#boleyn ground

[austin-friars]

There needs to be a series delving into Mary Tudor, there has long been a need for one. Because maybe an in depth series/read will make people more sympathetic to her. it should be obvious that she owed anne nor henry any kindness, but people still think she did...even though she was directly/indirectly tormented by both of them?

And I'm not talking about the burnings and stuff. I'm talking about Mary's life and resentment toward Anne and Henry during the divorce and everything.

[fideidefenswhore]

extremely annoyed in retrospect how often the phrase 'great whore' was scripted in BE.

[hrrtshape]

hiya there fellow history nerd, who's your favorite henry the 8th wife???? i mean love them all, fuck henry, but if you realllyyy had to choose...who would you???

objectively it’s anne boleyn. like yes she’s girlboss gaslight gatekeep but also she invented the genre. every toxic tumblr girl from 2013 owes her royalties. she flirted with the king once and he restructured the entire church. catholicism cried.

BUT. if i’m being completely unhinged-honest, i also have a stupid soft spot for katherine of aragon because she was like. the original divorced queen. eldest daughter energy. stood her ground in a room full of powdered men saying “i am the king’s true wife” in latin. like, sorry, you know she quoted cicero just to ruin henry’s day. also she looked incredible in black. also she outlived anne. poetic cinema.

jane seymour’s giving “i fix broken boys” energy and honestly we need to stop normalising that. anne of cleves girlbossed her way into a divorce and a massive allowance, lived in a castle, didn’t have to deal with his bullshit, and probably laughed a lot. respect. she's like "oh no i’m ugly?? okay. enjoy your gout and syphilis, sir."

catherine howard = doomed hot girl. textbook bimbo martyrdom. she walked so lana del rey could get sad in church.

and catherine parr?????? woman survived him. SURVIVED. she outlived him. she had books. she wrote books. she was a stepmother in the tudor court and still didn’t die. that’s heroine status.

final answer..... anne boleyn with catherine parr in the backseat holding a crossbow. unless it’s a sunday, in which case i’m screaming “katherine of aragon was right” in latin at the vatican.

[rainforestakiie]

Hey! Hope I’m not bothering you I just got this idea. Hear me out, when Adam wakes up as a sinner after dying and not only that but as a woman! Lucifer finds him/her and does the unthinkable. He makes Adam his mistress. Unironically. I’d think it be cool if Lilith was still there, not because she wants to but her soul is bound to hell as is Lucifer’s. I just love drama that’s all. It be like Anne Boleyn except we’re cheering on for our mistress. Mpreg is also an option. Again I just think it could add spice.

hello, thank you so much for the kind message! i have done my best to write this request; it might be a little different from what you wanted. it took on a life of its own, haha.

i really liked the thought of adam being forcefully turned into a woman and becoming a sinner. i wanted to try something different and new. i hope it's good.

i liked lilith being there, and originally lilith was going to be in a relationship with eve, but my lucifer x adam x lilith took over a little. lilith loves adam too in this! this has a bit of angst in it, so warnings for that. anyway, i hope you like it!

When Adam stirred, the world tilted, cruel and unforgiving, painted in streaks of red, pink, purple, and black—a grotesque palette smeared across his vision. His head throbbed with a searing, relentless ache, as if the universe had taken all its hatred and focused it on the fragile walls of his skull. A low, guttural groan slipped from his lips, raw and unsteady, as his hand weakly brushed the side of his head. Dampness. Warm. Sticky. Blood? Probably. He didn’t care enough to check.

He pushed himself up, every movement slow, heavy, excruciating. Pain blossomed in waves through his body—an ache so deep it felt like his very bones were fractured, like he’d been hollowed out and filled with shards of glass. It wasn’t the kind of ache you could laugh off. No, this was the kind that lingered, etched itself into every breath, every twitch of muscle. Adam sighed, eyes squeezed shut, the motion sending a fresh ripple of agony through his temples. The spinning didn’t stop.

He stayed like that, a trembling statue of resignation, until the nausea subsided just enough for him to crack open his eyes. He blinked once. Twice. Slowly, the shapes around him solidified. Where...where was he? The landscape looked alien, hostile, and wrong. A haze hung in the air, thick and stifling, carrying with it the scent of ash and despair.

He tried to piece it together, tried to remember. His chest tightened. Heaven? Wasn’t he supposed to be in heaven? The thought came unbidden, soft and fragile, like a thread he was afraid to pull. His lips parted, a quiet gasp escaping as fragments of memory clawed their way to the surface.

Oh.

Adam’s face twisted, his brows furrowing as reality set in. Not heaven. This wasn’t heaven. He tore his gaze from the scorched earth beneath him, scanning his surroundings with growing dread. No white light, no ethereal glow, no comfort. Just fire and shadow and a choking, unbearable heat that clung to his skin like a punishment.

Hell.

He was in hell.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him winded and trembling. His body burned—inside and out—with an unnatural, throbbing pain that made him want to claw his own skin off. He dragged himself upright, his legs weak and unsteady beneath him, threatening to buckle with every shaky step. The world tilted again, cruel and mocking, and he barely managed to catch himself against the rough surface of a crumbling wall. The concrete was warm, almost scalding, and he pressed his forehead against it, letting the pain ground him.

His breaths came shallow, each one more ragged than the last. He let out a broken laugh—short and humourless—because what else was there to do? He was so tired. Tired of the pain. Tired of the memories. Tired of everything. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to close his eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening. Pretend he hadn’t fallen. Pretend that it wasn’t his fault.

But pretending wouldn’t change anything.

He tilted his head back, his gaze lifting to the sky—or what passed for one. The light was dim and distorted, like the sun had been dragged down here just to mock him. Somewhere up there, beyond that burning, angry sky, heaven waited. And for a fleeting moment, it felt close enough to touch.

He had been there, hadn’t he? Hours ago? Days? He didn’t know how long had passed since...since he’d done it. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard against the lump forming there. What had it felt like? Falling? He couldn’t even remember anymore. Only the aftermath remained—the aching, the emptiness, the weight of knowing he had been there once, so close to peace, and now he was here.

Hell.

Adam closed his eyes again, letting his head rest against the unforgiving brick. This was where he belonged now. This was what he had chosen. Or maybe...this was what had chosen him.

The sinners closed in, their leering faces filling Adam’s blurry vision. Their jeers turned to sneers, their laughter growing crueller, sharper. Fingers brushed against his arm, his shoulder, his side—each touch slimy and unwelcome. His body stiffened as a cold chill crawled up his spine, his feet frozen in place, unable to move.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart,” one of them drawled, their grin twisting into something feral. “We’ll take real good care of you.”

Adam’s lips parted, but no words came out. His body trembled, his knees threatening to buckle under him. The air was thick with heat and malice, suffocating him, and for a moment, he thought he might crumble entirely.

Then it happened.

A blinding eruption of purple and black light burst forth, consuming the space around them in a violent wave. The ground beneath Adam’s feet quaked, cracks spidering out in every direction as the magic surged. The sinners shrieked and staggered back, shielding their faces from the raw, overwhelming power.

Adam fell to his knees, the force of the wave knocking him off balance. His head struck the side of the building with a dull thud, and a fresh wave of pain radiated through his skull. He winced, his vision swimming, but through the haze, he caught sight of a figure standing before him, framed by the swirling darkness.

His gaze flickered upward, peering through long, damp eyelashes, and his breath hitched.

Lilith.

She stood tall, regal and commanding, her form cloaked in shadows that pulsed with an otherworldly energy. Her violet eyes burned like twin flames, wide with disbelief as they locked onto his. Her lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came.

“A-Adam?” she breathed, her voice a whisper, tinged with shock.

She took a hesitant step closer, her gaze sweeping over him as if she needed to confirm what she was seeing.

Adam tried to push himself up, his arms trembling beneath him, but his legs refused to cooperate. He stumbled, his balance faltering, and before he could hit the ground again, Lilith’s arms wrapped around him, catching him.

His body slumped against hers, and for a moment, he was too disoriented to process what was happening. She was warm—surprisingly warm—and her grip was firm but hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure what to do with him.

Lilith glanced down at him, her expression a mixture of confusion and something else—something softer, though it was buried beneath layers of discomfort. She looked back at the sinners, who were frozen in place, their faces twisted with confusion and fear. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips curled into a sneer.

Before they could react, she snapped her fingers.

The air shifted violently as waves of purple and black magic surged outward, swirling around them like a protective barrier. The sinners stumbled back, their confusion morphing into panic as the magic grew stronger, crackling with power. They didn’t dare move any closer.

Adam’s head lolled against Lilith’s shoulder, the pounding in his skull reaching a fever pitch. The throbbing blurred his thoughts, his senses dulling under the weight of exhaustion and pain. He tried to lift his head, tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

Lilith looked down at him, her brow furrowed. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but she hesitated. For a moment, she seemed unsure—whether to drop him to the ground and leave him there or…do something else.

Adam’s vision darkened further, the edges fading into black. The last thing he saw was Lilith’s conflicted expression, the swirl of magic around them casting sharp shadows across her face. And then, finally, the darkness claimed him.

~#~

he first thing Adam noticed as he drifted back to consciousness was the voices—familiar, low, and tense, like a storm brewing just outside the room.

"Eve?" came a hushed, uncertain whisper.

"No," Lilith’s voice snapped back, soft but sharp, tinged with exasperation. "This is Adam."

There was a pause, thick and expectant, before the other voice—Lucifer’s—spoke again. "Are you sure?"

Lilith made a noise from the back of her throat, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Yes, Lucifer. I’m sure."

Another silence fell, stretching so long it began to grate on Adam’s nerves, though he wasn’t sure why.

"It’s just…" Lucifer began hesitantly, his tone uncertain, "He’s…different."

Adam groaned softly, the sound escaping his lips before he could stop it. His body ached as though every nerve had been lit on fire and then drowned in ice water. His eyes fluttered open, but the world was a blur of shifting shadows and dim light. He blinked, looking but not really seeing, his head pounding as he tried to move.

The whispering stopped abruptly.

"Be careful," Lilith said, her voice gentler now as she stepped closer to him. Her presence felt oddly steadying, like a rock in a chaotic sea. "We’ve had to heal your bones. Almost every one of them was fractured."

Adam didn’t respond, his throat burning with the rawness of disuse—or maybe something else entirely. He swallowed thickly, his stomach twisting. For a moment, he wondered if he was about to be sick.

"Are you Adam?" Lucifer’s voice piped up, unhelpful and blunt from somewhere behind Lilith.

Lilith shot him a dry look over her shoulder.

"Lucifer," she warned.

"What?" Lucifer shrugged, unapologetic. "You can never be too sure."

Adam squinted, turning his head slowly toward the source of the voice. The movement made his head spin, and he winced. Lucifer came into focus—or at least, what Adam assumed was Lucifer. He looked…different.

"Are you really Lucifer?" Adam croaked, his voice hoarse and scratchy, though there was a flicker of something like incredulity in his tone.

Lucifer paused, visibly taken aback. His mouth opened and closed a few times, sputtering incoherently, while Lilith let out a snort of amusement.

"Yes," Lucifer finally managed, his voice rising defensively. "I’m really Lucifer!"

He shot Lilith a look, as though seeking backup.

Lilith’s lips twitched, her golden eyes dancing with humour. She reached out and playfully patted him on the head, smoothing down his dark curls.

"You still look handsome," she said teasingly.

Lucifer blinked at her, his expression shifting from indignation to delight in an instant. He beamed, his entire face lighting up, and the warmth in his eyes was almost blinding.

