped Heaven destroy him?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper, but it was no less sharp. "He never even had a chance. Not one. Not from the very beginning. He was fucked over in the worst way possible, over and over and over again. And now, after all of that, you expect him to forgive you? To forgive any of us?"

Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists. "I don’t even know if I can forgive you," she admitted, her voice breaking. "Because I look at you, and I see everything he went through. Everything you let him go through. And it makes me sick."

Lucifer stood frozen, his face pale, his usually commanding presence diminished under the weight of his daughter’s words.

Charlie turned away from him, her shoulders still shaking with emotion.

"I thought I knew you," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "I thought you were better than this. But maybe I was wrong."

She started to walk away, her steps heavy and uneven. For the first time in her life, she didn’t look back.

Lucifer stood there, alone in the darkened corridor, the silence around him louder than any scream.

~#~

Adam stumbled blindly across the jagged terrain of Hell, his footsteps dragging as if the weight of his existence bore down on his every move. The landscape blurred before his dull, grey eyes, the fiery hues of Hell’s endless expanse melting into a haze of indistinguishable red and black. His mind buzzed with a relentless hum, a cruel, unending cacophony of white noise that drowned out everything else.

"I don’t matter." The thought pulsed through him like a hammer striking an anvil, over and over until it became a chant. "Everything I did was for nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing."

His legs gave out, buckling beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees, the impact jarring but hollow, like everything else. His hands fell limply into his lap as his gaze fixated on nothing. He blinked wide-eyed at the waxy red ground beneath him, his lips parting but forming no words. What was left to say? What was left to feel?

"Nothing."

He’d lost Eden—his first home, his sanctuary—for nothing. He’d stayed by Eve’s side on Earth, despite her betrayal, for nothing. He’d lost Abel, his sweet boy, his gentle son—for nothing. He’d punished Cain, condemned him to roam the earth in torment, for nothing. And all his other children, his babies, slaughtered in cold blood because they made mistakes, because Heaven deemed them unworthy. And it had all been for nothing.

His breath hitched as the thought burrowed deeper, carving a pit inside him so vast it felt bottomless. What was the point of any of this? His wings twitched behind him, the cold creeping into the delicate feathers, turning their once radiant sheen into something dull and lifeless. The chill spread, burrowing into his flesh, gnawing at his bones until it began to burn.

Adam cradled his head in his hands, feeling a crushing pressure at the back of his skull, like a vice tightening around his mind. His body trembled, but he couldn’t stop himself. His hands slipped down to the ground, shaking as they hovered over the molten surface of Hell’s floor.

His breath was shallow and uneven, his voice barely a whisper.

“Eden,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he spoke the word like a prayer. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his soul, his heart clawing desperately for the memory of the garden he once called home.

He tried to summon it—tried to pull himself back to that place of comfort and warmth. He imagined the flowers swaying gently under Eden’s sky, their colours so vibrant they felt alive. He envisioned the lush green grass beneath his bare feet, the canopy of trees whispering in the breeze, the sunlight that bathed the garden in a golden glow. The warmth, the peace, the love that Eden had once held for him.

Adam’s hands pressed into the ground, his fingers curling into fists as he strained, begged for the vision to become real. His wings trembled as he poured what little remained of his soul into this desperate wish. His eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion and hope.

Nothing.

The ground before him was barren. No flowers. No trees. No warmth. Just the same lifeless expanse of Hell’s scorched, unforgiving terrain.

Adam’s chest heaved as the reality crushed him further, his breath escaping in shallow gasps.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice quivering as tears pooled in his eyes. “Why can’t I even have that?”

The coldness in his chest churned, swirling violently until it felt like it would tear him apart from the inside. He clawed at the ground, his nails scraping against the unyielding surface as sobs racked his body.

He had spent his entire existence in Heaven’s shadow, in everyone’s shadow—Lucifer, Lilith, Eve, Sera—all of them towering over him, dictating his every move, his every thought. He was a prisoner behind the pearly gates, never free, never allowed to think for himself. He was Heaven’s obedient servant, Sera’s dutiful pawn, bending to her every whim, her every call.

Adam let out a hollow laugh, the sound cracking like brittle glass.

“I never wanted to disappoint you, Sera,” he muttered, his voice thick with bitterness and grief. “Never.”

His lips trembled as the tears fell freely now, carving paths down his dirtied face. His mind drifted to the lonely days he spent in Heaven, talking to the clouds because no one else would listen. He had grown flowers, nurtured them, whispered to them, poured his heart into the petals and stems because they were the only things that didn’t judge him, the only things that didn’t demand something from him. He’d spoken to the walls of Heaven, his words bouncing back to him in the emptiness.

“I loved you,” he whispered to no one, his voice barely audibles over the distant rumble of Hell’s inferno. “I loved all of you.”

His body shook as he curled into himself, his wings folding tightly around him like a broken cocoon. His tears dripped onto the ground, evaporating into nothingness, just like everything else in his life.

For a moment, there was only silence—thick, suffocating silence.

Then, softly, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, “You don’t have to do this anymore.”

Adam froze, his breath catching. The voice wasn’t Sera’s. It wasn’t Lucifer’s. It wasn’t anyone he recognized. It was soft, gentle, and unfamiliar.

But it wasn’t Heaven’s voice.

And for the first time, that thought didn’t fill him with fear.

Adam’s mind spiraled as the memories clawed at him. The image of Lucifer shimmered in his thoughts—the very first time he had laid eyes on the archangel. Lucifer had descended from the heavens, gliding through sunbeams that seemed to cling to him like a golden halo. His curls, brilliant and soft, caught the light, glowing as if spun from threads of sunlight itself. His piercing blue eyes had shone with a radiance that made Adam’s heart stutter. Back then, Adam didn’t understand what he was feeling—the tightness in his chest, the heat blooming across his face. He’d hunched his shoulders, awkward and timid, unsure why his skin prickled and his stomach churned as Lucifer stood before him.

He had thought, in that moment, that Lucifer was the most beautiful being he would ever see.

At first, Lucifer had been everything Adam could have dreamed of and more. He was kind, gentle, and so endlessly charming that Adam had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame. When God introduced Lucifer and declared his purpose—to guide and protect Adam—Lucifer had smiled, and Adam remembered how his chest swelled with something warm and unfamiliar. Lucifer had seemed happy then. Or at least Adam had believed so.

But was it ever real? Were there truly happy moments in Eden, or had Adam been a fool, blinded by hope and desperation? His silver eyes dulled further, sagging into his sunken face as he sank deeper into the waxy red ground of Hell. The memories swirled in his mind like a storm, tearing him apart from the inside. When had Lucifer started to hate me?

Adam had always blamed Lilith—her strength, her wildness, the way she frightened and challenged him. He had thought that Lucifer’s disdain had grown from there, as Lilith’s presence had come between them. But now, centuries later, with the clarity of loss and his time as a sinner, Adam could see the cracks had formed long before Lilith. Long before Eve.

He closed his eyes, his voice a rasp. “Lucifer didn’t like me even then, did he?”

The realization felt like a blade through his chest. Lilith was gone. Eve was somewhere far from this forsaken place. And now, Adam was the only remnant of Eden that remained. The last piece of a puzzle long broken. Did Lucifer care about him now? No, it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t care. He wouldn’t. Adam was nothing more than a ghost of the past—a reminder of everything Lucifer had rejected.

“Lucifer’s just lonely,” Adam murmured bitterly, his voice cracking. “That’s all this is. He doesn’t care about me. He never did. He just—he just doesn’t want to be alone. It’s all manipulation.” His bruised hands trembled as they clenched into fists. He looked at them, then at the darkness around him. “How… how can I ever believe Lucifer again? How can I ever trust him?”

A voice cut through the silence, smooth as silk, sharp as broken glass. “You really can’t.”

Adam jerked, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he twisted around, his body sluggish and weak. His red-rimmed eyes darted to the shadows slithering behind him, shifting and twisting like living things. A figure emerged—a woman, pale as moonlight, her skin smooth and white as polished bone. Her hair was black as smoke, cascading behind her like tendrils of fire tipped with auburn embers.

Her mouth stretched into a jagged grin, rows of needle-like teeth glinting in the dim, hellish light. Her eyes were a striking reversal of Lucifer’s—a menacing red sclera surrounding piercing white irises, their pupils so small they seemed almost non-existent. Burgundy eyeshadow framed those strange, predatory eyes, and dark veins crawled like ink down her neck and shackled arms.

Adam’s body froze as he stared at her. He wanted to move, to push himself away from this eerie, unrecognizable being, but his legs refused to obey. He felt like he was sinking further into Hell’s molten embrace, trapped in the suffocating grip of despair.

“W-Who are you?” he stammered, his voice trembling with both fear and exhaustion.

The demoness tilted her head, her movements smooth and serpentine. She stepped closer, her bare feet gliding over the ground, her chains rattling softly. Her face was blank, her expression devoid of warmth or malice, but her eyes… there was something in them. Something Adam couldn’t place but felt deep in his gut.

His gaze narrowed, his brow furrowing as he stared at her pointed face, her hair drifting like smoke in the still air. There was something familiar about her, something that made his stomach twist in recognition.

And then it hit him.

“E-Eve?” he wheezed, his voice barely above a whisper.

The woman stilled, her blackened lips curling into a faint, humourless smile.

“I go by Roo now,” she replied, her tone quiet but firm.

“Roo?” Adam repeated, his brow creasing further. “Like… root? Or something?”

Roo’s sharp grin widened, amusement flickering in her strange, hollow eyes.

“You always were good at names,” she said, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “Yes, Adam. Like root. Or something.”

Her tone darkened, her grin twisting into something far more menacing. “Like the root of all chaos. Of evil. Of pain and suffering.”

Adam frowned, his expression twisting in disapproval. “That’s… that’s an awful name.”

Roo snorted, a low, mocking laugh escaping her lips.

“I guess you could say that too,” she said, her voice thick with irony. “But it suits me, doesn’t it? After all, isn’t that what I’ve always been? The root of it all?”

Her words hit Adam like a blow, and he stared at her, the weight of recognition settling over him. This wasn’t the Eve he had once known. This was someone else entirely—a twisted reflection of what she had become. And yet, she stood before him, a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had endured, and everything he could never take back.

“Why… why are you here?” he asked weakly, his voice barely holding together. “Why are you this?”

Roo’s smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded him. For a moment, the chains around her wrists glinted in the dim light, their presence a quiet reminder of her own torment.

“Why do you think, Adam?” she asked, her voice soft but cutting. “Because this is what happens when you play their games. When you follow their rules.”

Adam’s breath hitched, his hands trembling as her words sank in. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze any longer. Her presence was a mirror he couldn’t bear to face, a reflection of the choices he had made, the lies he had believed, and the endless cycle of suffering that defined them both.

Adam's breath caught in his throat, his body trembling as the weight of Roo's words settled over him like a crushing tide. He stared at her, unblinking, his silver eyes wide with disbelief and horror.

"You… you never made it to Heaven?" His voice was fragile, barely audible. "I waited for you, Roo. I waited for centuries."

Roo’s expression twisted, her amusement fading into something cold and bitter. She folded her arms over her chest, her chains rattling faintly as she narrowed her sharp, inhuman eyes. "Waited for me, did you?" she said with a mocking lilt. "How sweet. But no, Adam, I never made it to Heaven."

Her lips curled back into a sneer, her words dripping with venom. "I was tainted, Adam. Sinful. No matter how much I grovelled, no matter how much I begged and repented for the things I did on Earth—it didn’t matter. They didn’t want me."

Adam flinched as if struck, his hands clutching at the ground beneath him. The waxy surface felt sticky, clinging to his trembling fingers as though Hell itself refused to let him go. He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he asked, "W-What happened to you? Why… why do you look like this?"

Roo laughed sharply, a sound that sent shivers down Adam’s spine. She spread her pale, shackled arms wide, her black veins gleaming faintly under Hell’s dim, pulsing light.

"Oh, come now, Adam," she said with mock cheer. "Do I really look that bad?"

She took a step closer, her movements unnervingly smooth. "This is what happens when you’re not Heaven’s favourite."

Adam’s brow furrowed, his expression crumpling with guilt and pain. He shook his head slowly. "I’m… I’m not anyone’s favourite either."

Roo snorted, her dark lips pulling into a humourless smile.

"Oh, you’re right about that," she said, her voice cutting. "You’re not anyone’s favourite. Not even a second choice, Adam."

Adam winced, the words stabbing into him like a knife. He dropped his gaze to the ground, his vision swimming as shame and grief coiled around his chest.

Roo’s tone turned mocking, her voice like a serpent’s hiss as she closed the distance between them. "Do you really believe, even for a second, that Lucifer actually liked you? Let alone loved you?"

Her words were sharper now, crueller, as she took another step forward. "You can’t, Adam. You can’t trust a snake like him. All he does is deceive and manipulate to get what he wants."

Adam’s hands curled into fists, trembling as tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to deny her words, to fight back, but deep down, he couldn’t. The doubt had already taken root, festering and spreading like a poison.

Roo’s smirk widened as she saw his hesitation. She leaned closer, her black lips pulling into a sharp grin as her long fingers brushed against his hair. Adam flinched at the touch, but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t.

"You’re starting to see him for what he really is," Roo murmured, her voice low and venomous. "You’ve done well not to believe him, Adam. Don’t start now."

Adam’s vision blurred as tears spilled down his cheeks, his chest tightening painfully. He looked up at Roo, his gaze flickering as memories of her old self filled his mind. He saw her as she used to be—her vibrant red curls, her warm amber eyes, her freckled face that had always been so full of life. This creature standing before him was nothing like that woman.

His voice trembled as he spoke. "Why… why do you look so different? Is this because of the apple?"

Roo’s laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained, echoing through the hellish terrain. She leaned back, her chains rattling as she clutched her sides.

"Ahh, yes," she said, her tone dripping with mockery. "That wonderful night. The apple of knowledge, offered so sweetly by Lucifer and Lilith."

Adam bit his bottom lip, his head shaking weakly. "You… you shouldn’t have eaten it."

Roo shrugged, a careless smirk playing on her lips. "Perhaps not," she said, her voice casual. "But it led to… new things. New experiences."

Adam frowned, his brow furrowing as unease crept over him. "What… what do you mean by that?"

Roo tilted her head, her grin widening into something sickening. Her black lips parted to reveal her needle-like teeth as she stared at him, her gaze glinting with malicious glee.

"Oh, Adam," she purred. "Like I said, Lucifer never liked you. You weren’t anyone’s first—or second—choice."

Adam’s mouth went dry, his stomach twisting violently. His body tensed, and his voice wavered as he asked, "W-What are you saying? What… what do you mean?"

Roo’s eyes gleamed with delight at his discomfort. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The apple of knowledge woke me up, Adam. It opened my eyes to the world, to things I never could have seen before. It awakened… desires."

Her grin grew sharper, more predatory. "Oh, Adam. I was so hungry. And I needed to be satisfied."

Adam’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as dread clawed at his heart. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, as her words sank in like daggers.

Roo leaned closer, her voice dripping with glee as she delivered the final blow.

"Lucifer and I," she said, her tone almost gleeful. "We slept together. Under the tree. And Lilith joined us. It was such a… passionate night."

Adam’s head jerked to the side, his silver eyes wide and unfocused as the words echoed in his mind.

Lucifer slept with Eve.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, and his vision blurred as tears spilled down his cheeks.

"C-Cain?" he whispered weakly, his voice breaking. "You… you were pregnant so soon after leaving Eden…"

Roo burst into laughter, the sound cruel and sharp.

"What do you think, Addie?" she sneered. "He didn’t look anything like us, did he? And when he murdered Abel… you really should’ve figured it out then!"

Adam’s heart shattered, the pieces falling away into the void as he clutched at his chest. His sobs were silent, his entire body shaking as the truth consumed him. He had lost everything, and now even his past was nothing but a twisted lie.

Cain wasn’t his.

Roo’s laughter echoed in the suffocating expanse of Hell, sharp and venomous. Her mocking eyes danced with cruel delight as she leaned closer to Adam, her smoky hair billowing around her like a serpent’s coils.

"Oh, Adam," she sneered, her needle-like teeth glinting as she grinned. "You really thought he would ever want you? Lucifer? The Morning Star? Have you looked at yourself lately?"