It was sweet. It was cute. Adam sniffled softly, his gaze dropping to the floor. He hated the way his chest tightened at the sight of their obvious affection for one another. He hated how it reminded him of what he didn’t have—what he’d never had.

When he glanced back up, his eyes caught on Lilith’s horns, the massive, elegant arcs of deep purple that jutted from her golden hair like a crown. He stared without realizing it, his thoughts sluggish and disjointed.

Lilith tilted her head, catching his gaze.

"What?" she asked, arching a brow. "You think they’re ugly or something?"

Adam blinked, startled by the question. He quickly shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself.

"No," he murmured, his voice quiet but earnest. "I think they’re pretty."

Lilith’s brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across her face. She stepped back a half-step, almost as though she didn’t know how to respond.

"So this means you’ve fallen, then?" Adam asked after a moment, his eyes flickering between Lilith and Lucifer. His tone was soft but curious, tinged with something he couldn’t quite name. "I’ve…heard the rumours in Heaven about what happens. When you fall. You grow horns, claws…things like that."

Lilith frowned, her expression unreadable as she pushed her long golden hair out of her face.

"In a way," she said carefully, her voice quiet. "I suppose."

Lucifer crossed his arms, his dark wings shifting slightly behind him, his gaze flickering between Adam and Lilith.

 "It’s more complicated than that," he said, his tone casual but edged with something deeper.

Adam looked at him properly now, taking in the stark contrast to the being he once knew. This wasn’t the pristine, golden-haired archangel who had stood proudly in Heaven, clad in robes of white and blue. This Lucifer was darker, his features sharper, his presence heavier—less light, more shadow. But his eyes still held a glimmer of something familiar, something that made Adam’s chest tighten with an ache he couldn’t explain.

"Everything is…" Adam hesitated, searching for the words. "…different."

Adam’s head throbbed as the weight of their words pressed down on him. It felt like a vice was tightening around his skull, and he clutched the side of his head, his breathing uneven. He wanted to speak, to deny what they were saying, but his voice refused to cooperate.

"Er…" Lucifer cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. His usual suave confidence faltered as he glanced at Lilith, then back at Adam.

"Speaking of, uh…falling, Adam…" His voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. "Why did you fall?"

Adam blinked at him, his vision still swimming. He shook his head weakly, confusion etched into his features.

"I didn’t," he murmured, his voice hoarse and trembling.

Lilith’s brows furrowed, a flicker of concern crossing her face.

"You did, Adam," she said firmly, but not unkindly.

His gaze snapped up to hers, wide and desperate.

"No," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I couldn’t—I mean…"

He trailed off, his breath hitching as his mind scrambled to piece together fragments of memories that felt too sharp, too painful to touch.

Lucifer watched him, his own unease growing as he took in the turmoil flickering across Adam’s face. He lifted his clawed hands, golden magic sparking to life at his fingertips. With a small gesture, he conjured a mirror, the surface shimmering like liquid gold.

"You have," Lucifer said, his voice softer now. "Look."

He held the mirror out, his movements slow, almost cautious.

Adam’s hands trembled as he reached out, his grip on the mirror unsteady. He hesitated for a moment, staring at its glowing edges before finally tilting it toward himself.

The reflection was both familiar and alien. He knew about the changes—he had felt them in his bones, in the way his body moved, lighter, softer. His face was no longer angular but rounder, framed by long, cascading curls of thick brown hair. The length startled him; it reminded him too much of Lilith’s…or Eve’s.

His skin had lost its warmth, neither the sun-kissed tan of his Eden days nor the smooth alabaster he had once envied in the angels. Instead, it was ashen, a muted grey that seemed to swallow the light. His fingers brushed the sore bite mark on his neck, and he grimaced, quickly turning the mirror away.

Lilith caught the motion, her brows knitting together in worry.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice low but insistent.

Adam tilted the mirror slightly, and his gaze caught on the delicate blue horns that curled adorably from the top of his head. They were small, nothing like the imposing spirals of Lilith’s crown, but they were unmistakable. He blinked, shifting slightly on the bed, and noticed how his wings—no longer golden but a deep, ethereal blue—fluttered faintly behind him.

"Hm," he murmured, his voice distant. He stared into the mirror again, at the haunting black and blue of his eyes. "I guess…I died. When I jumped, makes sense…."

Lucifer let out a loud, sharp exclamation. "You jumped?!"

His wings flared slightly as he leaned forward, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. "What do you mean, you jumped?"

Adam jerked at the sudden outburst, his heart lurching painfully in his chest. Lilith quickly placed a calming hand on his, her touch grounding.

 "Lucifer," she hissed, shooting him a glare.

Lucifer flushed, his sharp features softening as he muttered, "Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell."

Lilith shifted closer to Adam, her movements slow and deliberate. Their history wasn’t exactly warm; Eden had been a battlefield of misunderstandings and clashing wills. But in this moment, she wasn’t the rebellious queen or the scorned first wife. She was simply…concerned.

"Adam," she said softly, her voice like a thread of silk drawing his gaze back to her. His hollow eyes met hers, and she gave him the barest of nods. "Did something happen? Up in Heaven?"

Lucifer stilled at her words, his red-and-gold eyes narrowing as he studied Adam again. His mind reeled, piecing together the broken puzzle in front of him. His gaze lingered on the small, delicate details—the horns, the softened features, the long hair.

"You were a woman," Lucifer said suddenly, his tone sharp and certain. "Before you jumped, you were already a woman. Dying and being reanimated as a sinner, didn’t turn you into a woman, did it?"

Adam froze, his body going rigid. The words hung in the air like a blade, cutting through the fragile quiet.

Lilith’s violet eyes darted between them, the storm of confusion and bitter realization darkening her expression. It was a war on her face—one she neither wanted nor asked to fight.

“Adam,” Lucifer’s voice was a blade, cutting through the tension, low and biting. “Why did you leap from Heaven?”

Adam’s throat tightened, the burn rising as if the truth itself was acid. He swallowed it down, trying to steady himself, but his composure was slipping, crumbling like ash in his grip. Tilting his head slightly, he hesitated, his mind racing. Trust? What even was that anymore? Heaven had betrayed him, gutted him, hollowed him out until he could no longer recognize the thing they left behind.

“Heaven…” The word came out in a rasp, heavy with bitterness. Adam inhaled sharply, lifting his gaze to meet Lucifer’s piercing eyes. His voice firmed, but the anger simmered just beneath. “It hasn’t been what you remember in a very long time.”

“In fact, it has become the opposite.”

~#~

Adam lay sprawled across the queen-sized bed, his body sinking into the softness of the sheets. Long curls of chestnut hair fanned out over the pillows, framing a face etched with exhaustion. His frame felt foreign now—smaller, more delicate, undeniably feminine. And yet, every nerve in him throbbed with relentless pain. It wasn’t just his body; his mind twisted with confusion. Why in all the realms would Lucifer and Lilith—Lucifer and Lilith—be the ones to help him? Why offer him shelter in their castle, of all places? Their spare room? Nothing about it tracked, and the unanswered questions gnawed at him.

It had been a week since Lilith had found him, broken and alone, and for some reason, took pity on him. She had whisked him away to their home without hesitation. Lucifer, however, remained a ghost. Adam had barely caught a glimpse of him, and he wasn’t eager to delve into what schemes the fallen angel might be concocting. Just thinking about Lucifer made his chest tighten with bitterness and sorrow, emotions he was too drained to untangle.

Lilith, though—Lilith was the surprise. She was the one who came to his room, who sat with him, who spoke to him despite the fact he never answered. When the time came to change his bandages, he’d hesitated, reluctant to bare himself under her gaze. He had expected disgust, judgment, perhaps even scorn. But there was none of that.

Lilith’s hands were steady, careful as she re-dressed his wounds. Her touch was soft, her words kind, her presence almost… calming. It unsettled him, the gentleness of it all. He hadn’t known what to say, so he’d stayed silent, letting her care for him while his thoughts spiralled in the quiet.

Think of the Queen of Hell, and she will answer.

The soft click of the chamber door announced Lilith’s arrival. She swept inside with an air of quiet command, a purple tray balanced in her hands. On it sat a bowl of steaming water, its heat curling faint wisps into the cold air. Adam forced himself upright, every movement igniting fresh aches, as she approached the bedside table and set the tray down. His eyes flicked to its contents—bandages, ointment, the tools of her careful ministrations—and then back to her.

“I’m worried,” Lilith admitted, breaking the silence.

Adam paused, fingers hesitating as he gripped the hem of the soft purple nightdress she had given him. With a deep breath, he pulled it off, baring his bruised and battered back to the Queen of Hell. Her lavender eyes scanned the canvas of his suffering, her gaze sharp and unwavering as it trailed down his spine. Her lips pressed into a tight, displeased line, betraying the thoughts she wouldn’t voice.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, confusion pulling at his brow. Worried? About him? It didn’t make sense. They were never close in Eden. Lilith had always been a force of her own, too bold, too defiant for Heaven’s chains. She had challenged everything Adam clung to, her sharp opinions cutting through his docile obedience. That defiance had captured Lucifer’s heart—something Adam had secretly admired, even envied. Lilith had escaped unscathed, but Adam… no. Saying no wasn’t an option for him. When he tried, it only brought punishment. Pain.

Her hand rose, sudden but gentle, her fingers brushing his raw skin. Adam flinched at the unexpected contact, the warmth of her touch startling him. Lilith’s head tilted, golden waves spilling over her shoulder like liquid sunlight as her expression softened.

“I’m worried, Adam,” she repeated, her voice low, almost tender. “You’re not healing like you should. Not nearly as fast.” Her fingers lingered lightly on his shoulder, careful, but her words were laced with something heavy. “You’ve become a sinner now. Hell’s power should have bonded with you. Wounds like these—injuries from before you jumped—they should have healed by now. Fully regenerated.”

Her words hung in the air, their weight pressing into Adam’s chest like stones. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

When Adam stayed silent, Lilith let out a soft sigh, setting to work. Her hands moved with practiced care, dabbing at his bruises and cuts, her touch as light as the brush of a breeze. Her gaze sharpened, narrowing on the cruel patterns etched into his skin—the bite marks, the fingerprints left in bruised shades of purple and black. Her lips pressed thin, displeasure radiating from her as her fingers lingered on one particularly deep mark.

“You were never this quiet in Eden,” she said, her voice low, but tinged with something coaxing. “In fact, I remember you couldn’t stop talking—always singing, always laughing. Never…this.”

Adam clenched his jaw, his lips locking tight as his golden eyes remained fixed on the far wall. His gaze flickered down briefly to the absurd little rubber duck perched at the end of the bed, a strange anomaly that had appeared out of nowhere the night before. He’d asked Lilith about it, pointing silently, but she had only smiled—an amused, enigmatic curve of her lips—and offered no explanation.

“Adam,” Lilith began again, her voice softening but with a dangerous edge creeping into it, “Did… they hurt you for speaking so much?”

Her words hung in the air, an accusation and a plea all at once. Without thinking, Adam shrugged, a small, almost dismissive movement, but one that made her hands freeze in surprise.

“It’s not different,” he murmured, his voice a raw, cracked whisper, as though the act of speaking after so long had physically hurt him. The sound startled even himself.

Lilith’s hands stilled, her lavender eyes searching his face as he continued, his words halting but heavy.

“I mean… in Eden, you didn’t like me making much sound anyway. Heaven just… found a way to reinforce what they wanted.”

The bitterness in his tone cut through the air like a blade, but Adam winced at the roughness of his own voice, as though the words themselves were too sharp to say. Lilith’s expression shifted, the anger in her narrowing eyes no longer directed at him but something far, far worse.

"Is this… how Heaven kept you in order?" Lilith’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and oddly restrained. There was a dangerous edge to it, something simmering beneath the surface that Adam either didn’t notice—or chose to ignore.

"Did they hurt you to keep you in line? Even after you became an angel?"

Adam’s fingers curled into the rich, opulent fabric of the quilts beneath him, twisting the crimson and violet threads until they frayed under the tension. His shoulders tensed, his head dipping slightly as though bracing against the weight of the question.

"I mean…" he began, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “It was always like that.”

"Always?" Lilith echoed, the word slipping from her lips in a hushed whisper. Her lavender eyes widened, brows rising in genuine surprise, though her tone betrayed a growing fury—one she was clearly trying to keep in check.

Adam’s golden gaze remained distant, unfocused, as though he were staring at something far away—something he wished he could escape.

"I had rules to follow," he said, his voice distant and cold. "And if I didn’t, I got punished. It didn’t matter whether I was alive or not. It didn’t matter if I was human or an angel. It all started in Eden."

His words hung in the air, heavy and raw, spoken with the kind of detached blankness that only came from someone who had lived too long in their own pain. Lilith’s jaw tightened, the gentle touch she had used moments before now a thing of the past as her hands clenched at her sides. This wasn’t just cruelty—it was a pattern, a system, an indoctrination. And it burned her to her core.

Adam’s fingers continued to pull at the fraying threads of the quilt, his golden eyes distant, staring past the room, past Lilith, and into something only he could see. His voice dropped into a soft, almost dreamy cadence, words spilling from his lips unbidden.

“Eden,” he murmured, his tone caught between bitterness and longing. “I used to watch you in Eden, Lilith. You probably never knew that, but…I admired you. Even back then.”

Lilith froze, her lavender eyes widening in surprise. Her fingers, which had been tending to his bruises, stilled completely. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected him to say anything like this.

“I know we had a lot of disagreements,” Adam continued, his voice gaining a strange, unfiltered momentum. “You didn’t like me. I could tell. You thought I was spineless, maybe even pathetic.”

A faint, humourless laugh escaped him, barely audible. “But I liked you. I really liked you. I…looked up to you. A lot.”

Lilith’s breath hitched, but Adam didn’t notice the way her entire body had gone rigid, her eyes locked on his profile with a mixture of shock and something she couldn’t quite name.

“I always wished I could be like you,” he admitted, his voice breaking faintly, though he didn’t seem to notice. “But I wasn’t allowed to. I wasn’t allowed to be anything but what they wanted me to be.”

“You walked away, Lilith. You got out. And I…” His voice faltered, but he pushed through, his tone heavier now. “I tried once. Just once. And Heaven made sure I’d never try again.”

His hands clenched tighter around the quilt, knuckles turning white. “The welts on my arms and legs didn’t go away for a month after that. They made sure I understood—pain was what waited for anyone who disobeyed.”

Adam let out a shaky breath, his gaze softening as it drifted somewhere further away, a faint hum of wistfulness threading his voice. “I admired you so much, Lilith. I wanted to follow you and Lucifer. I wanted to stand up, to question Heaven’s reins and reach for freedom. But I was scared. I only ever knew pain. And that pain—it always came when I questioned them. So, I stopped questioning…and I never tried to be like you again after that.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper, barely audible, but the fondness in it was undeniable. “I missed you, Lilith. You were my best friend, even if you didn’t think so. And if I’d had the chance… I would’ve followed you. I would’ve followed you and Lucifer to the end of the worlds.”

Lilith’s breath caught audibly, her chest tightening as his words hit her like a tidal wave. Her lavender eyes stung, widening so much they ached. She wasn’t sure what to say—what could she say? She sat in stunned silence, the Queen of Hell rendered speechless by a man she thought she’d known but clearly never understood.

Adam blinked suddenly, the fog of his memories dissipating as reality snapped back into place. His body stiffened, and he let out a wobbly, hollow laugh, glancing over his shoulder at her. His grin was crooked, but not the one she remembered from Eden. It lacked the boyish warmth, the gentle sweetness she once knew.

This grin was smaller, colder, empty of everything that made it human. It was the kind of grin that braced for rejection, that expected nothing but pain in return.

Lilith stared at him, her hands trembling as she clasped them in her lap. For the first time in centuries, she felt utterly unprepared for what to say next.

Lilith’s breath hitched as her gaze fell once more on the bruises, the cuts, and the bite marks—God, the bite marks. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a flicker of anger flashing behind her lavender eyes. She stood suddenly, the air around her shimmering with magic, soft hues of purple and lavender swirling in her hands as she conjured a fresh nightdress.

“Here,” she said quietly, her tone firm but not unkind. She helped Adam slip the new garment over his frail frame, her movements careful and deliberate as though he might break if she wasn’t gentle enough. The old nightdress disappeared with a flick of her hand, and she took a step back, giving him space.

“You should rest now,” she murmured. “I know you haven’t been eating, but you must try. Even just a little.”

Adam nodded, humming softly in acknowledgment, though his movements were slow and hesitant. He sank back into the bed, the pillow cradling his head as his gaze drifted, once again, to the strange rubber duck perched at the end of the mattress. What a peculiar little thing. It didn’t belong here, yet it lingered, much like himself.

The sudden touch of cool fingers threading gently through his hair startled him. The gesture was almost…loving. Adam blinked, his golden eyes darting upward to meet Lilith’s.

“Adam…” Lilith’s voice was softer now, barely above a whisper. “I want you to know… you can stay here as long as you like. Neither I nor Lucifer will force you to leave.”

Adam blinked rapidly, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up at her.

“Why?” he asked, his voice barely audible. “Why are you being so nice to me? I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

Lilith’s face tightened for a moment, her lips pressing together as if holding back something sharp. Adam flinched slightly, mistaking the subtle shift in her expression for annoyance—or worse.

Oh no. He had upset her already.

“You can hit me, if you want,” he blurted, his tone startlingly innocent. “That’s usually what makes the others feel better. After how I was in Eden, you definitely should get to… land some strikes on me.”

Lilith froze, her eyes widening briefly before she closed them, drawing in a deep, measured breath. Her head shook slowly, and when she spoke again, her voice was calm but weighted with something unspoken.

“No,” she said firmly. “That’s not necessary. I’m not displeased with you, Adam. Not at all. You’ve done nothing to deserve that.”

Adam’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, the words clearly foreign to him, like an unfamiliar language he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Then…” he hesitated, his voice soft and uncertain. “What can I do to repay you for being nice to me?”

His tone was childlike, almost pleading, and Lilith stilled. For a moment, she truly saw him—not the man she had known in Eden, but someone stripped bare, raw and broken.

“Nothing,” she said finally, her voice steady but gentle. “You don’t need to do anything. Just focus on getting better.”

Before he could respond, she leaned down and pressed a light kiss to his forehead, the gesture tender and deliberate. It was strange, even for her—too nice, too soft for someone who was supposed to be hardened by centuries in Hell. But Adam didn’t protest. He only watched her with wide, cautious eyes as she pulled away and smiled faintly.

“Rest,” she reminded him as she moved toward the door. “And eat something this time.”

Adam remained silent, his golden eyes tracking her until the door clicked softly shut behind her.

Once outside, Lilith leaned against the door, her head tipping back as her hand rose to cover her darkening eyes. A cold, simmering rage coursed through her veins, clawing at her chest as tears threatened to spill. She sniffled, blinking hard to push them back, her fingers curling into a fist against the wood of the door.

What the fuck did Heaven do to him?

Adam’s voice echoed in her mind, his words replaying like a cruel melody she couldn’t escape. The weight of them settled heavily on her, the quiet admission of pain and submission cutting deeper than she wanted to admit.

For the first time in centuries, Lilith didn’t feel like a Queen of Hell. She felt powerless. And that terrified her.

Adam’s offer had hung in the air like a curse, haunting Lilith long after she left his room. The words circled in her mind, relentless and accusing. He had offered her the chance to hurt him—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like pain was all he had ever known. And for what? For “past actions” that, now that she thought about it, weren’t anything close to deserving of punishment.

In Eden, their clashes had been nothing more than disagreements—sharp but trivial. They had butted heads over their purpose, over Heaven’s suffocating control. Adam had clung to the rules because he was terrified to break them, while Lilith had rebelled against them because she couldn’t stand being bound. But now, in the aftermath of Adam’s confession, Lilith was beginning to see the truth.

Adam never had a choice.

The realization struck her like a thunderclap, her chest tightening with a white-hot rage that burned through her like molten steel. She stared down the darkened corridor, her lavender eyes narrowing as they fixed on the heavy office door at the far end. Her lips curled back, baring sharp, predatory teeth as her hands clenched into fists.

Did Lucifer know all this time?

The thought slithered into her mind, unwelcome and venomous. Her jaw tightened, the flickering torches along the walls casting shifting shadows across her face. She trusted Lucifer—loved him with a devotion that had spanned eons—but even he had his secrets. And this? If he had known, if he had been aware of what Heaven had done to Adam and said nothing, done nothing…

Lilith’s nails dug into her palms, drawing pinpricks of blood that dripped to the stone floor. The Queen of Hell didn’t take kindly to betrayal, no matter who the betrayer might be.

Her footsteps echoed loudly as she began walking toward the office door, her long golden hair trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. She wasn’t sure what she would find—or what she would say—but the fury coursing through her demanded answers.

Lilith wasn’t just angry for Adam; she was furious for him. For the childlike way he had asked what he could do to make things right. For the hollow grin that begged for punishment instead of kindness. For the bruises and bite marks that marked his body, and the scars Heaven had carved into his very soul.

If Lucifer knew—and had stayed silent—there would be hell to pay.

~#~

The air in Lucifer's office felt heavy, suffocating, as Lilith stepped inside. The dimly lit room, with its opulent yet oppressive decor, seemed to close in around her as she stood in the doorway, her piercing lavender gaze fixed on the figure behind the desk. Lucifer sat slouched in his chair, his pristine white top hat tilted just enough to obscure his face. He didn’t look up as she approached, but Lilith’s every step echoed like the countdown to judgment.

It wasn’t like him to hide. Lucifer hated this room, hated the work that came with running Hell. He’d spent eons rebelling against the bureaucracy of Heaven, tooth and nail, defiant and proud. Yet here he was, buried in paperwork, avoiding her, avoiding Adam. It only confirmed her worst fear: he knew.

Lilith stopped a few feet from the desk, her voice calm, cold, deliberate—like a shark circling its prey.

“He offered to let me hurt him, Lucifer.” Her words cut through the air, sharp and jagged. “To make up for our disagreements in Eden. To atone for staying in this castle. Like some kind of... twisted reparation.”

Lucifer’s hand, resting on the desk, twitched but didn’t move.

“He’s... childlike,” Lilith continued, her voice steady, but her gaze burned into him. “Did you know that? When he speaks, it’s with the innocence of someone who doesn’t understand that kindness doesn’t require payment in pain. He thinks he deserves to be punished for breathing, for existing.”

Still, Lucifer didn’t look up, and Lilith’s patience frayed. Her eyes narrowed into reptilian slits as she leaned forward.

“His wounds,” she hissed. “They’re not healing. Hell’s power should have mended them by now. But they linger, Lucifer. Like Heaven wanted them to stay. Like someone wanted him to remember every bite, every bruise, every scar.”

Lucifer’s grip on the desk tightened. His knuckles whitened.