Adam didn’t answer, his silver eyes fixed on the waxy ground beneath him.

Roo crouched down, tilting her head to force her sickening grin into his line of sight.

"Back in Eden, you were something, at least to look at," she continued, her voice dripping with mockery. "Lush brown hair, bright green eyes, perfect tanned skin. You were beautiful then, Adam—practically glowing. And now?"

She gestured to him with a flourish, her chains rattling. "Look at you. Weak, broken, pathetic. You’ve let yourself go. You’re nothing more than a shadow of what you were."

Adam sat motionless, his body trembling but his face emotionless, his hands resting in his lap.

"And you’re in love with him." Roo’s voice turned sharp, her eyes narrowing in disgust. "Don’t try to deny it. I knew it in Eden. I could see it in the way you looked at him, the way you blushed when he came near. It was revolting. Pathetic. How could someone like you ever think someone like him would love you back?"

She leaned closer, her grin stretching wider. "It was always pitiful to watch. And now? It’s downright ridiculous."

Adam’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his lips pressed tightly together. He said nothing, his silence fuelling Roo’s cruelty.

"You’ve always been nothing, Adam," Roo hissed, circling him slowly. "Not to Lucifer, not to Eve, not even to Lilith. Do you think they ever cared about you? Lilith left, Eve strayed, and Lucifer?"

She barked out a laugh. "He used you as his personal punchline. You weren’t even important enough to be hated properly."

Her words pierced him, but Adam didn’t flinch. The coldness inside him grew, seeping deeper into his bones, spreading like frost through his veins. His bruised hands and fingers ached as the freezing sensation intensified, burning him like ice. He clenched his fists, feeling the numbness crawl through him, consuming what little warmth remained.

Roo, delighted by his silence, pressed on.

"And your sins, Adam—oh, your sins," she drawled, circling him again. "You failed as Eden’s caretaker, failed as a husband, failed as a father. Abel? Dead. Cain? A murderer. All of your so-called ‘children’? Scattered, sinful, slaughtered. Everything you touched turned to ruin. You couldn’t even save yourself."

Still, Adam didn’t respond. His mind drifted elsewhere, to memories of Heaven, of the souls of humans on Earth, of the winners and sinners alike. He thought of Lilith, her defiance, and Eve, her betrayal. He thought of Sera’s unyielding rule, Michael’s cold judgment, and Lucifer’s deceitful smile. And through it all, he realized the truth that gnawed at his soul: he had never been important to any of them. Not truly.

The coldness within him surged, clawing at the surface, threatening to spill out.

And then, Roo’s laughter stopped.

A silence fell over the hellish expanse as Roo’s eyes widened, her mocking grin fading into an expression of confusion and unease. She staggered, her hands clutching at her chest as a sharp, piercing sensation erupted over her ribs and spread upward into her heart.

"What… what’s going on?" she breathed, her voice trembling as she backed away from Adam. Her smoky hair swirled violently; her movements frantic as her gaze darted around in panic.

Adam tilted his head, his silver eyes blank and devoid of emotion as he stared at her.

"You!" Roo hissed; her voice laced with accusation as she pointed a trembling finger at him. "What are you doing?!"

Adam didn’t respond. He simply watched her, his face expressionless, as if her suffering didn’t register.

Roo’s knees buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, her shoulders hunching as she clutched at her chest. The shadows around her twisted and churned, and from the centre of her torso, a jagged bloom of ice began to spread. The crystalline frost crept outward, glinting in the dim light of Hell, curling over her pale skin like the petals of a deadly flower.

"How… how are you doing this?" Roo gasped, her voice filled with fear and desperation.

Adam said nothing, his gaze cold and unwavering as he watched her struggle.

Roo’s chains rattled as she thrashed against the icy bloom, her black lips parting in a scream that never came. Her smoky hair whipped around her like a storm as she clawed at the frost overtaking her. In a final, desperate attempt, she dissolved into her shadows, vanishing into the darkness and leaving Adam alone.

He blinked slowly, lowering his gaze to his hands. The ice that had spread from Roo was now crawling outward from him, curling over the waxy ground of Hell. Frost traced intricate patterns along the surface, glinting faintly under Hell’s dim, pulsing light.

Adam clicked his tongue, tilting his head as he stared at the frost. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he moved. His legs obeyed him, lifting him from the ground. He stood slowly, straightening his back as his silver wings spread behind him.

The once-pristine feathers blackened, curling and twisting at the edges as the frost spread along their lengths. Adam’s silver eyes darkened, the light within them extinguished as an empty, hollow blackness consumed them.

Adam’s lips twisted into a cold, cruel smile as he stood amidst the creeping ice, watching it spread further across the hellish ground like a disease. His eyes were dull, empty—reflecting only the icy void within him. He tilted his head once more, a soft hum escaping his lips, the sound almost melodic against the stillness of the air.

The ice seemed to grow in response to his thoughts, stretching and curling like dark tendrils seeking to reclaim the earth beneath him. Adam’s eyes glinted as he raised a hand, twisting his wrist with a subtle flick. The ground rumbled beneath his feet, and from the barren, waxy soil before him, a jagged spike of ice shot up, gleaming in the dull light of Hell.

It rose with purpose, thick and sharp like a blade forged from the coldest frost. The crystal formation spread outward, its sharp edges catching the light, slicing through the heavy air like a weapon born of pure misery.

Adam took a step back, his gaze never leaving the shimmering spire. He was unphased by the chill that crept deeper into his bones, the frost settling along his skin like an old companion. He observed the formation for a moment longer, noting the way it sparkled, like it belonged to another world entirely, something more familiar to him—something… distant.

His silver eyes flicked upward, catching sight of the brilliant, glaring white orb above—the ball of heaven suspended in the blood-streaked sky of Hell. It was a cruel, unnatural light, casting a blinding hue that illuminated the jagged landscape. Adam’s lips curled slightly, the flicker of something bitter crossing his face.

"Interesting," he muttered under his breath, his voice low, almost inaudible, as he stared up at the celestial orb. It seemed so far away now, so unreachable. Heaven, that distant place of broken promises and shattered dreams, seemed like a lifetime ago.

What had it all been for? What was the point? Lucifer? Lilith? Heaven? Was it ever anything more than a stage for suffering? A game of manipulation? A charade for gods who had long since forgotten the meaning of love?

His eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted back to the ice, the sharp spike that had sprouted from the earth before him gleaming in the ethereal light of Hell’s sky. Let it spread, he thought coldly, the frost inside him rippling outward.

The cold had finally found a home. And as it spread, so too would the realization that no one—no one—was coming to save him. No one would ever pull him from the depths of this frozen abyss. It was all a lie.

Everything was a lie.

With a deep, steadying breath, Adam raised his hand once again, the ice beneath him cracking and shifting as more pointed structures began to rise around him, twisting upward like flowers from a garden of frost. His wings shifted slightly, the once-gleaming feathers now darkened and brittle, catching the cold in the air.

He let the silence settle around him, the ice now a blooming monument to his despair. The weight of it, the weight of everything he had lost, felt almost satisfying in its simplicity.

Interesting.

Everyone has a breaking point. It just took Adam centuries to reach his.

And he felt nothing at all.

~#~

Adam’s breath was cold as it exhaled from his chest, a chill that carried with it the weight of centuries of torment. The coldness that had burrowed deep inside him now clawed its way to the surface, no longer a whisper of despair but a roar, a force of nature that could not be ignored. Every heartbeat that once held some semblance of warmth now beat only with the promise of a reckoning. He could feel his soul shudder, the rawness of his suffering turning into something sharper—something darker. The hollow ache in his chest, the scars of every betrayal, every cruel word, every bitter laugh—they had all found their release.

This is the end of everything, he thought.

His wings, once radiant, now bristled with the icy power coursing through his veins. The blackened feathers curled and stiffened, coated with the frost that was now spreading from his very core. His fingers curled into claws, reaching toward the very sky above him, and with a thought, a snap of his will, the ice began to rise.

“Won't live in your shadow anymore Forever shut behind these doors,”

It started as a trickle, a thin line of frost slithering from his feet, but within moments, it was a flood—an avalanche of cold that tore through the heavens with a fury that could not be stopped. No more shadows, he thought, his voice silent but heavy, filled with the promise of retribution. I will not be buried in your lies any longer.

The frost spread like wildfire, creeping up the pillars of heaven’s gates, seeping into the very souls of its inhabitants. Adam’s gaze turned cold, unfeeling, as the ice began to spiral around the angels, wrapping them in its unrelenting grip. The light of their wings flickered for a brief moment, but it was no use. The frost, like a living thing, clawed at their skin, seeping into their very bones. Their wings—once symbols of grace, of divinity—wilted and froze, their feathers brittle, snapping under the pressure of the cold.

The winners of Heaven, the beings that had once basked in the glow of their purity, cried out in agony as their bodies seized up, their hearts turning to ice. They tried to fight it, their voices desperate as they reached for their divine strength, but it was futile. The ice wasn’t just consuming them—it was inside them, freezing their very essence, their souls. The frost was a living thing, a beast made from his rage, from the years of rejection and manipulation. The ice curled around their wings, encasing them in impenetrable blocks of ice, and one by one, the angels fell, their screams silenced by the cold. They hit the ground of Heaven, unmoving, their forms frozen forever in place, statues of despair.

“Imprisoned as you rule, and you dictate Pandering to your every call”

Adam’s chest rose and fell, his breath coming in jagged gasps as he revelled in the destruction, the chaos, the sweet revenge of it all. The world around him, once warm and alive, was now encased in the frost of his fury. This is the end, he thought again, the words chilling his soul even further. Heaven’s perfection, its purity, its righteousness—all of it was nothing but an illusion. A lie.

And now, there would be no more.

He turned, feeling the weight of every betrayal, he’d suffered, and before him stood Sera. She was trembling, her once-glorious wings struggling to fight the frost that licked at her skin, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and pity.

"Adam, please," she begged, her voice cracking, desperate. "Stop. You don’t have to do this. You don’t—"

He laughed, a cold, bitter sound that echoed through the frozen air, his silver eyes burning with the fire of every broken promise.

Do I? he thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. His lips were cold, his heart colder still. The words that once would have broken him now felt like nothing more than a whisper in the wind. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t.

The anger inside him boiled over. They used me.

The echoes of those words ran through him, again and again. Heaven used me, Lucifer used me, Lilith used me... all of them. I was nothing but a tool.

“Pointlessly talking to the walls Finally I'm knocking down the gates”

His gaze hardened, and with a swift motion, he raised his hand, the ice around him rising in response, sharp and deadly. Sera stumbled back, her hands raised in a futile attempt to shield herself, but Adam felt no mercy. No compassion. He didn’t care about her pleas, about the way her eyes pleaded with him to stop, to feel something again.

"I was your favourite," he muttered bitterly, the words low and venomous. "But now? Now I’m just another broken thing in your perfect world."

And with that, he turned his back to her, stepping through the gates of Heaven, leaving the echoes of her cries and the bodies of the frozen winners behind him. Sera and Emily, the last remnants of what could have been, were frozen completely in ice—perfect, unmoving sculptures of regret, their faces locked in eternal silence.

“This really isn’t anything personal,” Adam said, looking at Emily frozen in ice, “I just can’t have you getting in my way.”

The gates closed behind him with a final, deafening slam, leaving Heaven to its fate—shattered, broken, and encased in the cold, suffocating frost of Adam’s vengeance.

“The story's gonna change and go my way”

Adam spread his wings wide, their blackened feathers crackling with cold as they unfurled. For a moment, he closed his eyes and felt the pulse of his own soul, a dark, frigid thrum deep within his chest. He could feel it—his essence—the heart of everything, the link between all that had been, all that was, and all that would ever be. Every human, every soul on earth, every living being, sinner or winner, bound together through him. Through his suffering, through his torment. It was inescapable, undeniable. Their pain had always been his. He understood now why he was important. Why he was always watched, always controlled, always needed.

His breath was slow, controlled, as the chill within him spread further, consuming all that was left of the warmth he once knew. The agony, the isolation, the betrayal—it was his now. He had claimed it. He had become the cold that coursed through the veins of everything.

“For the first time in forever I'm getting what I really want”

Adam opened his eyes. The world around him began to shift, bend, break beneath the weight of his power. He was no longer in heaven. He was no longer confined to the constraints of a fractured existence. He was the ruler of his own fate, and now, he would make sure no one else ever had the chance to escape their own.

His mind turned to the humans below. The winners and the sinners—what did it matter now? They were all connected to him, each soul a thread woven into the tapestry of his misery. He had frozen heaven, frozen those who had once called themselves his family. Now, it was time to turn his attention to earth.

A wave of cold washed over him, rising from the depths of his soul, spreading outward like a flood of ice. It surged through the very air, the earth beneath his feet trembling as if it could feel the weight of what was about to happen. He saw their faces, the countless souls living their lives—innocent, guilty, unaware. He saw the joy, the sorrow, the hopes, the regrets, all of it, flickering like distant stars in a darkened sky. And he could feel each one of them, as though they were standing right next to him.

He reached out with his soul, and the connection was instantaneous. Their fates, their very beings, laid bare before him. And with a thought, with a single, terrifying flick of his will, he sealed it.

“For the first time in forever I'll have my say and you can watch”

The earth began to grow colder, the air thick with the bite of frost. His soul swept over every human, every living creature, without mercy. From the towering cities to the silent, forgotten corners of the world, he froze them all. One by one, their hearts turned cold, their bodies stiffened, their souls locked away inside encasing blocks of ice.

The warmth that had once bathed the world faded. The sun, once bright and golden, began to change. It dimmed, its warmth turning to an unforgiving blue, an unnatural hue that cast everything in shadows. The air grew thick, suffocating, and the earth became still, frozen beneath the weight of Adam's vengeance.

No more sunshine. No more summer. No more warmth to ease the pain of the living. Only coldness. Only emptiness. It spread like an infection, touching everything in its path. The cities of men, once bustling with life, were now silent, frozen in place. The oceans, once teeming with creatures, now lay still, their waves frozen in eternal slumber. No warmth. No hope. Only a deep, all-consuming cold.

“I'm stronger now than ever And it's time I take my place”

The humans, the sinners, the winners—none of them could escape it. They were all linked to him, bound by their shared existence, and now they all met the same fate. Adam’s heart, if it could still be called that, pulsed with a bitter satisfaction. He was the cold. He was the one who would bring them to their knees, just as he had been brought to his.

The skies above were no longer blue; they were grey, heavy with the weight of endless snow. The clouds rolled in, dark and threatening, but it was the cold that filled the air—the cold that gnawed at the very bones of every living thing. The trees froze. The flowers withered. The animals fell to the ground, stiff and unmoving, as the frost spread through their veins, encasing them in ice.

“For the first time in forever Nothing's in my way Oh, nothing's in my way”

Adam could hear the cries—faint whispers in the back of his mind—as the last remnants of warmth slipped away from the world. It was a world no longer full of life but of desolation. His soul resonated with it, as if every cry from below only fed his power, only deepened the frost that was now his to wield. His eyes, once silver, now shimmered with a darkness, a void that had consumed him, body and soul.

His wings twitched, sharp and cold, the black feathers gleaming with frost. He spread them wide, letting the ice cascade from them in an explosion of power that sent the cold sweeping across the planet. Nothing could escape. Nothing would.

And as the last of the warmth died, Adam stood alone, the entire world frozen beneath his cold gaze, and he whispered to the wind, to the empty earth, to the shadows that clung to him like a cloak:

“I will not live in your shadow anymore.”

The silence that followed was profound, absolute. The cold was all-consuming, and Adam was the one who had brought it.

“Did you think I'd just keep taking it? Letting you crush my self-worth bit by bit”

Adam stood over Roo, his wings spread wide, casting a long shadow over her fragile form. The air around them was thick with the cold, the frost still crawling across the earth like a creeping plague. It had been his doing, and now he was watching it take root in the very soul of the demoness before him. She trembled, her once dark, smooth skin turning pale as the frost took hold, creeping up from her feet, curling around her limbs, and seizing her chest in a grip of bitter, unrelenting ice.

The world around them was silent—save for the crunch of the ice under Adam’s feet and the ragged, strained breathing of the demoness before him. Her eyes, wide and frantic, met his with a mix of fear and desperation, but Adam didn’t flinch. His heart, or what was left of it, felt nothing. He could see her—see Roo, once so vibrant, so full of malice—but now she was only a fading shadow. A remnant of a life that had meant nothing to him, a life that had always been a lie.