“Were you aware of this?” Lilith’s voice dropped lower, quieter, deadlier. “That Heaven has been assaulting Adam since the moment he was created? He told me about Eden, you know. How they hurt him if he questioned them. How they silenced him when he said no. How the marks from their ‘punishments’ stayed for weeks. They’ve been doing this to him his entire existence, Lucifer.”

The desk shook as Lilith’s clawed hand slammed down on its surface.

“Did you know?” she demanded, her voice a whip crack. “Did you know this all along?”

Finally moving, Lucifer slowly lifted his head. When he met her gaze, his golden eyes were hollow, exhausted, the weight of ages etched into every line on his face.

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “No, Lilith, I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t.”

Her stare didn’t waver, reading every flicker of his expression, every twitch of his body.

“Then explain,” she said coldly.

Lucifer rose from his chair, his movements slow, deliberate. He ran a hand through his silver hair before speaking.

 “There were times,” he admitted, “When I noticed. He’d have marks—wounds—that didn’t make sense. But when I asked about them, I was told they were accidents. And Adam... he loved the angels, Lilith. He was so excited to be near them. I just assumed he’d pushed their boundaries—touched their wings, hugged them—and they reacted…It made sense. I wasn’t like my brothers or sisters, I always allowed Adam close. If he asked to touch my wings, I said ‘of course’, if he asked for a hug, I would open my arms for him. But the others, they were different.”

Lips curling in disgust, Lilith spat, “So that makes it okay, then?”

“Of course not!” Lucifer snapped, his voice breaking with frustration. “But they always said it was a one-time thing. That they apologized. And when I spoke to Adam, he never said anything. He never seemed frightened of them. I thought it was misunderstandings—nothing more.”

Lilith stared at him; disbelief etched into every line of her face. She rubbed her temples, her claws scraping lightly against her skin.

 “Is that why you’ve been cowering in here?” she hissed. “Because you’re realizing you ignored every red flag?”

“It’s... part of it,” he admitted quietly.

Lilith’s eyes narrowed further. “And the other part?”

His expression darkened, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, a golden parchment appeared in the air between them. He grabbed it, his grip tight enough to crinkle the edges.

“This,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “They sent this a week ago.”

Lilith snatched the parchment from his hand, her eyes scanning the elegant yet hateful script. Her rage boiled as she read, her magic flaring darkly in the air around her.

“They’re fucking insane,” she snarled, her voice dripping with contempt. “They’ve fucking lost their minds.”

Lucifer snorted bitterly. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve already told them to fuck themselves. I’m not giving him back.”

��“Well, good for you for finally standing up for him,” Lilith huffed, crossing her arms.

“I’m trying, Lilith,” he said quietly. Lucifer flinched as if struck. “I didn’t... I made the wrong call. I know that now.”

“You made the wrong call?” Lilith repeated, her voice rising. “They turned him into a woman, Lucifer. They assaulted him, hurt him, drove him to kill himself. And you ignored the signs. You let this happen.”

“I didn’t know!” Lucifer shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. “I saw things, yes, but I believed their lies. I believed Adam was fine. He never told me otherwise—”

“Of course he didn’t!” Lilith interrupted, stepping closer, her fury radiating from her. “Because Heaven conditioned him to never speak out. To believe that pain was his fault. That he deserved it.”

Lucifer’s shoulders sagged, the fire in his eyes dimming.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I know. I failed him. And I will never forgive myself for it.”

The tension in the room thickened, a weight neither of them could lift. For the first time in their long existence together, silence stretched between Lilith and Lucifer, thick and suffocating. It was a silence of guilt, of failure, of realizations that couldn’t be undone. Lucifer sat back in his chair, running a hand over his face, while Lilith stood rigidly, her arms crossed as if trying to hold herself together.

Chest rising and falling as the memories of Eden clawed at Lilith like thorns. She had been so focused on her rebellion, on her freedom, on dragging Lucifer with her, that she hadn’t stopped to see what it had cost Adam. She had left him behind—left him to the very angels who couldn’t understand him, who didn’t want to understand him, who had hurt him because he was different, because he was human.

Her stomach twisted painfully. She had blamed Heaven for so much, but now she saw her own culpability. She hadn’t been there for him when he needed her most. She had taken Lucifer, left Adam alone to endure whatever cruelties Heaven inflicted on him. And for what? Because she had been too wrapped up in her own anger, her own fight for freedom?

The thought sickened her.

Lilith’s voice broke the silence, low but resolute. “He’s not going back.”

Her words carried the weight of a promise, unyielding and absolute. “I don’t care what Heaven threatens. If they want a war, I’ll bring one. I’m not letting Adam go back up there.”

Looking up at her, Lucifer’s golden eyes weary and heavy with remorse. He nodded, his voice soft. “I know, Lilith. I know. I’m not letting him go back either.”

Lilith’s arms tightened around her chest as her expression darkened.

“Why would they even want him back?” she asked, her voice sharp. “He’s a Sinner now. He’s fallen. Heaven doesn’t just take back the damned. Not without some hidden agenda.”

Sighing deeply, Lucifer’s broad shoulders rotating as if to ease the tension building in them. “I don’t know. They won’t say. But I hardly believe it’s for anything good. Their silence speaks louder than any of their proclamations.”

Scoffing bitterly, Lilith’s lip curling. “So much for their talk of righteousness and morals. Heaven seems more fucked up than they want anyone to believe.”

Lucifer didn’t respond to that. He didn’t have to. The truth of her words hung in the air, undeniable and damning.

Letting out a frustrated breath, Lilith’s long, clawed fingers flexing at her sides. She turned sharply on her heel, her long dark hair whipping behind her like a curtain of shadows. Before stepping out of the office, she cast one last withering glance over her shoulder, her gaze pinning Lucifer in place.

“Stop being a fucking coward,” she snapped, her voice cold and cutting. “Go see him. Adam misses you, even if you don’t think he does.”

Lucifer’s head dipped slightly, but he said nothing.

“He can’t stop staring at that damn rubber duck you left on his bed,” Lilith said sharply.

At that, Lucifer’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing in curiosity.

“He... likes it?” His voice was soft, hesitant, almost vulnerable.

“Who knows?” she replied, her voice sharp. “Lilith shrugged nonchalantly. “Why don’t you find out?”

With that, she stormed out, the door closing behind her with a definitive click. Lucifer was left alone in the suffocating quiet of his office, staring at his desk. His mind churned with guilt, regret, and a spark of something else—hope, perhaps?

He leaned back in his chair, his hand brushing the edge of his white top hat. After a long, tense moment, he stood up, straightened his jacket, and strode toward the door.

Maybe it was time to stop hiding.

…Lucifer missed Adam just as much.

~#~

Adam’s legs trembled beneath him as he swung them off the edge of the bed. His body, still weak and sore, protested with every movement. He gasped, his arms flailing instinctively to catch himself, but the floor loomed like an unforgiving abyss. For weeks, Lilith had been tending to him—keeping him in bed, forbidding him to move. She had said his wounds weren’t healing properly and warned that any sudden motion might make things worse. But Adam had grown weary of lying there, staring at the draped curtains of the queen-sized bed, feeling like the world was slowly closing in on him. He needed to move, needed to feel something beyond the suffocating confines of his thoughts.

With a soft groan, Adam forced himself upright, his legs stiff and aching. The hem of his delicate purple nightgown swayed gently around his knees as he slowly, almost painfully, shuffled across the room. He hoped to regain some sensation in his legs, as though his muscles could remember their purpose. But his eyes kept straying to the purple blanket draped over the mirror—an obstruction he had asked Lilith to put there without hesitation. She had done it without question, as she always did when he requested things. But now, with every step he took, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

His fingers trembled as he reached out to tug at the blanket, the soft fabric almost mocking him with its stillness. With a shaky breath, he yanked it away, exposing the polished surface of the mirror.

Adam froze, his breath catching in his throat. There, reflected back at him, was the stranger he had become. The face staring back at him was a reflection of Eve and Lilith, yes, but still... it was his own. His thick brown curls, now longer than before, cascaded down his back like a wild tangle. They were fuller than Eve’s, more unruly, more him, but all the same, they were different from anything Lilith or Eve possessed. His hair reached his knees now, and he suddenly hated how it hung there, heavy and long, as though it didn’t belong to him. Maybe, he thought, he’d ask Lilith to cut it.

His body, once broad and masculine, was now delicate and slender—more feminine than he had ever imagined possible. His arms and legs were smooth, smaller, and the curve of his stomach was subtle, almost chubby. He wasn’t as fragile or slight as Lilith, but there was no denying the change. His face, too, was rounder, softer, the faintest hint of chubbiness in the cheeks. He sniffled, unable to fight back the overwhelming wave of self-loathing. He looked down at his feet, wishing with all his heart that he could be more like Lilith—more elegant, more beautiful. Her golden hair, always so flawless, seemed like the very definition of perfection. He, on the other hand, was nothing more than a mockery. His hair was nothing more than dull brown, and his horns, blue and twisted, felt like a cruel reminder of his inadequacy.

Suddenly, Adam’s gaze shifted, drawn to the small rubber duck resting at the foot of the bed. For days, he had stared at it, unsure whether he was allowed to touch it, unsure if it was some kind of cruel joke. But now, something inside him stirred—a longing, a need. His hands shook as he reached for it, unsure of what to expect. It was neither too small nor too large, fitting perfectly into his palms as if it had been made for him. But it wasn’t the rubber texture he expected; it was soft, plush, almost comforting in its simplicity. Without thinking, Adam pulled it close to his chest, holding it like a lifeline.

For a fleeting moment, Adam felt a warmth stir within his chest—a small solace amidst the storm of his sorrow. It was brief, fragile, but it was enough to push through the weight of his thoughts. He buried his face into the soft, plush rubber duck, his breath hitching with the effort to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overtake him. But then, his eyes began to burn, the heat creeping up in a strange, uncomfortable way. Surprised, Adam jerked back, blinking rapidly, confused. He felt something—liquid, warm—fall from his eyes, landing on the duck’s plush surface. He stared at it, wide-eyed, as the tears soaked into the fabric.

Was this… crying?

He had seen others weep. Winners, Sinners, even Heavenborns. But Adam had never experienced it himself, not like this. The sensation was alien, overwhelming. His body trembled as the reality of what was happening settled in. His legs buckled beneath him, and slowly, as if the weight of his own confusion had become too much, he sank to his knees. His arms gripped the rubber duck, pressing it to his chest as he looked into the mirror again.

The reflection staring back at him wasn’t him. Not truly. His body was a woman’s body now, his nightgown swaying like a dress, the length of his hair cascading down in soft, feminine waves. His face, though familiar, was different too—softer, rounder, a stranger’s face wearing his own expression. His hands, trembling, squeezed the plushie tighter as the tears continued to fall, unchecked. His breath caught in his throat, choked by the weight of everything he didn’t understand.

He was a woman when he had always been a man.

His breath hitched again, harder this time, and Adam sobbed, the rawness of it crashing over him like a tidal wave. He didn’t know why he was crying. He didn’t know what had triggered it, or why the tears felt like they were pouring out of him uncontrollably. They just… came.

Suddenly, a hand brushed his shoulder. The touch was soft, gentle, but it sent a shock through Adam’s already fragile state. He flinched, jerking back with wide, golden eyes, fear rising in his chest like a sudden storm. His head snapped up, his gaze locking on the figure kneeling beside him. It was Lucifer. The shock was evident on his face—his red and golden eyes wide in surprise, perhaps even a little guilty.

"I—I'm sorry," Lucifer murmured, his voice trembling slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The words seemed to slip from him, desperate, as though he could somehow undo the hurt with his apologies.

Lips quivering, Adam’s heart swelling painfully with a mixture of confusion and relief. Before he could stop himself, his arms shot out, and he threw himself into Lucifer’s chest, clinging to him with all the force his trembling body could muster. His sobs were uncontrollable now—shuddering, broken cries that tore from deep within him.

Lucifer’s arms wrapped around Adam instantly, pulling him close, pressing him against his chest as the weight of Adam’s anguish seemed to fill the room. His voice was a constant stream of apologies, soothing and frantic.

"I'm sorry, Adam. I’m sorry. I never wanted this for you. I never—"

Adam clung tighter, his hands clutching Lucifer’s clothing as he let the tears flow. For the first time in so long, he allowed himself to break. To fall apart, piece by fragile peace. Lucifer didn’t pull away. He held him, a solid, steady presence, and Adam wept into his chest, letting go of everything—his confusion, his pain, his fear of never being enough.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry.”

~#~

The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of the sheets as Adam and Lucifer lay side by side on the queen-sized bed. The night had fallen, and the pale glow of moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. Adam was still, his body stiff and curled slightly towards Lucifer, though they held hands, fingers intertwined. His golden eyes were closed, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say anymore, or perhaps he didn’t have the strength to voice the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. His breath was slow, the only sound breaking the stillness, a rhythm that matched Lucifer’s own.

Lucifer, on the other hand, couldn’t stay silent. His chest ached with guilt, a heaviness that seemed to weigh down his entire being. He kept his gaze on the ceiling, not looking at Adam, but his fingers gently tightened around Adam’s hand, a silent connection. The warmth between them was a stark contrast to the coldness that had lived in Lucifer’s heart for so long.

“I should have known,” Lucifer’s voice broke the silence, soft, raw, full of regret. “I should have seen what was happening, Adam. I should’ve been there for you.”

His words seemed to tremble in the air, and he closed his eyes for a moment, the shame creeping in as he exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His other hand reached up, rubbing his face in frustration, as if he could somehow erase the years of neglect, the moments where he had failed to protect Adam. He turned his head slightly to glance at the still form beside him. Adam’s face was peaceful in sleep, but the expression was strained, as if the comfort he sought in sleep was fragile at best.

“Eden wasn’t right,” Lucifer whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “None of it was right. What they did to you... what they forced you to endure. It shouldn’t have happened.”

His chest felt hollow as he spoke. “Heaven had no right to treat you like that. No right to break you the way they did. And I... I wasn’t there for you. I should’ve fought harder for you, Adam. I should’ve been by your side, standing against everything that tried to hurt you. But I wasn’t.”

Lucifer’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening around Adam’s hand, as if holding onto him now would somehow make up for the lost time. The weight of his own failure pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.

“I couldn’t protect you, and that’s my fault.”

The words felt jagged in his throat, like shards of glass. His golden eyes, usually bright with fire, were dull, filled with sorrow. He turned his head fully to face Adam, his voice a soft rasp as he continued, speaking more to himself than to Adam.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me the most. I’m sorry I didn’t notice the signs. I let you suffer... and I wasn’t even there. I shouldn’t have left you in Eden. I should’ve never left you at all.”

Lucifer’s hand found Adam’s hair, brushing the strands gently away from his face as if to somehow smooth away the damage Heaven had caused. The guilt was unbearable, twisting in his chest as he looked at the man beside him, the man who had always been there for him in ways Lucifer had never fully understood until now. Adam had been broken, and Lucifer had failed him.

“You didn’t deserve any of this, Adam,” Lucifer murmured softly, voice thick with emotion. “You deserved so much better. And I swear, I’ll never let them hurt you again.”

There was silence again, but it wasn’t the same heavy silence that had filled the room before. Now, it was a silence of shared sorrow, of regret that hung thick in the air between them. Adam still didn’t speak. But Lucifer didn’t expect him to. He didn’t want to push Adam, didn’t want to force anything. This moment wasn’t about trying to fix what was broken. It was about understanding that some things couldn’t be fixed, only healed with time.

Lucifer settled back into the bed, not pulling away from Adam but drawing him a little closer. His eyes lingered on Adam’s face, watching the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. In that moment, Lucifer realized the weight of the world didn’t rest on fixing the past. It rested on protecting Adam now, ensuring that no more harm would come to him.

“I’ll be here,” Lucifer promised, his voice a soft vow. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay. I’ll fight for you, Adam. I’ll make sure nothing like that ever happens again. I swear it.”

And in the quiet stillness of the room, as Adam’s breathing evened out and Lucifer’s hand remained locked around his, it was enough to hold on to—for now.

Adam shifted on the bed, his body trembling slightly from the effort as he propped himself up on his elbows. The soft rustle of the sheets was the only sound in the room for a moment as his tired, golden eyes slowly flickered open. He blinked a few times, as though struggling to bring the world into focus, before his gaze landed on Lucifer. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and his expression was a mix of confusion and a deep, unspoken sadness.

He looked at Lucifer for a long moment, as if weighing the decision, before his voice broke the silence. It was quiet, almost a whisper, but it held so much weight.

“Why?”

The word hung in the air like a delicate thread, fragile and heavy at once. Adam swallowed, his throat tight, and continued in the same small voice, barely audible.

“Why did you leave me alone in Eden?”

Lucifer’s eyes widened in shock, a deep, unspoken pain flashing across his face. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. He hadn’t expected Adam to voice the question out loud, and it hit him harder than he imagined it would. His lips parted in an attempt to speak, but for a moment, no words came.

He swallowed hard, the pain of his guilt evident as his face twisted with a mixture of regret and sorrow. There was no excuse, not really. He had no answers that could undo the damage, no way to take back the moments when he should have been there, should have seen the signs. His voice was thick with emotion when he finally spoke.

“I... I have no excuse, Adam,” Lucifer admitted quietly, his voice strained. “I was being selfish. I only thought about myself. I was angry with Heaven, angry with everything they were doing to humans. I wanted to give them the freedom to think for themselves, to live without their chains, but... in doing all of that... I didn’t see when you needed me most. I didn’t see you.”

He looked down at the bed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as if holding himself back from something, some deep well of emotion that threatened to burst. His gaze was far away, haunted by the weight of his own failure.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve been with you, and I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

dam’s eyes welled with tears as he heard Lucifer’s words, the soft sniffle escaping him as he lowered his head again, his face pressed into the cool fabric of the pillow. He didn’t say anything at first, but his chest trembled as he mumbled softly, the words barely escaping his lips.

“I missed you...” His voice was thick with emotion, barely a whisper. “I didn’t like it when you left me all alone in Eden. I tried... I tried to find you and Lilith... I thought if I apologized, if I just... said I was sorry, you wouldn’t be mad at me anymore.”

Lucifer’s breath hitched in his throat, his own eyes filling with tears at the sound of Adam’s voice, fragile and full of heartbreak. He reached out, almost instinctively, but he hesitated, afraid that Adam might recoil again. Instead, Lucifer leaned forward slightly, his gaze soft and full of sorrow as he whispered the words that had been waiting on his tongue for so long.

“We... we were never mad at you, Adam,” Lucifer said, his voice breaking slightly. “We were... we were mad with Heaven. It was never you. It was never your fault.”

Lucifer’s hand gently brushed a strand of Adam’s hair back from his forehead, a tender gesture, as if trying to offer some form of comfort, even though he knew words alone couldn’t heal the wound they both carried. Adam didn’t look up, his face still buried in the pillow, but Lucifer’s words seemed to seep into him, gentle, like a balm for a wound too deep to see.

Lucifer could feel the weight of his own failures, could feel the distance between them, but he was determined to bridge it now. For Adam, for both of them. They couldn’t change what had already happened, but they could heal from it. They had to.

"I’m sorry, Adam..." Lucifer whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled Adam into another tight embrace. The warmth of his chest was a stark contrast to the cold ache that had gripped Adam's heart for so long.

Adam hesitated for a moment, but then, with a soft, trembling breath, he whispered back, “It’s okay.”

Lucifer’s breath caught at the words. His hand tightened around Adam, a desperate need to hold him close.

“It’s not,” he muttered, almost to himself. His voice cracked with rawness as he pulled Adam even closer, pressing their bodies together as if to shield him from the world that had broken him. “It’s not okay. But I will make up for it. I will protect you. I won’t let you be hurt ever again.”

Adam lifted his head slightly, his eyes still dull with exhaustion and sorrow. He looked up at Lucifer, his small frown tugging at Lucifer’s heart. “I... want to stay here. I don’t want to go back.”

Lucifer’s throat tightened painfully, a wave of protectiveness and guilt crashing over him. Without another word, he pulled Adam closer still, wrapping his arms tighter around him. He buried his face in Adam’s hair, inhaling deeply, as if trying to ground himself in the moment, in the reality that Adam was here—safe, and in his arms. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Lucifer’s wings unfurled from his back, large and dark, a silent promise of safety and strength. With a soft rustle, they cocooned around the two of them, enveloping Adam in a blanket of warmth and protection. Lucifer let the wings encase them, surrounding Adam with the comfort of his presence, of his vow.

“You’re not going back,” Lucifer said, his voice low, filled with unwavering determination. His lips brushed the top of Adam’s head as he spoke, the words full of fierce love.

“You will never be going back to Heaven ever again. I won’t ever allow that to happen.” His voice was firm, unyielding, as if the very concept of Adam returning to that place of pain was something he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, bear.

Adam remained silent, but Lucifer could feel the way his body slowly relaxed, as if his words had finally begun to settle into Adam’s heart. Lucifer held him close, pressing him further into the safety of his embrace, as if nothing and no one could ever take him away again.

~#~

A week had passed, and Adam found himself standing on shaky legs, forced to take the next step—a step that felt both impossible and necessary. His golden eyes were wide with exhaustion, their usual glow dimmed by a mix of weariness and uncertainty. Lilith stood before him, her hands enveloping his gently, like a lifeline. Her smile was soft, but there was a quiet determination in her eyes as she lightly tugged him forward, guiding him across the room.

"You're doing so well," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm to the aching tension in his muscles. Her gaze lingered briefly on the bruises that marred his legs, but she was quick to mask her concern with a warm, encouraging expression. The dark, angry marks had finally begun to fade, shifting into a soft golden hue. Healing, slowly but surely.

"I knew you could do it."

Adam’s feet shuffled, his steps uneven, his legs trembling as if betraying him with every move. He could feel the sting of the effort, the burning reminder of his body’s fragility.

"I can walk, Lilith," he mumbled, his voice tinged with frustration. "It just hurts to take more than a few steps."

Lilith chuckled, a sound that wrapped around him like a soft breeze. She gave his hands an affectionate squeeze, as though reassuring him that each tiny victory mattered. "And yet, you're doing it."

Adam sighed, the weight of the day pressing on his chest.

"Yay me," he muttered dryly, his voice laced with a touch of self-deprecating humour. "I've made the same progress as a toddler."

From behind them, a low laugh echoed—rich, deep, and warm. Lucifer lounged lazily on the queen-sized bed, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching the scene with a mixture of affection and amusement. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with that characteristic knowing smile.

"You're not wrong," Lucifer teased, his voice light yet laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of something softer—pride, perhaps. His lips curled into a smirk as his crimson and golden eyes gleamed mischievously. "But think about it this way: for a toddler, those small steps are monumental achievements. You're practically a prodigy."

Adam shot Lucifer a withering glare, his golden eyes narrowing sharply.

"Why are you even here?" he muttered, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Don't you have a kingdom to run or something?"