He looked down at her, remembering how she had once been, a reflection of his pain, of everything he had lost. Her red hair, her amber eyes, the way she had once been so full of herself, always speaking with such biting words, always mocking him. She had been a part of it all. A part of them.

“Well, now you'll just learn who you're messing with The Adam you knew is dead and gone”

The realization hit him like a crashing wave. She had never loved him. Never truly cared. Eve, Roo, none of them had.

Did you think I’d just keep taking it? The words burned in his mind, the memories of her manipulations, her cruelty, her twisted affection, clawing at him. His voice, cold and empty, finally broke the silence.

Roo’s lips trembled as she tried to speak, but the cold choked her, her words coming out in broken gasps. She reached out a hand to him, her fingers shaking, her voice cracking.

“No… Adam…” she whispered, but her plea was a ghost of what it once could have been. “Please… Don’t…”

But Adam didn’t feel a thing. Not anymore. He had been nothing but a pawn—her pawn, heaven’s pawn, Lucifer’s pawn. And now, in this moment, he was finally free. The Adam they had known was gone.

Roo’s body jerked as the ice spread further, encasing her legs, her arms, her torso. Her eyes widened in terror, but Adam stood over her, unmoving, watching her struggle against the cold. The ice crept into her throat, choking off her screams, freezing her very essence, until her once fiery spirit was nothing more than a brittle, frozen shell.

He paused, his breath shallow, the cold in his bones like a drug. His heart had long since stopped beating with any warmth. He had no sympathy left for her, for any of them. His entire life had been a slow, grinding agony. Every moment, every connection, twisted into something painful. And now… now it was over.

“Which begs the question,” Adam murmured, his voice low and dangerous, “Do I let you live?”

Her eyes, wide with terror, locked with his as she tried to speak again, but no words came. Her mouth opened, but it was too late. The ice had consumed her completely, sealing her in a prison of frozen silence. Roo—Eve—whatever she had been, was no more.

“Finally done being your pawn Which begs the question”

Adam didn’t flinch. Didn’t feel the loss. There was no sorrow. No rage. Only relief. Peace. The end of a long, drawn-out story.

Her body lay before him, encased in ice, her form frozen in time. She was born from his rib, his flesh. She had been created from him, from his suffering. It was only right that she stopped existing now. He no longer needed her.

He turned away, walking slowly, his wings trailing frost in his wake. Behind him, the ice remained. And with it, the hollow echo of a life that had once been but was now forever gone.

Adam didn’t feel anything. Not for Roo. Not for Eve. Not for anyone. He had freed himself from their hold, from the past, from everything that had kept him bound. He was finally his own. A dark, cold figure, standing at the centre of a world that was as empty as his soul.

And that was enough.

“Do I let you live?”

Lilith had been lounging on the warm sands of heaven’s beach, the golden rays of the sun kissing her skin as she rested, eyes half-closed. The tranquil waves lapped gently against the shore, the world around her soft and serene. But as the moment stretched on, something stirred within her. A strange shiver ran through her spine, creeping up from the depths of her being. A piercing sensation, cold and sharp, shot through her chest. Her heart faltered, the warmth she had once felt now replaced with a chilling emptiness.

Eve… she thought, blinking in confusion, but there was no response. The voice in her mind, the presence that had been a constant companion, had suddenly gone silent. A hollow absence bloomed where Eve's thoughts once echoed.

A feeling of dread curled in Lilith’s stomach. Her brow furrowed as she straightened up, her gaze darting across the beach in alarm. Something was wrong. The air felt heavier, colder. The warmth of the sun was fading, slipping through her fingers like sand, replaced by a biting chill.

Suddenly, the world around her seemed to shift. The sand beneath her began to harden, an unnatural cold sinking into the earth as if the very ground had been touched by death itself. Lilith’s breath hitched. The waves that had once gently kissed the shore rolled back with an ominous groan, rising unnaturally in the distance. She watched in disbelief as they froze, mid-motion, forming jagged, crystalline ice sculptures that glistened darkly under the oppressive sky.

Before Lilith could react, a coldness washed over her, more potent than anything she had ever felt. Her chest constricted painfully, a sharp, icy stab that seemed to freeze her very soul. Her hands clutched her heart as if she could stop the cold from spreading, but it was too late. Her skin, once warm and golden, began to turn pale, her veins slowly turning a frost-bitten blue. Ice crept up her arms, across her legs, and around her chest, locking her body in a solid grip.

A gasp escaped her lips, but it was swallowed by the frost that continued to encase her. Her body froze in place, her form becoming rigid, her movements halted. She could barely speak, only a tortured breath escaping her mouth before it too was frozen. Her eyes widened in disbelief and panic, as the very world around her seemed to be succumbing to the same fate.

The sun that had once burned brightly in the heavens above her disappeared, slowly swallowed by a thick, oppressive darkness. Clouds swirled, dark and heavy, blotting out the light, leaving only an endless expanse of cold. Her surroundings had become a silent grave, frozen in time.

The once-gentle sounds of the beach—the waves, the wind, the distant calls of birds—were all drowned out by an eerie, unnatural stillness. Lilith's last conscious thought was that this was no longer the paradise she knew. This was a realm overtaken by something far darker, something that no longer cared for warmth or life.

She was trapped, alone in her frozen prison. A lifeless statue, caught in the grip of a power she had never anticipated, her once-proud self now a reflection of what had been. And she could do nothing but watch as the world around her turned cold, just as her heart had.

“Get down and bow It's coronation day”

Adam walked through the infernal wasteland of Hell, his silver eyes hollow and distant, not even bothering to shield himself from the harsh winds of the eternal winter he had unleashed. The heat of Hell, once a suffocating, oppressive presence, had begun to twist and wither under the force of his frost. The sulphurous air grew colder, the humid stench of burning brimstone turning to the biting chill of ice. The very core of Hell began to freeze, the flames sputtering and dimming, struggling to hold against the ice creeping relentlessly from Adam’s soul.

The hellborn, twisted and broken beings born of the flames, could scarcely flee fast enough. Their once-molten skin now stiffened as the first tendrils of frost wormed through their bodies, turning their fiery limbs into brittle, frozen husks. They screamed in agony, their cries turning to icicles that shattered like glass in the cold air. Adam didn’t even flinch. He simply walked, his feet crunching the frozen ground beneath him as the temperature plummeted further.

Sinners, who once filled Hell with their endless suffering, now writhed on the ground, ice erupting from their chests like a cruel rebirth. They begged for mercy, their voices ragged and desperate, but it was all pointless. Adam had no room for their pain. No room for regret. The same souls that had been twisted by Hell, corrupted and broken, now became nothing more than statues of ice, their fate sealed in the eternal frost. They fell, lifeless, their screams silenced forever in a cold tomb, and Adam felt nothing. Nothing but the sharp, sharp release of peace in their stillness.

He wandered through Pentagram City, now shrouded in his frozen grip. His ice spread across the streets like a disease, crawling up walls and stealing the warmth from everything it touched. The lights flickered, fading, unable to sustain themselves in the growing frost. The sinners he passed, their faces contorted in fear, saw their fate long before it reached them. They crumbled into solid blocks of ice with one last cry—screams that fell on deaf ears. Adam couldn’t bring himself to care. They were all born of the same dark energy that had now bloomed into this terrible, vengeful winter. They were nothing but extensions of his broken soul, and they would share his end.

He moved through the city with no particular aim, only following the pull of something he didn’t quite understand. Until his eyes fell upon the familiar shape of the Hazbin Hotel. It loomed before him, the last vestige of life in a frozen city. The last place where souls still clung to the hope that they might be spared. Adam could feel the fear inside the hotel, the chaos, the struggle to survive. It churned in the air, thick with desperation, and he could sense it all. They were fighting, but he knew they couldn’t win. Not with him here.

The ice had already reached the hotel's walls, creeping along the cracks in the structure, forming veins of frost that bled into the very foundation. The windows shattered as it pushed its way in, a flood of cold that tore through the doors. It was only a matter of time now. Time for them to learn the futility of their fight. Time for him to finish what he had started.

When the doors finally exploded outward, Adam stood there, watching without emotion. The inside was a scene of frantic movement. The sinners huddled together, terrified, as Charlie tried—desperately tried—to protect the ones she loved. Angel Dust was the first to react, his body trembling as ice spread from his chest, curling around him like a death sentence. Husk’s fur stiffened into a ghostly white, while even Niffty’s endless cheerfulness faltered in the cold. The ice moved swiftly, no longer holding back as it began to consume them all.

A cry echoed through the space, a desperate wail that came from Charlie’s lips. She held onto Angel Dust as his body froze completely, his movements faltering until he was solid as stone, his fur coated in a layer of ice. The same fate followed Husk, then Cherri Bomb, their cries muted in the rising storm. Alastor’s grin faltered as the ice reached his limbs, and Niffty’s laughter choked in her throat as the frost sealed her in place.

Vaggie was still fighting, her hands trembling as she clung to Charlie, but it was clear—the ice had already begun to take her. The human souls that remained, the last vestiges of warmth, were no match for the cold Adam had brought with him.

Through the chaos, Adam heard his name. A voice so familiar, so laced with the memories of everything that had led to this moment. He turned slowly, his silver eyes catching the fiery presence of Lucifer himself. His form was a mess—dishevelled and clearly struggling against the storm of ice that surrounded them. The snowstorm roared louder, an unnatural howling that echoed throughout Hell as it too was claimed by the ice. The irony was thick in the air; Hell itself was becoming a frozen wasteland, just like Earth, just like Heaven. All things would succumb to the cold, and nothing would be left untouched.

Adam felt no joy in this. No victory. The faces of the sinners, the pleading voices, the wailing cries—none of it moved him. He was beyond that now. There was no turning back. He was not the Adam they once knew. He was something colder. Something darker. And Lucifer, standing there in the blizzard, his presence like a shadow of the past, could only watch as everything they had built, everything they had tried to save, crumbled into ice.

“For the first time in forever I'm not looking for your love”

ucifer stood before Adam, his wings now shuddering as the biting wind whipped through his feathers. His form, once proud and imposing, now seemed to sag beneath the weight of his own sorrow. The ice that was rapidly engulfing Hell, Earth, and Heaven encased them both in a frozen silence, the storm around them louder than any words they had ever shared. He was shivering, his normally fiery presence flickering weakly in the storm that Adam had wrought.

"Adam," Lucifer's voice broke through the howling wind, his tone strained. "Please, stop this."

Adam remained silent, his gaze cold and distant, staring into the frozen expanse that stretched before them. Lucifer's heart twisted at the sight of his former companion, the angel he had once known. But that was before everything had shattered.

"Do you hear me?" Lucifer continued, his voice desperate now, his wings trembling as if they, too, could feel the weight of the frozen world closing in. "I know you can't hear me. You won’t. But listen anyway."

Lucifer’s gaze drifted, a flicker of regret passing through his eyes, before he closed them tightly, forcing the memories of Eden to the surface.

"I never wanted this, Adam," Lucifer said, his voice softer now, as if the words were tearing themselves from him against his will. "I never wanted to hurt you. Back in Eden... I didn’t even like you. But not because of you. It wasn’t your fault." His words felt like a confession, a moment of raw vulnerability breaking free from the walls he'd built. "It wasn’t you. It was the responsibility. The endless rules, the expectations. You were my responsibility. You... were my responsibility, and it suffocated me."

Lucifer's wings shuddered again, the icy chill wrapping tighter around his being, and for the first time, he felt the weight of his own apology pressing on his chest.

"God made me your caretaker, Adam," Lucifer continued, his voice barely audible against the icy winds. "It was all on me. And I hated it. I hated the idea of being bound by anything, especially by you. You were just... one more thing I had to tend to. One more thing that kept me from freedom."

A tear streaked down Lucifer's face, frozen by the cold but still marking the sharp sting of regret. "But that wasn’t fair to you. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for any of that. And I took it out on you... I took my anger, my hatred, out on you. I blamed you for everything that went wrong in my life."

He paused, his wings now nearly covered in frost, struggling against the weight of his confession. The storm around them howled, but his voice was growing quieter, more broken.

"I should’ve confronted Michael. I should’ve confronted the others, demanded they help me, but I didn’t. I was too much of a coward. I kept everything inside, until it turned into this... this resentment. And I blamed you. It wasn’t fair. I was terrible, Adam. I was a terrible person. A terrible archangel, and I’m so sorry."

Lucifer’s voice faltered as he stepped closer, not daring to reach out to Adam, for fear that even that would be rejected. His wings drooped, heavy with the weight of his words. The ice clung to him now, just as it had to everything else. The frost spread outward from his chest as the cold within Adam’s soul consumed everything in its wake.

He stood there, the silence stretching painfully long between them. "I’m sorry," Lucifer whispered again, though he knew Adam could not hear him now—not the way he once had. "I never should have treated you like that. You didn’t deserve any of it."

Adam did not move. He did not speak. There was no warmth left in his eyes. No flicker of recognition. The bitter frost that had settled into his soul was too far gone for any words to reach.

Lucifer closed his eyes, defeated. He had no more words, no more excuses. All he had left were regrets, bitter and sharp, like shards of ice lodged in his chest. But there was no redemption here. There was nothing but the slow, inevitable descent into the frozen void that Adam had set in motion. The very air around them trembled with the tension of what was to come, and Lucifer, despite all his sorrow, knew this: there was no stopping Adam now.

The world would freeze, and neither apologies nor regrets would be enough to thaw it.

“For the first time in forever I am free to rise above”

Lucifer’s breath came in short, pained gasps as the ice continued to creep up his wings, pulling him further into the frozen world Adam had created. His eyes, now clouded with regret and grief, locked onto Adam, who remained as still and distant as the cold that surrounded them both. There was no warmth left between them, no spark of connection. Lucifer knew this. He knew it, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. He needed to say this. He needed to make Adam understand, even if it didn’t matter anymore.

"I know what you're thinking, Adam," Lucifer whispered, his voice raw and hoarse from the biting winds. "You’re right, you know. I was enchanted by Lilith. I... I believed every single lie she told me. I thought she was something different. I thought she could give me the freedom I craved, that she would be the answer to everything I hated about my life in Eden. I believed in her, Adam, without thinking. Without even really looking at her."

Lucifer shook his head, his wings trembling as the weight of his words pressed on him. The ice in the air crackled, but there was nothing but a hollow emptiness inside of him. His chest ached, but it wasn’t a physical pain—it was something deeper. Something that had been festering for so long.

"I wasn’t stupid," Lucifer muttered, his gaze falling to the ground. "I knew deep down that it couldn’t be true. That she couldn’t be what she seemed. I knew you and I were connected, Adam. God created us both. We were bound together from the start, made from the same light. I could feel it every time I looked at you. I could sense it. Your soul... I knew it, Adam. And I could have easily just looked at you—felt you—and known the truth. I didn’t need Lilith to tell me what I already knew. But I used it as an excuse. As a reason to push you away. A reason to neglect you. A reason to hurt you."

Lucifer’s wings flared briefly, but they were weak—laden with frost and weighed down by the sorrow that had built up inside him. His hands clenched at his sides, his voice trembling now, softer, but the regret seeping through every word.

"I was a coward, Adam," Lucifer admitted, his eyes squeezing shut as the cold continued to tighten its grip. "I didn’t want to face the truth. I didn’t want to face the responsibility. I didn’t want to deal with you. So I let myself get distracted. I let myself be fooled by Lilith and her promises of freedom, of more than what the other angels had. I let myself want more than what was mine. I wanted more than just creation. I wanted more than the magic. I wanted to be free of the chains, free of you... and I didn’t know how to get away from it. I didn’t know how to escape the feeling of being trapped. I didn’t know how to deal with you, Adam. With us."

He paused, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths, his eyes flickering with the same guilt that had haunted him for so long. The ice around him crept further, but his mind was miles away in Eden, in those endless days and nights of strife and misunderstanding.

"And I knew," Lucifer whispered, his voice barely audible against the storm. "I knew that I was being selfish. I knew I was pushing you away, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t deal with it. I was weak. I wanted freedom, but I had no right to do what I did. No right to treat you the way I did."