With an over-the-top dramatic groan, Lucifer rolled across the queen-sized bed until he was upside down, his cute little hooves stretching up the pillows to tap against the headboard. Basil, his golden snake companion, hissed softly and slithered away, clearly unimpressed as Lucifer’s white top hat tumbled to the floor.

"Running a kingdom is soooooo boring and exhausting!" Lucifer complained, his tone theatrical as he tilted his head all the way back to lock eyes with Adam.

"I’m in desperate need of a break. Besides," he added with a sly grin, "I have far more pressing business to attend to."

Raising an eyebrow, Adam glanced between Lilith and the lounging devil. "Oh? And what’s that?"

Lucifer propped himself up on his elbows, his grin widening. "I’m moving rooms."

Adam blinked in confusion. "Moving rooms?"

He glanced at Lilith, puzzled. "Don’t you two share a room? Why would you move out?"

Lilith smirked, her lavender eyes glittering with amusement as she tightened her grip on Adam’s hands and leaned in conspiratorially. "We did share a room… until Lucifer’s little obsession got completely out of hand."

Adam tilted his head curiously. "Obsession? What kind of obsession?"

Lucifer’s grin turned triumphant as he sat up dramatically, his wings fluttering slightly behind him. "Oh, Lilies, don’t act like you don’t adore them! They’re masterpieces!"

"Masterpieces?" Lilith scoffed, rolling her eyes with mock exasperation. "He’s filled our entire room with rubber ducks, Adam. I can’t even begin to explain how this started, but let me assure you, it’s neither charming nor practical. It’s downright overwhelming."

"Negative, negative," Lucifer muttered, wagging a clawed finger at her as he flopped onto his stomach and cupped his face in his hands, his black tail swaying lazily behind him.

Adam found his gaze drawn to the tail, its slow, deliberate movement oddly mesmerizing. Lucifer caught him staring and, ever the showman, swished it more alluringly, his grin widening.

"It stopped being cute when you started putting them in the bed," Lilith deadpanned, though Adam caught the subtle curl of her lips betraying her amusement. She turned her attention back to Adam. "So, you see, we have no choice but to move rooms. Apparently, uprooting these so-called ‘residents’ is too heartbreaking for Lucifer to bear."

Adam’s jaw dropped as he turned back to Lucifer. "Are you serious?!"

Lucifer gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Of course! They’ve lived their entire lives in those sheets! They’ve gotten married, started families, raised their little ducklings. To displace them now would be inhumane!"

Lilith sighed, shaking her head in amused disbelief. "They’re rubber, my love."

"You wouldn’t understand!" Lucifer exclaimed, throwing his arms wide.

The absurdity of it all was too much. Adam burst into laughter, the sound ringing clear and bright—a sound that hadn’t graced the room since Eden. His cheeks flushed with warmth, his golden eyes sparkling.

But when he noticed both Lilith and Lucifer staring at him, his laughter faltered, and he clamped his mouth shut, suddenly self-conscious.

"I… I mean, if you want to," he stammered, glancing down and then back up at Lilith, "you could… stay in here? With me?"

Lilith tilted her head, her expression softening as Adam quickly backtracked. "Not—not in a weird or creepy way! I just… I miss you, Lilith. I miss when we used to… you know, back in Eden, when we’d watch the stars and make up silly stories about the animals and flowers."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I miss that. I miss you. I’m sorry."

A tender smile spread across Lilith’s face, her lavender eyes shimmering with a mix of nostalgia and affection.

"I miss you too, Adam," she murmured. "I miss our nights in Eden, the way we’d laugh and dream together."

Reaching up, she gently brushed her fingers against his cheek, her touch light and reassuring.

"I’d love to rebuild that with you," she said softly. "To create new memories together."

Adam blinked up at her, his golden eyes wide with disbelief, tears threatening to spill once more.

"What?!" Lucifer’s voice cracked, shattering the moment.

Both Adam and Lilith turned to find him sitting up on the bed, looking utterly scandalized. His dishevelled hair and flustered expression made him resemble a frazzled bird more than the King of Hell.

"That’s not fair!" he whined, his voice pitching slightly. "I wanted to move in here with Adam!"

Lilith chuckled, her lavender eyes gleaming with mischief.

"You know, Adam," she began with an exaggeratedly thoughtful tone, "I wouldn’t be surprised if Lucifer had this all planned out. Tricking you into letting him move in here, too."

Lucifer, who had just opened his mouth to retort, froze. His cheeks turned a radiant shade of red, quickly followed by streaks of glowing gold creeping up his neck and ears.

"T-Tricking?!" he sputtered, sitting upright. "I would never! That’s—that’s absurd!"

Lilith’s smirk widened, and she leaned down to blow a playful raspberry at him. "Oh, really?"

"I—!" Lucifer floundered, flustered beyond words. His pout deepened as he sulked and flopped dramatically back onto the bed, burying himself beneath a mountain of quilts and blankets.

"It’s not fair," he mumbled, his voice muffled and petulant.

Adam blinked at the lump of blankets where Lucifer had disappeared, tilting his head like a curious bird. He didn’t recall ever seeing Lucifer act like this before. It was… strange. Endearing, even. Was this because of him? Surely not—Lucifer didn’t sulk over Adam… did he?

"Jealous, are we?" Lilith teased further, her voice sing-song and brimming with amusement.

From under the blankets came a low, grumbling whine, almost cat-like in its crankiness. Lucifer shifted, burrowing deeper into the covers as if trying to escape the accusation.

Lilith let out a delighted laugh, but Adam found himself tilting his head in thought. That made sense, didn’t it? Lucifer was jealous, wasn’t he? He must have felt left out, watching Adam and Lilith together like this.

Humming softly, Adam glanced down at his trembling feet before slowly stepping back, releasing Lilith’s hands. His knees wobbled as he turned toward the bed, his golden eyes fixed on the quilt-covered lump. Carefully, he shuffled closer, his shaky hands gripping the polished wooden frame for support as he leaned forward.

“Luci,” Adam called softly, his voice tender and curious.

The lump stilled.

“Luci, are you feeling left out?” Adam asked, his tone laced with gentle concern. “You don’t have to be. You can stay in here too.”

For a moment, there was no movement. Then, the pile of quilts shifted slightly. Bit by bit, Lucifer peeked out, his tousled hair and bright red-and-gold eyes emerging from the shadows. His gaze was hesitant, almost vulnerable.

“R-Really?” Lucifer asked, his voice quiet, tinged with disbelief. “I can stay in here too?”

Adam nodded, his smile growing warm and bright. “Yeah. Of course, you can, Luci.”

Blinking, Lucifer’s eyes wide as he fully emerged from his cocoon of blankets, looking almost childlike in his cautious hope.

“You mean it?”

Adam reached out a hand, resting it lightly on Lucifer’s arm.

“I mean it,” he said sincerely. “There’s no reason for you to feel left out. You’re important to me too.”

Lucifer’s face lit up with a mix of joy and relief. His tail swished behind him, betraying his excitement, and he quickly pulled Adam into a warm, slightly squishy hug, tucking his chin against Adam’s hair.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice soft and heartfelt.

From the side, Lilith watched with a knowing smile, her heart swelling as she saw the tenderness between them.

"Well," she teased lightly, "I guess that means the three of us are sharing a room now."

Lucifer grinned, his confidence quickly returning as he looked over Adam’s shoulder at Lilith.

“That’s right!” Lucifer declared, his grin as wide as ever. His arms remained securely wrapped around Adam, holding him close like a treasured possession. “I’ll bring some of my ducks too! I bet you’ll love them, Addie!”

Lilith let out an exaggerated groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. But her expression softened almost instantly, betraying the undeniable fondness she felt for the both of them.

“Just... don’t put them in the bed, please.”

Lucifer didn’t bother responding to her plea. Instead, with a sudden burst of playful energy, he yanked Adam onto the bed with him. The motion drew a startled gasp from Adam, but before he could say a word, Lucifer had already curled himself protectively around him. His clawed hands looped securely around Adam’s middle, pulling him into a warm embrace. Without hesitation, Lucifer buried his face into the crook of Adam’s neck, a low, contented purr rumbling from deep within his chest.

“I can’t make any promises,” Lucifer murmured cheekily, his voice muffled against Adam’s skin.

Lilith sighed dramatically, crossing her arms beneath her bust and shaking her head with mock exasperation. She pushed a golden curl off her flawlessly curved shoulder, her lavender eyes closing as she sighed.

"I suppose this means walking practice is officially cancelled for the rest of the day?”

Lucifer didn’t so much as acknowledge her. His tail—long, sinuous, and arrowed at the tip—swayed behind him with unmistakable glee, almost like a puppy wagging its tail. He nuzzled further into Adam’s neck, his purring growing even louder, an audible symbol of his delight.

Adam, for his part, trembled slightly in Lucifer’s hold. His golden eyes darted up toward Lilith, wide with worry. He hoped she wouldn’t be upset about this. It had been so long since he’d been hugged—truly hugged—that he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. This warmth, this closeness... it felt fragile and fleeting, and he was terrified of it slipping away.

“Lily,” he called out meekly, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

Lilith blinked in surprise, her attention immediately drawn to him. "Yes, Addie?"

His gaze dropped momentarily, shy and uncertain, before flicking back up to meet hers.

“Don’t you want to cuddle with us too?” he asked timidly, his cheeks dusting with pink. “Like we did in Eden?”

Lucifer’s head shot up so quickly it was a miracle he didn’t bonk it against Adam’s. His red-and-gold eyes sparkled with excitement as he chimed in enthusiastically, “Yeah, Lilies! Come here! Come cuddle with us!”

Lilith raised a delicate eyebrow, her lips curling into a slow, amused smile.

“I see,,” she purred, her tone as smooth as silk, “I can’t exactly say no to such a wonderful invite, now can I?”

With a graceful sway in her movements, she approached the other side of the bed. She sat down delicately, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. Her cool, gentle fingers reached out to run through Adam’s long, fluffy curls, the motion soothing and affectionate.

“Aw, Addie,” she cooed, her voice brimming with tenderness. “You’re so cute~”

Adam flushed deeper, his face a bright shade of red as he squirmed slightly under her touch. Yet, despite his bashfulness, there was a small, shy smile tugging at his lips.

Lucifer, clearly pleased with how things were unfolding, grinned like a satisfied cat. His tail swished even more exuberantly, and his arms tightened protectively around Adam.

 “See?” he said triumphantly, glancing at Lilith. “Now this is what I call perfect.”

Lilith chuckled softly, resting her chin atop Adam’s head while her fingers continued to thread through his curls.

“I have to admit,” she murmured, her lavender eyes glowing with warmth, “It does feel a bit like Eden again.”

It was a strange experience, a strange feeling—one Adam hadn’t felt in what seemed like eons. Being nestled between them like this, it felt like Eden. Like coming home.

Adam blinked wide-eyed up at the soft purple and black curtains draped elegantly across the beams of the canopy bed. The rich fabrics criss-crossed above him, casting gentle shadows over their shared sanctuary. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, but his heart felt anything but calm.

He sniffled, the sound quiet and raw, his body tense even in the embrace of the two beings who had once been his entire world. Lucifer’s warm breath ghosted over the delicate skin of his throat, while Lilith’s gentle exhale tickled the top of his curls. Her arm cradled his head like a pillow, soft and protective. Adam’s hands were folded over his stomach—a stomach that was softer and more tender than it had been when he was a man. It wasn’t as large, but it still felt unfamiliar in this new form.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came suddenly, trembling and small, breaking the stillness of the room. Both Lilith and Lucifer stiffened, their golden heads lifting slightly in surprise.