His wings shook, ice splintering off as the cold that surrounded them grew stronger. "And now, look at us. You’re so far gone now, Adam. You’ve become... something else. And I can’t even blame you. I’m the one who pushed you to this point. I did this."

Lucifer’s voice cracked, his head bowing in shame. "I was selfish. A coward. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Adam. Even if you can’t believe me, I’m sorry. I never should have hurt you. I never should have turned away."

“I don't care for your approval We have nothing more to say”

Lucifer stared at Adam, his eyes wide with anticipation, desperation seeping into every line of his face. He watched Adam’s features, hoping for a flicker of acknowledgment, a crack in the impenetrable wall that now separated them. But there was nothing. Adam’s expression was blank, his eyes cold and distant, as if Lucifer wasn’t even standing there at all. The silence between them stretched unbearably long, until Lucifer could hardly bear it anymore.

"I know you don’t want to hear this, Adam. You’ve heard it all before," Lucifer began again, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of the confessions he was pouring out. "But I have to say it, I have to let it out. Even if you’ll never forgive me, I need you to know the truth. About everything."

He took a deep breath, his wings curling against the biting wind, the snowstorm howling around them. Lucifer's words were laced with regret as he continued, his guilt bleeding through with each syllable.

"When we were cast out of Eden... Lilith and I, we were banished, and I... I was angry. I had no right to be, I know that now, but I was. You weren’t the one who caused it. It was me. But all I could feel was this... burning, like something was being kept from me. Like you were being kept from me." His voice cracked; the words raw as they fell from his lips. "I thought if I could make humanity fall, if I could destroy what we were supposed to protect, it would somehow make me feel free. I thought it would be an act of defiance, a way to take control of my life, but it wasn’t. It was selfish. It was stupid."

Lucifer’s face twisted in pain as he recalled the mistakes he had made. "I lured Eve in, fed her the apple of knowledge. I thought it would matter, like it was some grand act of rebellion. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t about Eve, not really. It wasn’t about freeing humanity or doing anything noble. It was about my own bitterness, my own desire for more than what I was allowed. I wanted to be more than just the Morning Star. I wanted to be something else, something better. And I... I didn’t care about anything or anyone. Not even you."

The cold wind cut through him, but it was nothing compared to the hollow, gnawing ache inside. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. "And I didn’t even want to be with her. I didn’t care about Lilith, not the way I should have. It wasn’t even my idea to sleep with her—at the time, I wasn’t thinking about any of that. But she wanted it. She pushed for it. She made me believe it was the next step, the only way out of the mess I had made. But I see now... I see how it was just another way of hurting everything, of keeping me locked in the same place I’ve always been. I was so consumed by my own desire for freedom that I let it blind me. And when it was over, when I realized what I had done..." Lucifer's voice broke, his heart slamming against his ribs. "I couldn’t tell you, Adam. I couldn’t tell anyone. I was too ashamed. I... I was selfish and disgusting. And I hate myself for it."

The snowstorm raged louder, more violent as his words poured out, but it was nothing compared to the fury that swelled inside him—the fury he had kept hidden for so long.

"And then there was Cain," Lucifer muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying his name made everything real. "I knew. I knew what happened. And yet I didn’t help. I just watched you suffer. I watched everything fall apart. And part of me... part of me liked it. I felt this sick satisfaction watching you struggle, watching you hurt. It wasn’t right, Adam. I know that now. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."

He dropped to his knees, the snow biting at his skin, the cold burning as if it were trying to punish him, just as he deserved. He bowed his head, not caring about his pride anymore. "I was a terrible friend. A terrible archangel. I was selfish. I used you, and I’m sorry. I know I have no right to ask for forgiveness, not after everything I did. But I can’t stop saying it. I have to apologize. I have to."

Lucifer’s wings trembled as he knelt before Adam, his face crumpling with the weight of the years of mistakes, the weight of every time he had failed. "I know you’ll never forgive me. I know you hate me. And you have every right to. But I can’t help but wish... I wish I had done better. I wish I hadn’t hurt you. You deserved so much more. You didn’t deserve to be treated like a pawn, like some thing to be used and discarded. I should have been better to you, Adam. I should have been better to us."

Lucifer’s voice grew softer, quieter. "In the end, I got everything I wanted. I became a king. I ruled over Hell. I got subjects, a queen, a daughter... I got everything. But what does that matter if I lost everything that truly mattered? What does that matter when you were left in the cold, abandoned by everyone? While you were always treated like a tool, something to be used, something to be thrown away. And I let it happen. I let it all happen."

The snowstorm howled louder, and Lucifer could feel his own despair swirling around him, suffocating him. His chest heaved with the weight of his guilt, but there was nothing to release it. Nothing would undo what he had done. Nothing could fix the mess he had created. "I’m so sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry for everything. Please... please believe me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to break you."

“For the first time in forever Nothing's in my-“

Lucifer’s breath was shaky, his voice wavering as the weight of everything he had done, everything he had failed to do, pressed down on him with crushing force. He watched Adam, standing there, unfeeling, unmoving—an enigma, a frozen monument of suffering and silence. His heart twisted painfully as he recalled those first moments after Adam had died.

"I... I thought I could fix it," Lucifer murmured, his eyes flickering with the memory. "I thought... when you died, when you became a sinner, I could make it right. I was so angry. I wanted to hurt you again, make you suffer more. I thought maybe it would help me feel something other than regret, that it would make everything I had done go away, that it would be my way of taking back control. But it was a lie. It was all just... lies. I was fooling myself."

His voice faltered as he spoke, the truth clawing its way out of him, raw and suffocating. "I wanted to break you again. I thought you were the perfect symbol of everything I had failed to do. I thought if I could make you feel even worse than you already did, then maybe it would make me feel less guilty. Maybe it would make me feel better about myself." He took a shuddering breath, his head falling in shame. "But then... then I started to see what I had really done to you."

Lucifer’s wings trembled as his gaze turned inward, as if searching for a way to escape the suffocating truth. "I saw you, Adam. I saw you as a sinner, broken and beaten down, stripped of everything that made you who you were. And I saw how much of it... how much of it was my fault." His voice cracked, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "I did this to you. I let it happen. I let you suffer. I failed you. I failed to protect you, like I was supposed to. I should have been there for you. I should have kept you safe, should have helped you when you needed it most. But I didn’t."

The wind howled around them, the snowstorm growing wilder as Lucifer’s chest tightened with the weight of his guilt. "And when I saw you as a sinner... I was disgusted with myself. You were broken. You were a reflection of everything I had done wrong, everything I had caused. And it tore me apart, Adam. I wanted to look away, I wanted to pretend it wasn’t my fault, but I couldn’t. I had to look it in the eye. I had to face the truth, that everything, everything you went through... it was because of me."

Lucifer’s eyes closed briefly, a tear threatening to fall, but he wiped it away angrily, as if trying to deny the vulnerability creeping in. "I wanted to make it up to you, Adam. I thought if I could show you that there was still something good in the world, maybe, maybe it would make everything better. Maybe you could see that there was still hope for you. That maybe... maybe I could make you happy again."

His voice softened, trembling with a truth he could no longer deny. "But then... then I realized something else. It wasn’t just about trying to fix you. It was about me. I started to realize that... that I didn’t just want to fix you. I wanted you. I wanted you. I wanted you more than I ever realized. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone. And that scared me. Because I never thought I could feel that way about someone. Not Lilith, not Eve. But you... Adam... I loved you. More than anything."

Lucifer’s eyes were full of longing, full of a deep, aching love that he could no longer hide. He dropped his head, his wings folding in around himself as if he could hide from the weight of his confession.

"I loved you, Adam. I loved you more than anything. More than my position, more than my power, more than anything I ever had. I didn’t realize it then. I didn’t understand it. But now... now I know. I would have given it all up for you. I would have done anything to make you happy, to make you feel loved, to make you feel like you mattered. And I ruined it. I ruined everything."

Lucifer took a deep breath, his words desperate and quiet. "I’m sorry, Adam. I’m sorry for everything. And I know that no matter what I say, no matter what I do, it’s too late. But I just... I just want you to know. I’ve always loved you. And I’ll do anything for you. Anything."

His voice was thick with emotion, the finality of his words crashing over him like the storm raging around them.

"I know you can’t forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it. But I love you. And I always will." Lucifer gasped out, “Just please…say something…anything.”

“None of this had to happen…

We could have been lovers.

But I’ve run out of chances and…

You’ve run out of time.”

Adam’s voice cut through the howling wind, softer than a whisper, a tremor in the words as he spoke. The stillness between them felt heavier than the blizzard around them, and for a brief, fleeting moment, everything seemed suspended in time. His eyes fell to the frozen earth beneath his feet, the ice creeping slowly, methodically, like the ache within him that had grown over centuries, eating him alive.

"No, Lucifer," Adam began, his voice broken, too quiet to hold the weight of his pain. "None of this had to have happened. None of it. We could have been something... something more than this—more than just... this."

He exhaled sharply, as if the very act of breathing hurt now. "I wanted more, I wanted you, I tried... I tried so many times."

His words faltered for a moment, as if he was fighting against them, fighting against the truth that was finally spilling from his heart. "I tried reaching out to you when you were hurting, when I thought I could help, when I thought we could fix this together."

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, the coldness of the ice creeping deeper into his bones, matching the deep frost in his chest. "I wanted to be there for you, Lucifer. I wanted to be the one who stood by your side, no matter what. But I couldn’t reach you. I couldn’t break through."

He swallowed thickly, turning his back to Lucifer, his wings folding in around him like a shield—cold, dark, and fragile.

"You froze me out completely," Adam whispered, barely audible. "I kept coming back, kept reaching for you, trying to pull you closer, hoping you would finally see me. But you didn’t. You kept shutting me out."

The ice beneath his feet seemed to grow colder, harder, as if it were mirroring the chilling truth in his words.

"I just wanted a friend."

His voice cracked, and for the first time, Adam let himself feel the weight of his own heartbreak. "I wanted you. I wanted you to talk to me, to trust me, to understand that I was yours and you were mine. I gave you everything I had, everything I was, and you never saw it. You never saw me. You saw someone else. You saw... someone else."

The words broke apart on his lips, and Adam’s hands trembled at his sides.

"I lost count of all the times I tried, Lucifer. All the times I reached out, hoping you would turn around, hoping you would finally see me. But you didn’t. You couldn’t." His chest heaved, the weight of his pain and regret pressing in on him until he thought he might collapse. "I would have given anything for you to just see me—just see us for what we could have been. But now..."

He closed his eyes, his breath catching in his throat as the realization set in like a deep, suffocating fog.

Turning his face away, Adam whispered, the words barely forming as they passed through his lips. "But I’ve run out of chances. And you’ve run out of time."

Lucifer gasped, his eyes wide with horror as if the words themselves were knives in his chest. He took a step toward Adam, desperate, pleading.

"No, Adam—please," Lucifer cried, his voice raw, shaking. "We can still fix this. We can still make it right. Please..."

He reached out, his wings trembling, the weight of his regret pressing down on him like the heavy storm raging around them.

But Adam didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. His soul was too tired, too broken to keep pretending that there was hope left in the world.

"No," Adam said softly, his voice distant, empty. "It’s too late for us now. You’ve made your choice, and I’ve made mine. And I’ve run out of everything I once had." His wings flared, gleaming like jagged shards of ice, dark and unforgiving.

"Goodbye, Lucifer," Adam whispered, his final words a quiet surrender to the bitter cold.

And with that, Adam turned away, walking into the unforgiving storm that mirrored the coldness in his soul. He could feel the pain, the weight of his loss, but he didn’t have the strength to carry it anymore. He couldn’t. The world had frozen over, and with it, any shred of hope he once had.

Lucifer stood there, watching him fade into the blizzard, his heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces, each one colder than the last. But there was nothing he could do. He had lost Adam—for good this time.

And it was his fault.

“For the first time in forever I can see clearly what to do There's one thing that always held me back And that one thing was you Now you've had your last tomorrow 'Cause your time is up today For the first time in forever, oh Nothing's in my way Nothing's in my way”

#hazbin hotel #adamsapple #lucifer x adam #fanfic #guitarduck #au #frozen out #Youtube

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witch-hazels-musings · 1 year ago

Text

familiar

Warning -> comfort, SFW - sick fic! (reader is sick: aches and pains, sore throat, general sick descriptions | reader passes out | reader is carried | reader is taken to an unfamiliar location and wakes up a bit disoriented but is safe | Childe: reader is threatened but unharmed, fingers get cut off of random person)

Includes: Childe, Diluc, Thoma

Character X GN Reader | Anthology

Your skin was burning. You breathed and the air felt like fire as it passed across your chapped, dry lips. Someone called your name and you turned, lifted yourself from a hunched position to look only for the action to make your head swim.

You smiled anyway.

"Hello, how can I help you?" The patron near the counter slid something toward you. What was it? You blinked and realized there were several items in a basket. You swore they multiplied as you pulled them out one by one. The transaction was the slowest you'd completed in your life but it wasn't the last as several more people stepped in line. You felt a bead of sweat run down your spine.

You smiled and greeted them.

Your head throbbed. Parts of your body you rarely thought about ached, cried out in pain as you rose from the chair.

Finally, you could go home. Could rest.

Unsteady, the world teetering as you made your way toward the door, you caught your breath near the entrance only to realize you'd left your bag and the shop key in the back office.

Coughing, you tried to clear your throat and push through the waves of disorientation as you meandered back down the hall. You labored in the doorway with ragged breaths trying to remember what you went back here for. Pressing your forehead against the trembling and clammy hand that held onto the door frame, you tried to focus.

"What did I ..." you mumbled, scanning the room. A flash of flickering light from outside caught your attention. Pushing forward you grabbed the key and made your way to the front door.

The outside air felt as refreshing as drinking a cold glass of water on a hot day. You gasped at the way it caressed your skin, at the way it soaked into the mist that speckled your brow, that clung to the edges of your hairline. You breathed deeply, welcoming the strain of your lungs before an inevitable cough tore you from the reprieve. You crumbled, caught your breath, then, with multiple uncoordinated attempts, locked the front door.

It was hard to concentrate, but you let your muscle memory carry you through the streets. You did your best to smile and keep a safe distance from those you passed, though most people didn't seem to notice you, even when you staggered and caught yourself on a beam for support.

I just have to get home, you told yourself. Eyes blurry, head swirling and disorganized. The stack of crates next to you served as a useful crutch. You did your best to catch your quickening breaths against them. All you wanted to do was sleep.

You made it through the day like this, what was a few more minutes?

A surge of strength rose in you as you pushed away from the pile of crates but as soon as you took a step your legs crumbled and you fell into a heap at the edge of the street. Your hands burned from the violent contact of the sharp, frozen ground. Puffs of steam exploded from your mouth as you struggled to take in as much air as you exhaled.

You swore you heard your name but when you turned your head to look, the world went dark.

Childe

His smile faded as soon as they left his office. The click of the door was the switch he needed to flip the mask he was so good at wearing. Just like he had learned - like a good boy.

He wiped his face with the palm of his hand and rose from his chair. At least they gave him a window - though perhaps it was more of a tease than a gift. A reminder that he was trapped in a room with suffocating walls. Like a caged animal, whose only desire was to feel the soil beneath their feet.

He hated when they made him do this work. Even if it was a pain, he'd rather be out in the field training new recruits than sitting in this stifling room signing off on peoples debts they'd never repay.

Childe sighed and leaned against the window. He scanned the passersby, hoping, wishing one of them would give him an excuse to leave this cramped office. Though, it was unlikely - Liyue rarely had anything fun. He missed the days before the Archon fell. At least then he had toys to play with.

A knock rattled his thoughts, "We've got three more for you, sir."

"Tell them to come back tomorrow," Childe called without looking at the massive and decorated door.

"I'll be sending in the next one shortly," they replied, clearly ignoring him. He rolled his eyes and looked back down to the street. In the corner, just out of view, he saw someone stumble through a back alley. He would have passed it off as a drunk if there wasn't an air of familiarity to the figure.

Childe pinched his brow as drifting voices spilled in from the hall.

He turned to head back at his desk but gave one last look to the alleyway and saw a small group taking the same path the stumbling person just walked.

"Childe will see you now," the voice said as they opened the door to Childe's office, head bowed and eyes closed as their arm escorted them inside.

"Um - who will?"

The voice snapped their eyes open to see an empty office with an open window and billowing curtains. "damn-it", they cursed and ran down the hallway.

Childe stayed in the shadows. Curiosity leading the way as he stalked the group. Further down the alley something crashed onto the stone ground but he had a hard time making out what it was. The group turned a corner and he could hear their voices echo off the tight buildings. He leapt onto a nearby walk-way hoping to get a good view of whatever was about to happen below, but when he saw who they were stalking their way toward, he finally understood why his body leapt out the window on its own.

Rage filled him as he launched forward so he could land between your gasping body and the oncoming group.

"What did I tell you guys? Easy pickins -- woah!" The group raised their hands as a wave of water splashed against them. They all stumbled, but one fell to the ground. "What the-"

"I suggest you leave."

"Huh?!" The one in the middle stepped forward, clothes soaked, hands fumbling for a knife. "T-this was ours first. So b-back off," he tried to puff out his chest but looked more like a drenched toad than anything to be frightened of. It would have made Childe laugh it he weren't currently seething, and if he hadn't looked back to see you shaking, terrified as you barely held yourself off the ground.

"If you're looking for a fight, I'll happily provide you one," Childe threatened, his blades appearing in his hands and sending out a high pitch whine as they danced in his grip, "See I've been cooped up all day and could really use a good workout."

"H-hey man, let's just go," one of them quivered, grabbing the 'leaders' arm.

"No, this is ours - we need thi-" the leaders voice died out as a slash of water cut through the fingers that had managed to grip his feeble knife in the first place. The man screamed, doubled over while his friends held onto his shoulders to keep him from falling to the ground.

"I must not have heard you correct. Because, I'm pretty sure you just called something of mine, yours?" Childe took a step toward them, his body raging, his blades growing at the thought of them calling you theirs. "So, I'm going to give you another chance to repeat yourself."

The group scurried like rats down the drenched alleyway and though he was half-temped to chase after them, to teach them a lesson, he barely made it a step when something burning grabbed his pant leg.

In an instant, his blades faded into nothing and he turned to scoop you into his still trembling arms. You were on fire, and even though he could tell you had near to no strength, you still managed to wrap your arms around his neck and hide against him.

With a possessive hand cupping the back of your head, he held you close and made his way to where he knew you'd be safe.

You could finally breathe without a protest from your lungs. Only a few areas ached instead of everywhere, and though you were still warm, you felt surrounded by cool waters.

Shifting, you tried to sit up, to open your eyes, but something covered your eyes and you fell back into satin.

"Sleep," a voice told you. It felt stern, but warm. Your tried to push the darkness away but found it hard, even when you curled your fingers around the palm of someone's hand. "You're still sick. So go back to bed."

"Where -- where am I?" you croaked, your voice dry and scratchy.

"You're safe." The voice felt so familiar. You breathed and though your nose was stuffy, you caught a whiff of something that made you turn your head toward the dip in the bed.

"... Childe? What's happening?"

"Don't worry your head over it. You're alright, that's all that matters."

You listened to his voice, felt his palm against your skin, sensed his presence next to you. You weren't sure how you got here, honestly you weren't sure where you even were, but Childe was here - he was right here and, as you moved closer to him and let your forehead press against his side, you felt safer than you ever had in all your life.

Childe turned his head from the book in his hands to glance at the sleeping figure next to him. It was the first time he'd ever seen you so relaxed, so at ease. The first time you'd ever been this near to him - the first time you'd ever been in his bed.

Carefully, he ran his fingers over your ear and let them know the taste of your skin while you slept.

He sighed and wondered how he was ever going to let you go now.

Diluc

The cold air reminded him another season was passing, changing. He'd stopped trying to measure the passage of time years ago, but there was something about cold, night air that felt like a ticking clock. Or maybe it was the reliable pocket watch he kept with him while he worked to help him tell when he could 'respectfully' request everyone leave so he could do more, important, work.

"Master Diluc," Charles said as he slid a heavy wooden box onto the back counter, "I think we've got another in the back."

"Great," Diluc held back a sigh but not the heavy roll of his eyes, and stashed the cup he had just pulled down for a customer. "Finish this up. I'll deal with it."

"Sounds good. What can I getcha?" he asked the drunk patron who didn't seem bothered to repeat their order to the new, friendlier, bartender.

Diluc reached for his jacket as he passed the back office. His hair snagged the coarse fabric as he pulled it from underneath. He adjusted the collar before opening the door to the back alley.

He hated dealing with drunks in the first place, but a sick one throwing up behind his establishment was somehow worse.

Scanning the immediate area didn't reveal anything to him. So he took another step into the chilly evening. Off in the distance, near the stairs that lead to the small docks on the lake, he saw a silhouette hunched over a stack of crates. Ones he had just assisted in unloading earlier that day.

"Hey, don't make it other people's problem if you can't hold your ---" Diluc froze when he saw the blob of dark shadows turn into your shape and likeness. He blinked, thinking he had made it up, but as he drew closer he knew his eyes didn't lie. Normally, you would have waved to him, called out to him - brightened his day - but right now you looked terrible. When he called to you, you didn't answer.

His pace quickened when he saw you stumble away from the crates and he was practically running when you fell to the ground. He let out a breath when he was just in time to catch your head before it careened into the cobblestone.

"... are you ok--?" Diluc turned you toward him but he didn't need to feel your brow to know you were burning up. He could see it in your pained expression, in the moisture of the night as it drifted toward him. When he realized you didn't have anything on you, he took actions into his own hands. "Hold on."

Diluc hoisted you into his arms, made sure you rolled into him as he carried you swiftly back toward the bar. With every groan and whimper he became more concerned. His muscles tensed when your fingers weakly grasped his clothes. Even though it made you whine, he held you closer to him and picked up the pace.

There were only a few sounds in this world that made his heart stop.

He took no time carrying you up the stairs to the third-floor apartment he used on nights he didn't want to make the long walk back to the Winery. As he passed by the confused, and rightfully worried Charles, word was already on its way to the church to bring a healer.

You were so hot. Your back hurt to the point you wished someone would rip it from you. Every breath was agonizing but you couldn't convince yourself to stop breathing.

You felt somewhere between dead and alive, and though you didn't understand it, you found yourself in a bed you didn't recognize, in a room you'd never been in before.

The shapes came and went. A halo of light bloomed in the corner. You coughed, pulled back the sheets but froze when a figure now stood where the halo once was.

"Who --"

"Don't get up," a voice, a familiar voice said. The figure moved closer to you. You tried to lift your hands in defense but they were weak and in your uncoordinated move, you slipped from the sheets. "I got you," the voice comforted you. Gentle words that floated into your ear. Something sturdy and wrapped around your stomach.

The figure, which smelled like barrels of sweetened fruit, carefully helped you back into the bed. Strands of red filled your senses and brushed against your cheek. Kind fingers caressed your jaw as they slipped to the back of your neck and eased you onto your back.

"Try to rest. I've called on a healer." The figure spoke, their deep voice like the rustle of leaves in the morning sun. "You're safe. I've got you," they said like a mantra as their fingers soothed your weary eyes closed. "I've got you."

The warmth of their touch against your skin was soothing, but suddenly it was gone and you cried out, reached out your hand to find it again. "Don't go," you pleaded.

Their touch returned to your fingertips, then your palm as they took your shaking hand in theirs. "I'm right here," the voice soothed and let you hold your captured treasure close to your parted lips.

You found it strange that your sickness would concoct such a vivid and realistic specter in the shape of the man who held your heart.

Thoma

"Hah, not a problem," Thoma waved them off for the third time. "It really wasn't that difficult. So don't worry about it." He took another step back and let out a playful laugh even as the person bowed for the tenth time in front of him.

Eventually, after many more reassurances, he managed to be on his way and - surprisingly - was only ten minutes behind schedule. With speed, and restraining himself to only courteous waves and passing smiles, he hastily walked down the busy Inzuma streets. To save himself more time, he dipped into a less traveled alleyway and doubled his pace.

It wasn't uncommon to see random and sometimes unsightly scenes in the back alleys. Inazuma was safe, but it wasn't immune to crime. So, as he spied a figure hunched over a stack of crates, he debated if the person looked like they did, or didn't, belong there. When he got closer, he started to recognize bits a pieces of the blurry figure.

"What are you doing back here?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and growing with each second. When you didn't answer him, and he saw you stumble away from the crates and fall to the ground, his joy shifted to fear.

He swore he'd never run so fast in his life.

When you didn't answer him, or react to your name, he wasted no time in lifting you from the dirty, cold ground and into his arms. He wasn't far from the estate, but he also wasn't close. Normally you had a bag - one he remembered because you'd purchased it with him the last time the two of you went to the markets - but right now you were empty handed. Something was clearly wrong.

With you in his arms, Thoma rushed through the alley. His heart raced at the sound of your labored breathing, at the way your face scrunched with every jostle of his movements, at the trembling hand that gripped his clothes.

"Hold on," he soothed, "Just hold on." Thoma burst through the alley and ran through the crowded streets toward the Kamisato Estate.

Something cold touched your forehead and you let out a gasp at the contact. Instinctually, you tried to push it away with weak hands.

"I know its cold," a voice said. A comforting, familiar voice that called to your heart. Whoever it was took your hand and caressed your skin with a gentle thumb. "You have a fever, this will help."

You groaned, tried to open your eyes but found it hard. Your body ached and though you didn't want it to, it moved uncomfortably under plush sheets.

After a while the covering over your eyes lifted and you heard the sound of water falling. Turning your head, you pried open your burning eyes to capture blurry and unusual shapes. Your heart raced as you tried to figure out where you were, but the longer it took, the more concerned you were.

"I ha --- to go," you tried to push yourself up but swift footsteps met you before you could.

"Easy, you're sick. You need your rest."

Why was this voice so familiar?

You looked up, even though the action made your head throb. Squinting your eyes, the blob of yellow and red in front of you started to take shape.

"T-Thoma?"

The blob made a smile and pushed strands of your hair out of your face. "It's me," he reassured you, his hand cupping your cheek. Like someone who opened up a door to a dark room, his contact breathed new life into you.

He caught you You fell into him He ease you to rest You were finally at ease

"You found me," you said weakly with a thankful smile. His hand brushed the top of your head and the cold returned but, this time, it felt soothing, refreshing.

"I always do," he hummed and soon your uneasy breaths slowed and faded into healing slumber.

#genshin impact #hazels works #genshin impact sfw #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x gn reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin impact childe #childe x gn reader #genshin impact diluc #diluc x gn reader #genshin impact thoma #thoma x gn reader

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xwritingdixonx · 1 year ago

Text

To Rot With You | Daryl Dixon |

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Masterlist

Summary: The reader and Daryl take a stroll through the forests, contemplating what it truly means to die. And to do it together. (Purely written based on the Hozier song, In A Week.)

Warnings: mention of death, no use of y/n (yay)

Word Count: aprox. 1.5k

Era: hinted at Alexandria, established relationship

Song Recommendations: In a Week - Hozier

A/n: This is pretty simple and short but hopefully still enjoyable!

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The morning air was fresh, chilly, and slightly damp from the rain that fell throughout the night.

The morning was early. It is too early for any creature to crawl from its sleep and begin withering its way around the forest. Or perhaps it was too wet for any creature to begin their everyday lives, still hiding in the safety and warmth of their enclosures. Or perhaps they were bathing in the fuller ponds and slurping from puddles. Or maybe, they were like you. Drudging through the forest in search of their first meal, the pads of their feet slick with mud.

The moist soil squelched beneath your steps. Wet bits of green grass stuck themselves to the textures of your boots. A layer of mud painted itself to the sole of your shoe, lodging itself into whatever print had been carved there.

Though you didn't own a calendar and probably would never again, you could feel it in the air that Winter was ending and Spring was blossoming. The mornings were still chilly but always sunny, the warmth coming in the later hours of the day. And the rain was frequent but it did not bother you. It softened the frozen ground and plumped the trees and flowers so they could grow full of life and beauty. It provided drinking water and filled the natural water resources with even more water.

Daryl, however, was always bothered. He complained about not having seen a rabbit or a deer on your morning hunt. You poked at him and told him they were still resting like you should be. He complained when he slipped in the mud. And he complained even more when he saw a fox saying, that's the reason we ain't finding no rabbits not because they're gettin' some extra shut-eye.

But he never complained about you. Not a word slipped his lips when you distracted him by holding his hand or standing too close. What was wrong about enjoying the presence of your partner? He had woken you up so early to drag you along, he might as well enjoy you.

When it came time to rest, you set up just on the treeline of a wide field. Wild with uncut grass, weeds, and flowers. The both of you sat on a fallen tree, attempting to avoid the wet ground that would surely ruin your clothes. Daryl had particularly picked this spot to keep an eye on anything wandering into the field for a nibble at the grass.

The sounds of the woods fell upon your ears as silence settled. A slight wind disturbed the greenery. Bending the tall grass, making it dance with the wildflowers. It moved the freshly grown leaves on the branches of the trees, flowing around like hair in the wind. The birds chirped their morning songs and the squirrels scattered from one tree to the next. You liked to joke and say they were hiding from Daryl. And truthfully, you couldn't blame them. You also had no desire to be shot with an arrow, skinned, and then thrown on a grill or tossed into a soup.

"Ya alright?" Daryl broke you from your daydreams, his voice gentle and smooth. You turned to catch his gaze, replying with a gentle, “Yeah.” Followed by a reassuring smile. His hand reached for yours, pulling it to rest in his own. You were already at peace in the sounds and scenes of nature but his touch calmed you in places you didn't even know were tense. Every moment you were able to bask in the love you felt for him, you cherished.

Waking up beside him, falling asleep beside him, showering with him. There was nothing you wanted to do without him by your side. And that included death. You had thought about it...many times. How could you not in a world like this? Death was always right around the corner; peeking, creeping, and waiting. You and Daryl had had your fair share of scares over the years and those thoughts haunted your mind every time. How could you go on without him? How could you fight every day if the thing you're fighting to go home to, is no longer there?

Daryl had the same gloomy thoughts. Losing you was, as clique as it sounds, his worst nightmare. He ran from the thoughts as much as his legs would let him but eventually his legs wore out and it caught up to him in the worst of times. When you got hurt, even the smallest scratch sent him tumbling down. He’d grasp onto you, repeating the same words again and again; Are ya okay? Can I do anythin’? M’sorry. But the gloomiest time came at night after you'd fallen asleep, leaving him alone to succumb to the dreading feeling that was always chasing him. He’d lay beside you, watching your gentle features finally be at ease and always making sure your chest rose and fell with gentle breaths.

“We should just stay here.” You didn’t turn to look at Daryl when you spoke but he looked at you, admiring your silhouette as you looked off. “What do ya mean?” Daryl answered. He wasn’t entirely sure if you were actually talking to him or if the thoughts in your mind were just slipping from your lips. “We come to sit here all the time and no matter the weather, it’s always just…” Your words trailed off as your mind searched for the word to describe the scene before you.

“Perfect?”

An airy laugh came from your chest at Daryl’s word choice. You turned to him then. With your hand still in his, you brought it to your lips and planted a kiss. Almost as a way to say, thank you for the effort. “Comforting. But yes, also perfect.” In your mind it was warmth when it was cold, it was a breath of fresh air in a world of rotting corpses, it was the hope of a future in a world of early death. But he was right…in simple words it was perfect.

“We can build a little house-”

“We?”

With only one word his tone was thick with sarcastic disbelief. You playfully rolled your eyes and gave his hand a squeeze. With your free hand, you pointed to a random spot in the clearing as you rephrased your previous sentence. “You could build me a little house right there.” Daryl liked the sound of that better. A house he was to build, with his hands, just for you to live in. “We’ll fill it with all our things, steal some furniture from home, and scavenge the rest…We can build a fence around so we’re safe.” Your words were a daydreamy gleam and you were far from finished. “We’ll light fires in the Winter to stay warm and open the windows in Spring…” This was obviously a daydream you had put quite a bit of thought into, one you’d laid up at night pondering about, and Daryl would not rob himself of the indulgence of your words.