“What for, Addie?” Lilith asked softly, her voice a soothing melody as her hand continued to stroke through his curls.

Adam hesitated, his throat tight as his emotions swirled.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated, his voice faltering. “For how I acted in Eden. I wasn’t very nice. I yelled, I cried, a-and I was mean. I’m sorry.”

Lucifer tilted his head back, his long lashes brushing lightly against Adam’s flushed cheek. His crimson and gold eyes softened as he gazed at Adam, his expression filled with a tenderness that was almost overwhelming.

 “Adam,” he murmured, his voice warm and gentle, “You don’t need to apologize.”

But Adam sniffled again, his chest swelling with the weight of unspoken words.

“No, I do,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly. “I was mad, and I was upset. I didn’t understand why you two were pushing me away, why you were leaving me out, and it... it scared me.”

His voice trembled, and he swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. “I was... I was always left by myself. You two always went off without me, and I—I wanted to be with you both too. I wanted to leave the garden, to explore the earth without fear... with you. But I was scared. I was so scared. Every time I tried to—”

His words broke off, his breathing shaky as he fought to continue. “Every time I tried to do something I wanted, something that wasn’t in line with Heaven’s rules... something that went against what the angels told me to do... I was punished for it. I was hurt for it. A-and I didn’t understand why.”

His voice dropped to a trembling whisper, his words fragile and heavy with pain. “I didn’t know why I was always hurt for trying to be like you. Like you both. A-and why you both left me...”

The room fell into a profound silence, broken only by Adam’s quiet, shuddering breaths. Lilith’s hand froze in his hair, her lavender eyes wide with an anguish that mirrored Lucifer’s.

“Oh, Adam...” Lilith whispered, her voice trembling. Her other hand moved to cup his cheek, her touch cool and comforting. “We never meant to hurt you. Never. I wish... I wish we had seen how much you were struggling, how much you needed us then.”

Lucifer’s grip around Adam tightened protectively, his claws pressing just shy of painful against Adam’s middle. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came at first. He looked lost, pained, his tail curling tightly around one of the bedposts like a lifeline.

Adam’s golden eyes glistened with unshed tears as he turned his head slightly, looking at both of them. “I just... I just wanted to be with you. That’s all I ever wanted…”

“I just wanted a friend…”

Lilith leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to Adam’s.

“You’re with us now,” she murmured. “And we’ll never leave you again.”

Lucifer let out a soft, almost broken laugh, burying his face back into Adam’s neck.

“Never again,” he echoed. His voice was laced with a vow—a promise that even Hell itself couldn’t break.

Lucifer’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the weight of his words made Adam’s chest tighten. “What happened to you, Adam?”

Adam froze. His breath hitched, his golden eyes glistening with tears as he looked down at his trembling hands. His fingers curled into the soft fabric of his nightgown, clinging to it as though it might anchor him. He sniffled, trying to wipe away the tears that spilled freely, but they just kept coming.

Lilith leaned closer, her delicate hand brushing his cheek as she pressed a tender kiss to the wet trail of tears.

“It’s okay, Addie,” she murmured, her voice soothing and warm, like a lullaby. “You can tell us. We’ll never judge you, I promise. Whatever it is, you’re safe now.”

Adam’s lips quivered, his chest heaving as he tried to form the words. The memories were tangled and dark, like thorns wrapped around his heart, and each attempt to speak felt like they dug deeper into him. His teary golden gaze dropped to his feet, and he curled his toes together, pressing them tightly against each other in a small, childlike gesture.

“I... um...” he stammered, his voice barely audible. His throat felt raw, his mouth dry, but he forced himself to keep going. “I was good. I think I was. I followed everything they wanted. I-I did everything that was asked of me. I never fought against them after Eden. I never spoke out, a-and...”

Lilith’s fingers wove through his hair, her touch comforting as she hugged him close.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, her tone filled with unwavering love. “We’re here for you, Adam. Take your time.”

Lucifer shifted, sliding himself further up Adam’s side. His warmth was a steady presence, his cheek brushing against Adam’s as he nuzzled him gently.

“What is it, Adam?” he asked softly, his voice like velvet but carrying an edge of concern. “You can tell us. You can tell us anything.”

Adam shuddered, his entire body trembling as his skin prickled. A tingling sensation swept through him—a strange mixture of fear and safety all at once. He swallowed hard, his dry throat aching, and his nose twitched as though it might betray him with another sob.

“I-I...” Adam’s voice cracked, his vision blurring with fresh tears. He took a shaky breath, his chest tightening to the point it felt like it might collapse in on itself. “I was a good boy. A good soldier. I-I did everything they asked of me. I thought—I thought I was doing well for them. B-But then... then they wanted to do something I didn’t like. Something I couldn’t accept. And—and...”

The words caught in his throat, and the memories surged forward like a tidal wave. His entire body jerked as if struck, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

Lucifer’s reaction was immediate. With a sense of urgency, he crawled fully up Adam’s body, his arms wrapping tightly around him. He pulled Adam into his chest, pressing his head firmly against him, as though shielding him from whatever ghosts haunted his mind.

“What did they want to do?” Lucifer’s voice was low, a growl laced with anger and something darker. His crimson eyes flared, blazing with demonic magic that danced like wildfire in the dim light of the room.

Adam clung to Lucifer, his hands gripping at the crisp white fabric of his dress shirt as though it were his lifeline. His body trembled violently, his words caught in a storm of fear and heartbreak.

“They—” Adam choked, his voice muffled against Lucifer’s chest. “They wanted to take something from me. S-something that was mine. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t let them. But they... they hurt me for it. I don’t understand why.”

Lucifer’s arms tightened protectively around Adam, his expression darkening further. His tail lashed behind him, his fury barely contained. Lilith reached out, her hand resting on Adam’s back as she leaned in closer, her lavender eyes shimmering with a mix of sorrow and rage.

“They had no right to hurt you,” Lilith whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “No right at all.”

Adam shook his head weakly, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I-I thought if I was good enough, they’d stop. But they didn’t. They just kept asking for more. More obedience. More sacrifices. More of me.”

Lucifer let out a low, dangerous growl, his grip on Adam unrelenting.

“They’ll never touch you again,” he vowed, his voice a deadly promise. “I’ll burn Heaven to the ground before I let them lay a hand on you.”

Adam’s breath hitched at Lucifer’s words, the intensity of his protection both frightening and comforting. For the first time, he felt like someone truly saw him, truly cared about what he’d been through.

Lilith pressed a kiss to his temple, her touch like a balm on his frayed nerves.

“You’re safe now,” she murmured. “You don’t have to fight anymore. We’ll protect you. Always.”

Adam’s fingers loosened slightly from Lucifer’s shirt, his trembling subsiding just enough for him to take a shaky breath. The warmth of their embrace seeped into him, chasing away the cold that had gripped his soul for so long.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Adam allowed himself to believe them. To believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t alone anymore.

“T-There’s more, Luci!” Adam blurted out, “T-There’s still more I need to say!”

Lucifer’s hand stilled on Adam’s back for a fraction of a second before resuming its comforting rhythm. His frown deepened as he shifted to look down at Adam, his crimson and gold eyes soft with concern but sharp with curiosity.

“What is it, Adam? What more is there?”

Adam hiccupped through his tears, his breath catching as he tried to find the courage to speak. His hands twisted the fabric of Lucifer’s shirt, his entire body trembling as he forced himself to continue.

“Heaven… Heaven wants to blindside you. In the next meeting.”

Lucifer’s expression darkened, his free hand clenching into a fist.

“Blindside us? With what?” he asked, his voice low but dangerously steady.

Adam gasped for air, his tears streaming freely. He couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out in a rush, his voice trembling with urgency. “Heaven wants to force your hand! They—they want you to agree to something called the Extermination.”

Lilith, who had been quietly rubbing Adam’s arm, froze. Her lavender eyes hardened, her beautiful face darkening with an intensity that made Adam’s stomach twist. “

Extermination?” she repeated, her voice laced with venom.

Adam nodded frantically, his words spilling over each other in his desperation to get them out. “I tried—I tried to stop it, but they wouldn’t listen to me! They want to hold an Extermination—a whole week where they send special Heavenborn angels down into Hell to… to slaughter thousands of sinners.”

Lilith’s lips curled into a snarl, her anger flashing like lightning in her eyes. “What?”

Adam’s voice cracked as he sobbed, his small hands gripping Lucifer’s shirt even tighter. “They’re scared of you, Lilith! They’re terrified that you’re gathering the sinners, that you’re holding them together and teaching them to think for themselves. They think you’re going to lead a rebellion against Heaven’s rules.”

Lucifer’s grip on Adam tightened protectively, his body stiff with tension.

 “And their solution is to murder them?” he hissed, his voice like the crack of thunder.

Adam hiccupped again, struggling to keep himself from breaking down completely. “They think the population of Hell is too dangerous to ignore. They think if they… if they kill enough of them, they’ll scare the rest into submission.”

Leaning in closer, Lilith’s hand cradling Adam’s tear-streaked face as she looked at him with a mixture of fury and sorrow.

“And you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What did they want from you, Adam?”

Adam swallowed hard, his entire body shaking as he forced the next words out. “They wanted me to lead the army. They—they wanted me to be the one to lead these warrior, soldier angels into Hell. To kill them. But I… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

Freezing, Lucifer’s eyes widening as he hissed out sharply. “They did this to you because of that?!”

Adam buried his face in Lucifer’s chest, his muffled sobs wracking his small frame. “

Yes!” he cried, his voice cracking. “They turned me into this because I refused! I wouldn’t lead the army against the sinners. They—they’re part of me, Lucifer! They’re my children. I couldn’t just… cast them aside because they made mistakes. I couldn’t do it!”

Lucifer’s entire body went rigid, his tail snapping behind him in agitation. His glowing eyes burned brighter, the flames of his fury almost palpable.

“They punished you for protecting your children?” His voice was low and dangerous, a quiet storm building in his chest.

Lilith’s face was a mask of rage, her fingers trembling as she gently brushed Adam’s hair back from his tear-soaked face.

“They dared to do this to you,” she murmured, her voice dark and filled with promise. “Because you wouldn’t become their monster.”

Adam looked up at them with wide, teary eyes, his golden gaze shimmering with pain. “I just… I just wanted to protect them. I couldn’t stand the thought of leading them to slaughter. But Heaven… Heaven hates me now. They said I was weak. That I was… broken.”

Lucifer let out a low, guttural growl, his protective embrace tightening around Adam.

“You’re not broken, Adam,” he said firmly, his voice filled with conviction. “You’re the bravest soul I’ve ever known. And if Heaven wants a fight, then they’ll get one.”

Lilith leaned down, pressing a kiss to Adam’s forehead as her eyes burned with fierce determination.

“We won’t let them get away with this, Addie. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

~#~

The grand meeting hall was filled with an uneasy silence. Light poured in through the stained glass windows, casting distorted images of angels and heavenly battles onto the polished marble floor. At the long, obsidian table in the centre of the room, Lucifer sat, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the surface. His crimson and gold eyes flickered between calm and blood red every few seconds, a clear sign of his barely contained rage. Every so often, his horns threatened to break through the blonde strands of his hair, only to recede as he forced himself to stay composed.

Lilith sat beside him, the picture of poise and elegance. Her lavender eyes sparkled with a dangerous calm; her hands perfectly folded in her lap. She reached out and placed a gentle hand over Lucifer’s, stilling his restless fingers.

“Lucifer,” she murmured, her voice soothing yet firm. “Stay calm.”

He looked at her, his frown deepening as his jaw clenched.