"I'll start a garden and you’ll hunt. We’ll always have full tummies,” You looked away from the sky to meet his equally blue eyes, “And even fuller hearts.” Your gentle smile rested upon your face and your eyes were filled with the longing of a home that only existed in your whimsical daydreams. Though it did not exist and there was a possibility it never would, Daryl felt himself melting into this world of what-ifs. Daryl had never associated the words home and love together before. But…what if it could exist? What if he could build a home. A home just for him. A home of comfort…a home where he could just simply love and not be afraid.

“W’bout everyone back home?” He questioned, “They’ll never find us.” You responded quickly. Daryl shook his head and scoffed, “Nah, they’d find us in less than a week.” Daryl’s ears perked up at the sound of your soft laughter. “Yeah, yeah they would.” Daryl’s eyes never left you, even when you turned your head to look around the wooded area. He could practically see the way you were editing your story. “Fine, we’ll uh-” Motioning behind you, you continued, “We’ll clear a path through the woods all the way to the road. So they can always come visit.”

Then, as you looked at him, the dread crept upon you. Wrapping its clawed mangled hands around your perfect bubble. “And when we go…we’ll go together.” This caught Daryl by surprise. The fate he so deeply feared was no longer chasing him. It was sitting on that tree with him…and in the form of the words that came from your tongue. “C’mom..don’t talk ‘bout that.” He tried to defer but you would not let him. Whether you went from a bite, from a bullet, from a freak accident, or if you were lucky enough to go naturally, it was and always will be the inevitable truth of fate. “Once we’ve lived in our home long enough and full of love, we can lay in the grass and go.”

Everyone went back to the earth anyway, right? You had no desire to be thrown in a hole and covered in damp cold dirt. If you had to decay, you wanted to be on the soft grass, under the sun, even under the rain. You wanted the wildflowers to eventually grow through the cracks of your skeleton, just as you had seen done with other animal carcasses. You’d let the bugs find shelter in your bones and you’d let the foxes nibble at you. Maybe it would stop them from eating all of Daryl’s rabbits.

“I mean it…I don’t wanna go alone. Never mind how it takes me, I just wanna go with you.” The hope that your eyes once shined was now overshadowed by the tears that formed in your waterline. Daryl swallowed the lump that formed in the back of his throat. “C’mere.” He opened his arms to you, providing you the comfort you desperately needed.

Now with your rambling seemingly done and your body against his, Daryl thought.

“Alright.” Was all he said. Though it wasn’t a typical alright, it was serious. You pulled yourself up from his chest and looked to him with a cocked eyebrow, “Alright?” You questioned. “Yeah.” His demeanor confused you, seconds ago you were spewing words of fantasy, words of love and death, but now he seemed a little too serious on the matter. “What do you mean?”

“Means I wanna do it.” He spoke with his face close to yours, eyes locking into your own, so so close. “Imma build ya a home. Might take a little bit but I promise I will.” With his promise, you closed the sliver of space between you. You had kissed him many times before but there was a new feeling to the gentle urgency his lips met yours with. You could feel the fear of fate melting away in the softness of his kisses and you felt the desire for a peaceful future replace it. And that peaceful future tugged at your lips and ran its fingers through Daryl’s hair.

But most of all there was now a promise. A promise that you’d build together, love together, be full together, and eventually…you’d rot together.

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rotworld · 3 months ago

Text

4: Game of Chance

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

if you bring the prince of flowers an offering, he might grant you good fortune, a year of bountiful harvests or a magic seed that will sprout into a sprawling orchard with the most succulent fruits. he might just kill you where you stand. all godlings are fickle, but he is worse than any other. if you want to come back from this alive, you'll have to find out why.

->original work. explicit; contains noncon (transactional/extreme power imbalance/aphrodisiacs), murder, implied necrophilia, terato.

She must’ve tried to run. You saw the fabric scraps, bits of woven shawl and the ragged remains of a dress caught in the thorn-claws of the forest. You saw her tracks, too, deep heel gouges where she ducked and spun, where she fought as hard as she could against something she was never going to beat. There’s a smeared spot, the telltale last stand. Like the final featherlight prints of a rabbit seized by a hawk. Like the place a deer stumbles, where a wolf pack descends with all their viciousness and hunger. She fell and flattened the grass, screamed and flailed and raked her fingers through the earth leaving desperate handprints and broken nails behind. The rest of the trail is wet and red. Still fresh, it glistens like dew.

You find what’s left of her in the heart of the forest. Eyes shut and lips slightly parted, she could simply be sleeping if not for where she’s been wrenched open and unraveled, torn more neatly than fang and claw should allow. Her ribs have turned to garden arches, small white trellises coiled by grasping stems. Wildflowers sprout in the fleshy seedbed beneath, heart and lungs tenderized into slick, veiny soil. Skin sloughs away and soft tissues vanish the lower your eyes wander until there’s nothing left but scattered bones. Plump, shiny berries grow on either side of a partially-buried spine. Mushroom bulbs peek through the spaces of a pelvis.

You glimpse snaking movements. Squirming in the organic mush of her chest. Slithering shapes where she still has skin, the slow, worm-like crawl of something bulging in her throat. Dark briar tendrils wind possessively tight around her, thorns biting deep.

There’s a terrible, stomach-churning noise, so quiet you wouldn’t have noticed if the sight of her hadn’t frozen you completely still. It’s a muffled gurgling. Choked, squelching rasps. A drowning death rattle. “Hhhhhnghgk…nnnnnhguuuuhh…” Bile crawls up your throat when her eyelids flutter and one finger twitches.

“Oh my. Another one?”

You tear your eyes away from her. You see him watching you where the trees cluster close and the flowers are always in bloom, where the stone-speckled path you’ve been following ends. Cherroveth, Prince of Flowers, smiles softly.

“So many visitors today,” he muses, leaning against the trunk of an enormous tree. “So many gifts.”

Like all godlings, he is breathtakingly beautiful. Earthy brown hair spills over his shoulders and down his back, adorned with spring blossoms and sweet-smelling summer petals. His pointed ears are pierced in several places, strung through with gemstones and a dangling, golden chain. His eyes change in light and shadow; sometimes graying pine, sometimes vivid shamrock, sometimes shimmery basil leaf or deep moss. He wears little, allowing you to see the squiggling lines and spiral markings adorning his divine flesh. Loose, flowing sashes tied around his waist barely conceal his toned backside, every movement threatening to reveal the apex of his firm thighs.

You quickly return your gaze to his face but it’s too late. His eyes arch in amusement and his smile widens. “Won’t you come in?” he says. “You’ll have to wait. There are many who arrived before you. But I am eager to see what you’ve brought me.” You nod, clutching the burlap sack you brought all the way from the village. You haven’t offended him yet, it seems, and you think he’s in a good mood. Maybe you’ll survive this after all. Cherroveth slips between the trees and you follow, led to the shade-dappled ruins he calls home.

This place might’ve been a temple once. Some crumbling stonework remains, green with moss and climbing vines. The ghosts of greater structures linger in shattered plinths and disembodied arches, a half-sunken bas-relief wall depicting figures worn down by the ravages of time. A small crowd of supplicants welcomes you with wordless nods and commiserating glances. They come from distant villages, from port towns, from the halls of castles and humble farmsteads—all places touched by the forest where the Prince of Flowers holds sway. All clutching what precious treasures they could scrounge together in the hopes of earning a blessing.

Bones litter the ground they stand on. Scapulas. Smooth skull fragments. Whole skeletal hands, partially buried and scattered by animals. The flowers are thick wherever something has died. You join the others, listening to their whispers. He’s killed at least seven today, maybe more. The person who’s been here longest only saw three of them but she says there’s more bodies in the underbrush. He let an old woman go even though he scowled at her while she hobbled up to the altar and her bag of offered birdseed ripped open, spilling all over the ground. A shoemaker brought him animal bones and was dragged away screaming but an apprentice from a magic school gave him the same thing right after and was thanked for it.

You ask each other questions, trying to solve a puzzle with no answer. Is it the gift? The quantity? The quality? The intent behind it? Is it the reason one comes here, the magnitude of what they ask for? Is it the age of the supplicant, their job, their means, whether they’re rude or kind? You can’t agree on a pattern. Everyone has their guesses and rituals. It matters if he’s smiling or not when he greets you, they say. It depends on the weather, the day of the week, the phase of the moon.

At the center of everything, the altar waits. Cracked pillars and limbless statues surround it. The tangled canopy of three hunched trees casts a shadow across its flat gray surface. It might have been shattered once, some pieces missing. A crack runs down the center and the carvings in its sides, ancient symbols and floral patterns, don’t quite match where the halves meet. Blood, both old streaks and fresh trickles, stains every inch of it. A faded mural depicting a garden scene stretches behind it, chunks missing, the colors washed out.

Cherroveth walks to the altar and all conversation ceases. He beckons one of the supplicants closer with the curl of his fingers and a trembling man steps forward, carefully setting a carving of a bear upon the stone. Cherroveth hums in consideration. He walks in a wide circle, examining the offering from different angles. When he passes behind the nervous man, his hand drags across his shoulders, slow and sensual.

“Lovely,” the Prince of Flowers says, delighted. “Did you make this yourself?”

The man hesitates only a moment before shaking his head. “No, I…a friend of mine, he makes these.”

“Hm. And what would you like in exchange for it?”

“A blessing for the fields, my lord. If that’s alright. Not much grew last year.”

“Gladly.” Cherroveth’s hand slides from the man’s shoulder to his face, catching his chin between graceful fingers. He kisses him, long but chaste. He pulls away with a mischievous smile. “Thank you for your gift. You may go. Your fields will prosper like never before.”

The man bows low, nearly sobbing with relief. He rushes out of the ruins, leaving the rest of you wondering in his wake. Was it his honesty? His quickness to admit it wasn’t his own creation? Cherroveth plucks the carving from the altar and vanishes for a moment, sauntering away to some hidden place among the trees and stones. He returns soon after with a frown and furrowed brows, sighing deeply.

“Next,” he mutters.

The next supplicant is wary. She whispers a prayer before she approaches. Her offering is half of a stone cracked open, the swirl of magic frozen in each jagged geode crystal. Cherroveth stares down at it disinterestedly. You wonder what soured his mood so badly.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“My father,” she stammers, flinching at his harsh tone. “He’s…he’s very sick. If it’s alright, my lord, if you don’t mind…”

Cherroveth seizes her chin before she finishes speaking. He tilts her head, pressing his lips against hers. You see her relax, eyes falling shut.

There’s a sick sound, wet and crunching. Her eyes fly open and she makes a choked sound. Cherroveth steps back and she falls to her knees, gasping, convulsing, clawing at her own throat. Something long and thin presses against her skin from inside, bulging in her neck. She tries to scream but only makes a shrill wheeze like a dying bird. Blood trickles from the corners of her mouth as she retches and heaves, a slow trickle to a thick, gushing torrent. A thick, thorn-studded vine slithers from the underbrush and wraps around her ankle. It snakes higher, over her calf, her knee, her thigh, leaving small, bloody punctures everywhere it touches. You can’t look anymore, sick to your stomach, but you hear the sounds she makes when another vine slithers around her other leg, and another around her torso.

Cherroveth picks up the geode and holds it away from his body like it’s sick and rotten, his nose wrinkled, scowling in disgust. He takes it away. The unlucky supplicant is dragged away soon after. The sounds of slow, agonized death as the thorns tear her apart from the inside gradually fade. Several minutes pass before Cherroveth returns, smiling brightly once again.

It goes on like this for some time. A supplicant will approach, present their offering, and receive a kiss. Each encounter lasts no more than a few minutes, mere seconds for the most unfortunate. The Prince of Flowers is mercurial. Sometimes he will inspect an offering carefully and sometimes he will pass judgment with barely a glance at it. Sometimes he will call for the next person with a smile and a laugh. Sometimes he will stare listlessly. A young woman openly weeps when the kiss ends with the promise that her lost cat will return home safely this very evening. An older man staggers to the mural coughing and crying blood, leaving a red handprint on the stone as he topples over. He’d brought a carving, too.

He stares, unimpressed, at a handmade toy meant for a child. But then he picks it up, turns it over in his hands, and his icy demeanor melts into a small smile. The woman who offered it is given a handful of magic seeds when she only asked for one, looking as though she might faint from surprise.

You watch the crowd in front of you dwindle with growing unease. There must be something. Some explanation. Some hint. You look at the ruins, the decorative arches, the patterns carved into old stone. The Prince of Flowers is depicted everywhere you look. His face in profile smiles serenely upon the walls at the ruin’s entrance, mirrored panels gazing at the spot where supplicants arrive. Little remains of the statues by the altar, one missing a head and arms, the other nothing but a lower half clad in a loincloth, but maybe it’s him. They match, the tilted stance mirrored but otherwise identical, the delicate curl of a flowers and vines wrapped all the way up each.

The mural, you notice, is not one image but two. Like the altar, there is a fissure down the middle dividing the paintings. You see supplicants depicted in the fashions of an ancient civilization, their arms raised to present colorful cloths, live animals, gold and gemstones and crystal figures. They approach from opposite directions, lined up before the Prince of Flowers who stands at the center. In one panel, he is smiling and surrounded by roses. In the other, he frowns, wrapped in thorns.

Your eyes flick down to the altar. The crack in the stone. You look back up at the altar, Cherroveth shown in both of his extremes. Your mind races. Could it mean…?

“Next,” he says sharply.

Your heart races. You’re the only one left. The ruins are empty and silent. Shivering, you look down at the bag in your arms. Fresh fruit. That’s all you brought. You find the godling glaring at you, tapping his fingers impatiently upon the altar. In the sunset, his eyes are soft and bright like the inside of a lime. You glance at the mural again. When was the last time someone noticed? “You might not like it,” you admit.

“Let me see it. You’ll find out quickly,” he says.

Hesitantly, you step forward. You open the sack, setting the fruit down right on top of the crack splitting it down the middle. “Nobody really knows what you like. We’re all just guessing,” you tell him. “I heard you like the first fruits of the harvest, but maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s the other one who likes that.”

His hand freezes, hovering over the offering. He looks at you, wide-eyed with surprise.

“Oh? A clever one,” you hear. Cherroveth—another one, identical to the first—comes out of the trees. This is who first greeted you in the forest. Those are the same graceful footsteps, the same half-lidded stare and sweet smile. He stands on the opposite side of the altar, picking up a peach and turning it over in his hand. “You heard right. I do love the first harvest best. My brother doesn’t appreciate food offerings, unfortunately.”

Twin godlings. You look back and forth between them. They’re impossible to tell apart unless you look beyond their features and clothing. One stands taller, straight-backed and confident while the other hunches.

“I am Cherroveth,” the smiling one says. “Prince of Flowers.”

His twin stares at you, entranced. “Therrovech,” he murmurs. “Prince of Thorns.”

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” you ask them. “The offerings would be better. We’d bring enough for both of you.”

“We did tell you. Humans forget things quickly.” Cherroveth shrugs, biting into the peach. He moans, his eyes fluttering shut as clear juice runs down his chin. “Mm! Just lovely.”

“The ones we told are probably dead,” Therrovech muses. “It was a long time ago. To them, at least.” His smile is different than his brothers. Smaller. Almost shy. He takes your hand, tugging you closer. “It’s nice to be noticed. What would you like?”

“What? You’re letting them go?” Cherroveth’s smile falls and you struggle to tell them apart again. They’re both tense, eyes narrowed, bristling with anger.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Therrovech insists, grasping your hand tightly. “It was my turn, anyway. They gave their offering to me. I get to decide.”

“You don’t even like what they brought you!”

“I can bring you something else,” you say quickly.

“You already did,” Therrovech says. This smile is the same as Cherroveth’s, warm and wide. He shoves you back onto the altar, scattering the fruit across the ground. His hand lands heavily on your shoulder before you can sit up and then he’s crawling on top of you, straddling your legs. You wince when he starts tearing at your clothes with claw-like nails. Were they that sharp before? He nicks your skin and it makes him freeze, watching blood bubble to the surface. To your horror, the sight of the small scratch makes his eyes glaze over. He licks his lips.

“Now you’re being petty,” Cherroveth argues. He stands on the other side of the altar, next to your head. “You just don’t want me to have them.”

“You get everything you want all the time.” Therroveth unties the cloth from around his hips and drops it carelessly, leaving him completely exposed. You’re shocked to find him smooth like a doll between his legs, but it doesn’t last. His skin ripples like moving water. His flesh parts and peels, unraveling like unspooling thread. He’s nothing but thorns. Thick vines and thin, snaking tendrils, stiff and wooden, green and flexible, every inch of him is sharp and prickling. You watch the transformation in speechless, horrified shock, seized by his larger vines that hold you down against the stone. He ties your wrists together and your legs apart, the restraints biting into your skin painfully.

“But they would be so pretty, Therro. Just imagine it.” Cherroveth kneels, his hair curtaining your vision as he strokes your cheek and smiles at the expression of pure terror on your face. “This neck. This lovely chest. Imagine, all of your thorns and all of my flowers. Inside them, Therro. Don’t you like how it feels to kiss a sacrifice? Such a fertile garden they’d make.”

“They’re mine,” Therrovech growls. He slaps his brother’s hand away and hunches over you, covering your body with the writhing mass of his thorns. They couldn’t look more different now. His skin looks stiff and wooden, pitted with thin grooves and speckled with lichen. His upper half comes apart like the corpse you saw in the woods before, his chest open, his ribs, covered in spines, on full display. Everywhere he touches you burns and stings. “I always have to share with you. It isn’t fair. Maybe I want something all to myself for once.”

“Fine.” Cherroveth scoffs. He caresses your cheek with the back of his hand one last time, a lingering touch that makes you shudder. “I’ll make sure none of our supplicants are lost in the woods. But you’ll change your mind, brother. Or you’ll make a mistake. I know you will. I’ll be more than happy to take them off your hands when you do.”

He moves quietly. You have no idea he left until Therrovech shifts, no longer crushing you in his sharp branches. You see a cautious smile. Eyes like emeralds. Roses of all colors in his long, leafy green hair. He looks nothing like his brother but he’s still beautiful. The vines around your wrists are loose enough for you to reach up to touch his cheek. It’s softer than you expect, the wood spongy against your palm. Therrovech holds your hand there and nuzzles against it.

“He’s wrong,” he whispers. “I won’t change my mind and I won’t make a mistake. I want you just like this. I like soft things. Warm flesh. I like that you saw me. I’ve wanted to be seen for a long time.” His hands frame your face and you squirm nervously, trying to get out from under him, but his grip on your limbs is too strong and painful. Even flinching makes the thorns dig deeper. “Don’t be afraid. You’re no sacrifice. I just want a taste. Just a small one.” He’s going to kiss you. You pull against the vines despite how much it hurts but it just makes him hum in disapproval. He cups your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth. His lips are warm against yours.

It doesn’t hurt as much as you feared. His lips are soft. His teeth are like daggers and his lips are sandpaper rough but he’s careful, mindful of where he’s sharp and abrasive. He licks into your mouth gently and moans, his whole body writhing around you. It feels strange but you find yourself kissing him back. When you stroke the rose petals in his hair, he shivers and makes an almost wounded sound.

Something warm, firm and bumpy grinds against your thigh. You can’t see it but Therrovech’s vines slither restlessly every time it slides against your skin. He breaks the kiss, hot puffs of breath warming your swollen lips. “Stay,” he begs. “Stay with me. See me. Talk to me. Cherro won’t have you, I won’t let him. I’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything at all.” Another vine wraps around you and then another, thick like snakes. Therrovech kisses you again and this time he tastes sweet. There’s something in his mouth, some kind of nectar, honey-thick and intoxicating. He pushes his tongue into your mouth. His thumb massages your throat, insistent. He doesn’t let up until you swallow the cloying sweetness filling your throat.

“What…whu…” You try to talk but all that comes out is mindless noise. You feel dizzy and overheated, floating or falling or something else entirely.

“Open up to me,” Therrovech whispers. His vines wrench your legs apart and up, as high as he can get them. “I’ll be all yours if you’ll be all mine.” That thing, that hot, pulsating organ, slides against your entrance. Your body fights it, your muscles tight and unyielding. Therrovech tilts your head and leans over you, something gold and dew-shiny sparkling in his mouth. He dribbles more nectar into your open mouth and your eyes roll back in your head. It’s good. Tastes good. Feels good. Makes your skin all buzzing and warm. Makes him feel good everywhere he’s pressed into you, nipping your veins.

The vines quiver. Therrovech presses into you again and this time you let him. Not thorns, at least, but it’s thick and hard and studded with dull barbs that catch and pull on things inside of you. It shouldn’t feel good but the nectar makes it heaven. Therrovech’s body undulates, a strange, worm-like quiver rather than the thrusting mating motion you expect, but the result is the same. He throws his head back and groans as he fills you. You shudder in ecstasy.

“More,” Therrovech whispers. He leans in close, his strange body pressed against yours. He kisses you feverishly. He pours nectar into your mouth and it’s more than you can swallow, sticky saliva dribbling down your chin.

Sharpness jolts you out of your haze momentarily. It was a small, fleeting pain, just a pinprick. A thorn scrapes behind your teeth. You open your eyes and Therrovech is losing what little cohesion he has in his upper body, a spiked tendril unfurling from one of his cheeks. He could hurt you badly. He might not even notice. You pull away and he whines, surging forward, more nectar already on his tongue. You push weakly at his chest and he grows around you, trapping your hands against his warm, throbbing center.

He said he wouldn’t make a mistake, but godlings are creatures of impulse. You try to hold onto the fear, the clear-headedness, searching for a way out, but Therrovech’s vines constrict and he drives into you harder. A spurt of thick, creamy nectar fills your insides and every thought you have is obliterated. Nothing matters. Nothing but having more of this. You drive your body onto his organ and take everything he has to give. You’ll stay. Stay forever, if that’s what he wants.

Your head falls back against the altar and you see Cherroveth, upside down, standing against the mural. Embarrassment heats your face at being seen like this, but it’s quickly forgotten in the churn of heat and sensation. The Prince of Flowers smiles softly. He’s undressed, his fist wrapped around a thick cock, stroking himself into hardness. He’s waiting, you think. Waiting as for the Prince of Thorns to do something he shouldn’t. To lose himself. To unfurl sharpness into your body. To fill all the space inside.

Therrovech nips at your lower lip just a little bit too hard and you taste blood. He sucks at the wound hungrily and all of his vines tighten at once.

You wonder just how long Cherroveth will have to wait.

#rotpeach writes #original #goretober

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crackedpumpkin · 5 days ago

Text

All Too Human (01)

a/n: thought about him a little too much.

series masterlist | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁

The first thing you see upon opening your eyes is pitch black. The darkness resembles the black holes you’d seen in space documentaries, ready to swallow anything in its path of destruction.

A sense of unease coils in your stomach as the leaves crunch beneath your body when you sit upright. The gradual haziness from the sleepy fog slowly leaves your mind, revealing the stark reality of your surroundings.

Gone is the warm comfort of your bed where you’d laid to sleep, snuggled under the sheets with the promise of a new day. Instead, all that greets you is an ominous silence, with no trace of sunlight to be found.

Trees surround you, but their appearance is starkly different from the ones you know. Instead of vibrant green leaves and dark brown bark, the ones around you are of a dark grey, their roots curled and twisted above ground as if the soil itself were filled with poison.

It must be a dream.

You smile. Maybe it’s the stress of your gap year almost concluding with practically no results to show other than your travels, but one could attribute the giant spider in front of your eyes as the product of a nightmare.

After all, it could just be your brain rationalising all your anxieties and unresolved emotions into a creature of horrors. The spider approaches with caution, its beady eyes analysing whether or not you need to be bitten and paralyzed.

Not like it’d do anything in the first place, you’d be happy to simply lay there and accept them, knowing that they’re all just in your head. Perhaps being bitten by it would somehow give you a sort of ‘awakening’ in coming to terms with your unacknowledged yet plausible fears.

If therapy were a subject, you’d have aced it with flying colours and extra credit to boot from the amount of psychoanalysing you’ve just done.

But unfortunately, as your fingers fiddle with the silken thread that’s begun to weave around your body that feels a little too realistic to be a product of imagination, an inexplicable sense of dread consumes your senses like a tidal wave that’s arrived too late.

It’s not a dream.

Glancing from the cocoon that’s already woven up to your thighs to the sharp fangs dripping venom, any cry for help dies in your throat. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, but your body remains frozen.

You try to pull one leg free, but the silk only tightens, binding your movements with every subtle twitch. Your mind races, logic and fear clashing, struggling to convince yourself this can’t be real. But the prickling sensation on your skin as the spider's fangs inch closer to it is unmistakably so.

Panic bubbles up, the urge to scream trapped beneath the weight of paralysis. Your gaze darts around, desperate for anything that could help. A branch, a stone, a break in the webbing; but all you see is endless darkness and twisted shadows.

Just as the spider shifts, a flicker of movement catches your eye. A shadow, swift and silent, slipping through the trees. You want to call out, but your voice is caught, locked behind a wall of terror. The spider's attention wavers, one of its legs pausing mid-air as though sensing something nearby.

Then, a glint. A flash of metal slicing through the darkness. Before you can process what’s happening, the creature rears back, a soundless scream stretching across its mandibles as it stumbles. You feel a force pulling at you, the sharp sound of a blade slicing through the silken webbing just as your vision blurs with panic and relief.

Your body is lifted up by a pair of strong yet thin arms, your hands automatically clinging to their shirt. Only what meets your touch isn’t the cotton material you’re familiar with, but the firmness of leather.

Your eyes drift upwards up to see the face of your saviour, only for the breath to catch in your throat once you do. His beauty is almost paralysing — a cascade of golden hair frames a face that seems carved from light itself, jaw sharp and eyes piercing. You’re so stunned that the only word you can manage is a breathless, disbelieving, “Legolas?”

His brows knit together, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he registers your words. But before you can say more, your vision blurs, the world dissolving into darkness as his face; half surprise, half confusion, fades from view.

— — — — — —

“-in the forest. She knew me, Tauriel. She called me by name.”

You lift your head, blurry vision clouding your focus as you come to your senses. The last thing you remember is seeing the very figment of fiction standing right in front of you. A wave of scepticism washes over you for a fleeting moment, wondering if you’d somehow died in your sleep and gone to hell.

It’s the only way to explain the bizarre nightmare you’d just had, after all.

As your vision clears with a few shakes of your head, you become aware of something soft covering your body, and the rays of sunlight beaming through the open windows. It’s a stark contrast to your nightmare from earlier. Your hand reaches to your throat, gently feeling it as if ensuring you’re still alive.

“You’re awake.”

The sudden voice startles you, instantly sitting upright as your hands curl into fists. How did a stranger get into your apartment?

But when you see who the intruder is, your jaw drops.

“Legolas.” His name, filled with pure disbelief, falls from your lips, and it suddenly occurs to you to look at your surroundings. Your eyes dart from the vanity mirror next to the door decorated with shining jewels, and sizeable emeralds encrusting the bedframe you’re in.

You part your lips, still processing the room that’s probably worth more than your entire family. “This isn’t my apartment.” You stare at the elf sitting next to you, reaching out a hand in wonder.

Is he real?

His hand grabs yours, stopping you from pinching or poking his face. He shifts, discomfort crossing his face momentarily though traces of it remain in his gaze. “How do you know me?” He asks, a hint of perplexity lacing his voice as he leans forward, genuinely intrigued by your reaction.

A freakishly tall cosplayer? A D&D player who's really into the role? What if this is a TV show and you're just getting pranked or something? You nod at the last possibility. It had to be something like that, it's the only thing that would explain all this so far.

“Okay, this is all very funny, but if this really is a TV show, I’m expecting a huge reward for my reactions.” You watch as Legolas’s brow furrows, the corners of his mouth twitching in a mix of confusion and amusement. It’s almost as if he’s trying to comprehend the absurdity of your words while remaining serious.

“What are you talking about?”

Ignoring his question, you scrutinise him, adjusting yourself so that your hands rest under your chin, elbows propped up by your bent knees. “How’d you get his hair colour so accurate? The bleaching process must’ve been absolutely insane.” You comment, watching him flinch away from your touch, making you grin.

“I hope you know that kidnapping is illegal though,” you continue, your tone light yet pointed. “And I’d really appreciate the appearance fee on whatever show this is. Is it YouTube? I can subscribe to support it. I gotta show this to Mom for sure. This set is incredible!” You marvel at the lavish set around you, gesturing to the bed. “I mean, these diamonds? They look so real!”

Patting your body to find your phone, you realise that the old, oversized shirt and shorts you use as pyjamas have been replaced with a tunic with the pattern of vines embroidered across your abdomen, and a pair of pants that fit you almost perfectly.

What the-

Narrowing your eyes, you snatch up the blanket and scooch back. “Okay, who changed me? That’s crossing a line, buddy. Me being passed out does not equal consent.” Your voice wavers slightly as doubt creeps into the cracks of your confidence.

Am I really awake right now?

Instinctively, you start patting down the bed and your new clothes, continuing the search for the comforting weight of your phone, but it’s nowhere to be found. A small spike of panic rises before you quickly brush it off. They probably confiscated it for filming, you reason, trying to steady your nerves. Wouldn’t want me leaking the ultimate Lord of the Rings production before the big reveal, right?

“His Majesty has called for you to bring the human to him.” Another beautiful elf cosplayer appears in the open doorway. You stare at her pointed ears in momentary fascination, only to be pulled out of the bed by the wannabe Legolas.

“Hey, what the fuck? I can get out of bed by myself, thank you very much.” You pull your arm back in annoyance, the elven girl from earlier casting you an odd look. Her hand reaches for the sheath attached to the belt on her waist, only to falter when Legolas holds up a hand.

You follow them both in a daze, speechless from the wonders you pass by on the way to wherever they’re taking you. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and vibrant greenery in every corner of the place.

They must’ve spent close to a million dollars on the set alone.

Finally, you enter a pair of huge doors that open silently. You’re almost hidden behind Legolas’s towering build, the grandeur of the throne room washing over you in a wave of disbelief.

“Yup, I’m dead.” You confirm with a lighthearted air, practically feeling your soul leave your body at the sight. “I’m dead and this is heaven. Or hell. Or in between, I don’t know.”

You spot the slightest twitch in the corner of Legolas’s grim expression, doing his best to hide his amusement from your words. Seeing a figure clothed in white that sits on the throne in the middle of the room, you blink a couple times, your brain registering his appearance.

“My Lord,” Legolas begins, stepping forward and gesturing toward you. “This is the human I found lost in the dark forest.”

Thranduil's sharp gaze narrows at you, and he leans forward slightly, a hint of disapproval etched on his features. ““A human in Mirkwood? They do not stray here without reason, Legolas. You should have left her to the mercy of her own kind.”

Legolas straightens, a hint of defiance in his tone. “But she knows me by name, and her demeanour is unlike that of any human I’ve encountered before.”

You watch the exchange, a mix of confusion and intrigue swirling within you. The way they speak, the elegance of their movements, and the grandeur of the throne room feel all too real to be a TV show. The cogs in your brain creak and groan as they turn, piecing together the fragments of the bizarre situation you’ve found yourself in.

“Wait.” Your brain stutters. The puzzle pieces finally fall into place, staring straight at the elven prince who looks back at you with raised brows. “If you’re actually Legolas, and you’re,” you gesture lamely to the elf on the throne, “Thranduil…”

Oh my god.

Oh. My. God.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” A laugh wrecks itself free from your chest, staggering backwards. “Am I in Lord of The Rings? The Hobbit? Is Sauron still evil?” This must be a dream, you think desperately, pinching your arm to test reality. Pain flares, but the confusion only deepens.

Maybe I hit my head?

Legolas approaches you with concern in his eyes, but you flinch away, hands curling into fists as you assume a somewhat defensive position. The weight of their gazes almost makes you crumble. They’re real. They’re not just characters in a movie. Or cosplayers.

You’re in the Hobbit world, and this isn’t a prank. The realisation hits you like a punch to the gut. Your mind spins, grappling with the truth that this is no fantasy — it’s your reality now.

It crashes over you like a wave, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of pure disbelief.

This is insane.

Your breath quickens as you watch Thranduil, regal and imposing, speak in a voice that sends chills down your spine. What if this is really happening? What if I can’t go back? Everything is muffled, unable to process anything that he says.

You blink rapidly, feeling the panic clawing at the edges of your mind. “No, no, no… this can’t be real…” Your voice trails off, and you find yourself staring at Legolas, at the exquisite throne, and at Thranduil’s intrigued yet guarded expression.

“You,” gesturing to the king of elves so casually would’ve probably cost your life, but right now you couldn’t care less. “Has Smaug attacked Lake-Town yet? What about the Ring, or whatever it’s called?”

Thranduil’s expression hardens, eyes narrowing. “You speak of events you should not know, human,” he states coldly, his voice laced with authority. “Your knowledge is… troubling. Why would you possess such insight into our affairs?”

The realisation dawns on you, a creeping dread that what you said could have dire consequences. You’d spoken too fast, too urgently for it to be seen as idiotic ramblings. You take a step back, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the walls closing in as Thranduil’s gaze pinches your chest with an unyielding grip.

Your lips part and close like a goldfish gasping for air, mind racing for ways to undo the fatal mistake made. The room spins slightly, disorienting you further.

What have I done?

Based on his reaction, none of what you’ve said has taken place yet, which means that it’s only going to get worse from here now that he’s heard.

Thranduil leans forward, the regal facade slipping away to reveal something darker. “Speak the truth,” he commands, each word measured and heavy. “How do you know these things?”

You swallow hard, panic bubbling in your chest. “I—uh, I just… I read the books. I mean, it’s not like you can keep secrets when you’re famous, right? Everyone knows about you and your kingdom and the dragon!” The frantic pace of your words makes you sound desperate, and you can hear the tremor in your voice.

Legolas’s brows furrow in worry as he steps closer, but is stopped by one of the guards whom his father waves a hand toward. You’re in a throne room with a king who holds the power of life and death in his hands, and you’re just a human who dropped into this world with knowledge that shouldn’t exist.

“What if I’m just a casual reader?” you babble, desperately trying to grasp at straws. “I mean, there are millions of people who love your stories! This has to be some kind of mix-up, right? I can’t be the only one that's read them! Sure, I might've only read the books when I was 16, but that should still count for something, right??”

Thranduil’s piercing gaze only intensifies. “Your flippancy in the face of such gravity is alarming. If you truly are a mere mortal with fanciful tales, you would not speak of such matters so easily.”

“I swear, I didn’t mean to-” you start, but the words get caught in your throat, overcome by a wave of nausea.

“Enough!” Thranduil’s voice reverberates through the chamber, commanding attention. His gaze sharpens, narrowing as he scrutinises you. “Your words bear the weight of knowledge that should not belong to a mere human. You speak of events that could unravel the very fabric of our history.”

A chill creeps down your spine, a mixture of fear and confusion. “But I-”

“Do not interrupt,” he snaps, his tone leaving no room for defiance. “You are a mystery to me, and mysteries are not to be trusted lightly. You may not be a spy, but the truth of your origins and how you came to know such things is troubling.”

“I can explain! I’m not a threat! Please-”

Thranduil raises a hand to silence you, his expression stern. “Your incoherence and wild claims only heighten my concern. Until I can ascertain the truth of your existence and intentions, I cannot allow you to roam freely within my realm.”

He stands, your heart sinking as he parts his lips.

“Seize her!” he commands, his voice resolute. The guards move forward, their expressions grim and unyielding. Legolas can only watch helplessly as you’re dragged away to the dungeons, your limp body and watery eyes staring at the ceiling.

— — — — — —

Maybe if you squint hard enough, the rock-hard floor would eventually become the emerald-encrusted bed you’d woken up on the first day you arrived here. Barely flinching when footsteps walk past your cell, you continue staring blankly at the ceiling.

Your back had grown numb to the stone floor, but you hardly noticed anymore. Days blend together, differentiated only by the creak of the cell door as someone delivers your meals; meals that remain untouched.

At first, you'd begged anyone who would listen, voice hoarse from calling out for an audience with the king or even just a glimpse of Legolas, desperate for answers or even a small sign that you hadn’t simply vanished into some twisted nightmare.

But they never came.

Over time, your voice grew softer, your pleas weaker, until they faded entirely, swallowed by the plaguing silence of the dungeon. Now, you simply lie there, unmoving, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, hoping that if you stare long enough, the rough stone might blur into something familiar or even comforting.

A shiver runs through you as a cool draft drifts in from somewhere in the dark. You barely register it, too accustomed to the damp cold that’s seeped into your bones over time. The floor is firm, pressing into your spine, yet you can’t bring yourself to shift or even curl up for warmth. Movement feels meaningless.

Time is a cruel, slippery thing. At first, it dragged, each hour stretching into an eternity, every moment a fresh reminder of how confined you were. But now, it blurs, slipping past in uneven stretches you can’t track. One blink, and days have vanished. Another, and an agonizing moment stretches forever.

It’s almost laughable, really. Just days ago (though it feels like a lifetime) you’d pounded on the cell door until your fists were raw, shouting until your throat burned, desperate for someone, anyone, to hear you. To acknowledge you. To see you. You’d begged, reasoned, demanded, your words spilling out like a broken dam.

But the silence was louder. It swallowed you whole.

The footsteps echo again. Slow and deliberate. You know the sound well by now, the rhythm of someone entering the cell, but you don’t bother looking. They leave a plate, same as always, then retreat without a word. Maybe if you close your eyes, you could almost pretend you’re back home. Almost.

But the ache of hunger remains, the chill lingers, and the weight of your isolation presses heavier with each passing day. You sink deeper into yourself, mind drifting as a desperate form of escape, retreating further and further from the reality of your situation.

It’s nightfall when someone approaches your cell once more. You’d mentally counted the number of times they delivered your food today. This one, however, sounds different. It’s a few seconds of silence that pass by before someone calls out to you in a hushed voice.

“Human, wake up!”

The lilt of his voice is vaguely familiar. You huff. As if Legolas, of all people, would come down here. If he wanted to, he would’ve already done so. But a part of you stirs, buried hope rising to the surface.

Sitting up is difficult, your self-starvation having resulted in a weakened body. Empty eyes look to the door, only to widen at the sight of golden hair. “Legolas?” His name comes out in a whisper. You refuse to blink, fear gripping your chest at the thought of him disappearing the moment you do.

“What have the guards done?” He murmurs, shock in his eyes as he takes in the gauntness of your cheeks and the prominence of your collarbones that peek out from beneath the now dirty tunic.

“They didn’t do anything,” you mumble, sudden shame flooding your cheeks in a rush of warmth. “I just didn’t eat…”

Legolas’s brow furrows, his gaze softening as he watches you turn away, your voice barely audible. He hesitates before kneeling down. His movements are careful, almost as though he's approaching a wounded animal.

“That is no way to survive here,” he says in a gentle reprimand. “This may not be your world as you claim, but that doesn’t mean you must waste away in it.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes you, though it lacks any real humour. “What else am I supposed to do? No one believes me, and your king thinks I’m a threat just for… knowing things.” Your dry throat makes the words come out hoarse, swallowing down whatever saliva you can muster to lubricate it.

Legolas studies you for a long moment, something akin to compassion flickering in his eyes. “Perhaps my father was… hasty in his judgement,” he murmurs. “If you truly pose no danger, then it would be unjust to keep you here like this.”

He straightens, the resolve in his gaze hardening. “I will speak to him. I cannot promise he’ll be easily swayed, but I will do what I can to ease your burden. No one should be left to suffer like this.”

Your head snaps up, a glimmer of hope fighting its way through your weariness. “You would… do that?”

“Do not misunderstand,” he says, voice firm but kind. “I know not what brought you here, nor do I fully understand your knowledge of our affairs. But you have not acted with malice. You look more like a soul displaced than a threat.”

For a moment, he seems almost conflicted, as though something deeper drives him to help you. He lets out a sigh, his hand hovering above the branches that make up your cell gate, almost touching but not quite. “Eat, regain your strength. I will speak to my father. Perhaps… Perhaps there is another path.”

He leaves as quickly as he arrives, the only trace of him the empathetic advice he’d given you. You glance from the now empty hall to the tray of bread and roasted vegetables that had probably become cold by now.

The first thing you grab, however, is the clay cup filled with crystal-clear water. You never knew water could taste so sweet. It’s gone in seconds, and you place the now empty cup beside you before attacking the coarse bread with an almost primal ferocity.

At first, you think it’s just the sensation of the food, like a lump that sticks in your throat, or a catch in your breath. But then you notice the tremor in your hands, and a strange wetness slipping down your cheeks.

You freeze, a piece of bread still clutched in your hand, and touch your face cautiously. Your fingertips come away damp, and the reality sinks in: you’re crying. It’s not the sobbing kind, nor the loud, cathartic release you’d seen in movies. Instead, it’s quiet and constant, like a river that refuses to stop flowing.

Somewhere between the exhaustion, the loneliness, and the fear you’ve tried to ignore, the tears found their way out, and now they refuse to stop. So you sit and allow them to fall, quiet sniffles echoing through the lonely cell.

I want to go home.

After your tears subside, you continue eating with a sense of calm. Legolas is right, you reason as you bite into a chunk of carrot. I have to eat to survive, so I can go home again. I’m sure he’ll find a way. He’s Legolas, after all.

The tray is soon cleared of all food, and you stumble to the door, placing it nearby. Laying back down on the floor once more, you gradually succumb to the lull of sleep, hoping that when you open your eyes again, the sight of a familiar window by your bed will greet you like an old friend.

— — — — — —

“You’re kidding me.”

The very elf king guy that had you confined to this cell stares down at you with thinly veiled disgust in his eyes when the words slip from your lips. Before, you would’ve probably collapsed at his feet, trying to beg for your life in a strange and unfamiliar world.

But now? A spark of anger triggers something in you. With all the energy your body can muster, you slam yourself against the cell door, fingers curled around the sturdy bars that secure you inside. “Let me out,” you grit your teeth, pissed off by the calm expression on his face.

“You spoke of the One Ring.” He ignores your pitiful attempt at intimidation, shifting ever so slightly as he stares at you. “Elaborate.”

You swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as the weight of his gaze pins you in place. “I—I don’t know much,” you stammer, the words tumbling out despite your attempts to stay composed. Right. He has the power to end your life with a flick of his hand. “Only that… the One Ring is tied to Sauron somehow. I remember that it’s… powerful, dangerous.”

Thranduil’s expression doesn’t shift. His eyes are as cold as ice, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“What else do you know?” His voice is low and unyielding, giving no indication of his thoughts. “You spoke of Smaug as well. And mentioned Sauron. Speak clearly, human.”

You let out a shaky breath, mind racing as you try to recall the scattered bits and pieces from books you barely remember. “Smaug… he’s alive, somewhere… in the Lonely Mountain.”

The details are hazy, like faded ink on an old receipt stored away in your wallet. “But I don’t know much else, only that he’s… a dragon,” you add, voice trembling. “And Sauron… I remember that he’s evil. That he… corrupts things.” You look up, frustrated by the gaps in your own memory. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, but I read about this so long ago, and a lot of it is… gone.”

For a moment, silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thranduil’s gaze sharpens, silently weighing your words, assessing whether to trust your confusion or see through it. Then he leans forward, his face unreadable.

“Why, then, do you speak of these events as if they’ve already happened?” he presses, his tone probing but controlled. “The dragon, the One Ring. You speak of them as if they are matters of history, yet they are our present. I find your lack of knowledge… puzzling.”

The truth of his words only magnifies the anxiety twisting inside you. How can you explain the concept of a book…a story, even, from another world? How can you convince him that you’re not some spy, or a witch wielding forbidden knowledge?

“I know how it sounds,” you say slowly, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I sound… deranged, I get that. But where I’m from, all of this. This whole world…it’s just a story.” The words leave you, barely a whisper. “You, Legolas, even… Sauron. You’re part of a book.”

At that, Thranduil’s expression grows colder, as if his patience is waning. “And what purpose would such a… ‘story’ serve?”

You hesitate, trying to find words that would make sense to him, though you can barely understand it yourself. “It was… a tale of good and evil. Of heroes, villains. I read it when I was younger because it was assigned reading. But this,” you gesture around you, the dungeon walls, the cold stone floor, “none of it felt real. I didn’t even think it could be real.”

Thranduil regards you for a long, unreadable moment, then shifts slightly, his stance regal yet filled with disdain. “You will remain here until I determine whether you are a danger to my realm,” he declares, sharp and final. “Your knowledge, whether madness or truth, must be contained.”

“But I’m not a threat!” you protest, hands gripping the edge of the cold metal. “I don’t know enough to change anything. I’m just… I’m just trying to understand.”

“If you possess knowledge that should not exist in your mind, that alone is reason for caution,” Thranduil replies, unmoved by your desperation. He takes his leave, walking away with that unnerving composure of his.

“Please-” Your plea comes out choked. “At least let me take a bath.” It’s truly absurd, the fact that luxuries like hot showers and soaps you’d once taken for granted are now things you have to beg for.

He stops, turning his head slightly. He nods once to the guard stationed nearby, granting your request. Relief floods your body in waves, barely able to believe he’d agree. The guard steps forward, taking the set of keys from his belt and unlocking the door. Your body is too weak to fight, and Thranduil is most definitely aware of this.

It’s also probably why he’s letting you have this one thing.

As you’re led down the stone corridor, you catch sight of other elves passing by, each one casting curious, wary glances in your direction. You shrink under their stares, feeling painfully out of place. When you reach a chamber outfitted with a small basin of steaming water and a cloth, your breath catches at the sight.

“Thank you,” you murmur, feeling the words slip out almost unconsciously as the guard averts his gaze, giving you privacy to bathe.

The water is lukewarm, but it might as well be a luxury spa as you scrub away days' worth of dust and weariness. You close your eyes, letting the water drip down your face, imagining for just a moment that you’re back in your world. A place with warm showers, comforting scents, and familiar sounds. But no matter how hard you try, the ache in your chest remains, reminding you of where you truly are.

You take your time, hoping to savour every second of it, every drop of water and gentle brush of the cloth. But too soon, it’s over. The guard’s footsteps echo softly as he approaches, a subtle indication that your time is up.

After dressing in the simple, clean tunic provided, you’re led back through the winding corridors, the fleeting moment of peace slipping away as reality settles in. When the heavy cell door shuts behind you, sealing you once more in cold stone.

— — — — — —

Another week slipped by. Thranduil continued his irregular visits, each time pressing you for information. You’d combed through (almost) every scrap of detail you could remember, hoping it might eventually lead to freedom. But even with your best efforts, the gaps in your memory remained stubbornly intact.

To hold on to some piece of yourself, you started working out in your cell — pushups, sit-ups, anything to keep moving. At least now, you could understand why gym bros were so committed. Without the endorphins from the exercise, you probably would have unravelled by the fifth or sixth day.

Legolas had visited again a few nights ago. His expression held a quiet regret as he admitted he hadn’t yet persuaded his father to release you. Still, he’d managed to convince Thranduil to transfer you to a more comfortable cell, a small victory in his eyes.

But the surprise on his face when you declined almost made you laugh.

Honestly, you’d given up hope that he or anyone else could get you out. Instead, you’d decided to rely on your own wits, piecing together hazy recollections of events that would eventually bring familiar characters to the dungeons.

When the dwarves arrived, you’d just need to bide your time until Bilbo found the barrels or some other escape opportunity presented itself.

You had no idea how long it would take. But if you’d endured this long, what was a little more waiting? Based on the hints Legolas had dropped about recent events across Middle-earth, you estimated the timeline was closing in on Thorin’s arrival. With any luck, the moment to escape would come soon enough.

The winding passageways had become familiar as well, Thranduil having given you more opportunities to bathe in exchange for the information you provided. (Though, you suspect it has more to do with his senses being compromised by your stench when he’d drop by for questioning)

Roughly two hours (or more, you can’t really tell at this point) after you had returned to your cell, hair damp from the bath and skin scrubbed clean, loud cries echoed through the cold, stone corridors of the dungeon. The sounds were chaotic and jarring. Gruff voices raised in anger, the clanking of metal chains, and the thud of heavy boots against the floor resounded in your ears, cutting through the usual silence.

The unmistakable voices of the dwarves, rough and determined, reached you as they were dragged into the dungeons, each cry echoing with a mix of defiance and dread. Each heartbeat of yours is like a drum until an entire marching band is practically playing in your chest.

You raise your head from where you sit, staring at the wall opposite with weary eyes as you hear loud protests and bodies being harshly pushed into the neighbouring cells.

Thorin and his dwarves had arrived.

#Kili x female reader #kili x female reader #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit #kili x you #kili x y/n #kili durin #kili x reader

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