“I’m trying,” he hissed under his breath. “I really am. But I’m so angry. Why aren’t you angry?”

Lilith tilted her head slightly, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She closed her eyes briefly, as though to centre herself.

 “Oh, I am furious,” she said softly, her voice carrying an edge of steel. “You just can’t see it. I’ve always been good at masking it.”

She opened her eyes, the lavender hue darkened by her hidden fury. “Believe me, my love, I want to rip every angel in this room apart with my bare hands. But we must keep our heads.”

Lucifer let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as his tail flicked irritably behind him.

“I know,” he muttered, his voice strained. “I know. It’s just… I can’t help it. This is all my fault.”

Lilith’s calm demeanour faltered slightly, her gaze softening as she looked down at her lap. “It is as much your fault as it is mine,” she replied quietly, her fingers tightening around his hand.

Lucifer shook his head vehemently, his golden curls bouncing slightly with the movement. “No, Lilith. It’s my fault.”

He looked away, his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns carved into the table. “I was Adam’s guardian archangel. I was supposed to protect him. And I failed him. I wasn’t there when he needed me the most.”

Lilith’s brows furrowed, her calm mask slipping further as her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Lucifer…” she began, her voice gentle yet firm.

“No,” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. “You don’t understand. Adam trusted me. He looked up to me, and I…”

His fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. “I left him behind. I let him fend for himself in a world that was designed to break him.”

Lilith reached up and cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her.

“You didn’t fail him, Lucifer,” she said firmly. “You were fighting your own battles. Heaven doesn’t allow its angels to care, to feel. You were punished for trying to love him, for trying to protect him.”

Lucifer’s eyes shimmered with a mix of anger and regret. “But I should’ve found a way. I should’ve done more.”

Lilith leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And yet, here we are now. Together. Fighting for him.”

She placed her other hand over his, her touch grounding him. “That’s what matters.”

Before Lucifer could respond, the doors to the hall creaked open, and a procession of angels began to file in. Their pristine white robes and glowing auras were a sharp contrast to the dark and ominous presence of the two royals seated at the table.

Lucifer straightened his posture, his anger simmering just beneath the surface as he tightened his grip on Lilith’s hand.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, his eyes flashing blood red once more.

Lilith’s smirk returned, her lavender eyes narrowing as she watched the angels take their seats.

“Stay sharp, my love,” she said softly. “The game is just beginning.”

Lucifer nodded, the weight of his guilt momentarily pushed aside by the resolve to protect Adam—and the damned souls that Heaven sought to destroy. As the angels began to slip through those mocking golden doors, he exchanged a brief glance with Lilith. Her calm, unwavering gaze was all the reassurance he needed.

They were in this together, and Heaven had no idea what they were up against.

And they weren’t about to give Adam back.

The tension in the grand hall was palpable, the air thick with unspoken animosity as the angels of Heaven and the royalty of Hell faced off. The obsidian table between them seemed to hum with the weight of centuries-old grudges and bitter resentments. Lucifer sat rigid in his chair, his fingers gripping the armrests so tightly they might splinter. Beside him, Lilith radiated an eerie calm, her lavender eyes fixed on the gilded double doors that creaked open with slow, deliberate menace.

Michael entered first, his golden armour gleaming as though freshly forged, his face a mask of divine authority. Behind him, Seraphiel—Sera to those who dared address her informally—followed, her robes flowing like liquid light, her expression serene but her eyes sharp as a blade. Together, they strode forward, their steps echoing ominously in the cavernous hall.

Lucifer’s eyes burned with barely restrained fury as he watched them approach. His horns, though suppressed, seemed to pulse faintly beneath his golden curls. Lilith reached over and rested a cool hand on his forearm, a silent reminder to stay composed. He exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t break his piercing gaze.

Michael and Sera came to a stop at the opposite end of the table. Michael stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, while Sera surveyed the room with an air of condescension, as though the very existence of Hell was an offense she tolerated only out of necessity.

"Lucifer. Lilith," Michael greeted, his tone even but cold. "I see you’re both punctual. How... refreshing."

Lucifer smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

 "We do aim to please, Michael," he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Although I can’t say the same for your entrances. The dramatics are a bit much, don’t you think?"

Sera’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before she composed herself.

"Coming from you, Lucifer? That’s rich," she said smoothly, her voice like honey laced with venom. "But we’re not here to trade barbs, are we?"

"No," Lilith interjected, her voice silky but firm. "We’re here because you requested this meeting. Let’s not waste time pretending otherwise."

"Save the pleasantries," Lucifer cut in sharply, sitting forward now. His eyes glinted dangerously as he laced his fingers together on the table. "Let’s get to the heart of it, shall we? Is this meeting about your so-called 'extermination' plan? Or is it about Adam?"

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap. Michael and Sera both froze, their carefully crafted composure cracking for the briefest of moments. Michael’s brow furrowed, while Sera’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Michael was the first to recover.

"Did Adam... tell you that?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with suspicion.

Lucifer snorted, leaning back once more.

"And if he did?" he replied coolly, his tone daring them to challenge him.

Sera’s gaze narrowed as she stepped forward, her hands clasped lightly in front of her.

"So he is already disobeying?" she said, her voice like ice.

Lucifer’s calm facade shattered. He slammed a hand down on the table, the force sending a crack spiderwebbing through the obsidian surface. His eyes flared blood red as his voice boomed.

"Disobeying? Disobeying? Heaven broke him! You turned him into—!"

Lilith was on her feet in an instant, her hand on his shoulder.

"Lucifer," she hissed softly but firmly. Her touch and tone were enough to pull him back from the brink. He exhaled shakily, his rage simmering but controlled.

Lilith turned her attention to Sera, her eyes sharp as daggers.

"Adam is hardly disobeying Heaven," she said, her voice cold and biting. "Not when Heaven is the one who hurt him. Or do you see his suffering as some kind of obedience?"

The words sent a ripple of discomfort through the angels gathered around the table. Michael’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a mixture of guilt and anger, but it was Sera who answered first, her voice as cold as ice. “It was necessary.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his body trembling with restrained fury. “Necessary? Necessary to destroy an innocent soul? Necessary to turn him into something broken? You’ve turned a blind eye to your own sins, Sera, and now you come here, expecting us to bow to your will?”

Lilith’s hand tightened around Lucifer’s, her calm demeanour like a storm contained. “If Heaven wants a war, you’ll have one. But don’t think for a second that you’ll get it so easily.”

Sera’s expression darkened, and for the first time, Lucifer saw a flicker of something like regret in her eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by cold resolve.

“This meeting was supposed to be civil, Lucifer,” she said, her tone sharp. “But if you want to play this game, fine. We’ll play it.”

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that matched the fire in his soul.

“I’m done with games, Sera. If Heaven wants to make its move, then let it. But don’t think for a second that we’re going to sit back and let you destroy everything we’ve fought for.”

The room grew heavy with the weight of their words, a silent tension building between the four of them. Lilith’s gaze was steady, unwavering, while Lucifer’s eyes glowed with the promise of a war that Heaven had no idea was coming.

For a moment, it felt as though the very walls of the meeting hall were holding their breath, waiting for the next move.

And then Lucifer spoke, his voice cool and deadly. “So, let’s get this straight. You want to exterminate Hell, erase all the sinners, and wipe everything out? Or is this just about Adam?”

Both Sera and Michael paused for a moment, clearly caught off guard by his directness. Michael’s eyes flickered with a hint of something—doubt?—before he quickly masked it, his jaw tightening.

“It’s about both,” he said carefully, his gaze not quite meeting Lucifer’s. “But don’t pretend you don’t know this is a war you started.”

Lucifer’s smile was all teeth. “I didn’t start it, Michael. Heaven did, the moment it abandoned Adam. And now, you want to finish it?”

The silence in the room grew suffocating, the air thick with the weight of the conversation. Lucifer’s golden eyes blazed with fury, his teeth bared like the predator he had become. Lilith’s cold gaze flicked between the angels, her posture calm yet poised to strike. She barely moved, but the tension around her was palpable.

Lucifer broke the silence with a low growl, his voice dripping with contempt. “I know exactly what you did to Adam in Eden. How you hurt him every time he tried to step out of your precious little line. You were the ones who twisted him. You turned him into something he wasn’t because he had the audacity to question your rules.”

Sera’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing, her lips pressed tightly together in that usual, cold expression. Michael, on the other hand, remained still, his wings flicking ever so slightly behind him in irritation. They knew exactly what he was referring to, but neither one wanted to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Lilith’s voice was ice-cold, but her words cut like a dagger. “And what purpose did Heaven’s punishment serve? Making Adam change his very nature, forcing him to become a woman... for what? What’s the point of this?”

The question hung in the air, cutting through the tension. Neither Sera nor Michael answered. They couldn’t. They had no good excuse for their cruelty, their manipulation. They simply remained silent, their lips tight, unwilling to confess what they knew to be the truth.

Lucifer, sensing their silence, let out a bitter laugh. “That's right. No answers, just silence. But we both know you can’t justify it.”

Instead of addressing the question, Michael shifted the focus. “Enough. This meeting is about the Extermination plan. The plan Heaven has to rid Hell of its tainted population.”

Lucifer's gaze turned sharp, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Ah, yes, the Extermination. Another 'righteous' purge that Heaven thinks is necessary. But no, Michael, you didn’t come here to talk about that. You came here because you’re scared. You’re terrified of what we’re going to do next. Of what you’ve pushed us to do.”

Lilith’s voice was steady but cool as she responded, “I’m sorry, did you just accuse me of building an army? Maybe you should ask me to my face before making assumptions.”

Michael’s narrowed eyes didn’t leave her, though there was a subtle flash of doubt in them. “I know what you’re doing. I know you’ve been stirring something under the surface, preparing for something more. I won’t let you jeopardize Heaven’s place in this world.”

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “Jeopardize Heaven? Oh, no, Michael. Heaven’s own actions have already jeopardized itself. If you think for one second that your precious celestial realm is safe from what’s coming... well, you’ll learn that lesson soon enough.”

Sera was losing patience now. “What are you talking about, Lucifer?”

Her voice was sharp, her eyes blazing as she stared him down. “What plans are you speaking of?”

Lucifer’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Before? There were no plans. No thoughts of raising a rebellion. We weren’t foolish enough to think we could overthrow Heaven. But that’s changed now.”

He leaned forward, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that would have made the heavens themselves tremble. “Now we have a plan. And it doesn’t matter what you say or do. It’s too late to stop it.”

Michael’s jaw clenched, his fists visibly tightening at his sides. “So, you're threatening us, Lucifer?” His voice had grown cold, almost mocking.

Lucifer let out a harsh laugh. “What’s Heaven going to do, Michael? You’re the ones who hurt Adam. You turned him into something he wasn’t, and now you want him back under your thumb? To use him for whatever twisted purpose you have next?”

Sera’s eyes flashed with anger. “Enough of this. All of this over the first human? You think he’s worth all this disruption? You’ve fallen so far from grace, Lucifer. It’s pathetic.”

That was the spark Lucifer needed. His fury erupted. “Pathetic?”

His voice was a snarl now. “You think I care about Heaven’s rules now? You think I care what you think of me? You took Adam, and you broke him. You abused him, and now you come here acting like you’re in the right?”

Lilith leaned forward, her voice like a blade. “Heaven didn’t just hurt Adam. It used him, like a puppet. You took away his self-worth, bruised him, and made him feel less than what he was. Heaven pushed him until he couldn’t take it anymore. And then you forced him into becoming a woman. You didn’t just strip him of his masculinity, you stripped him of his identity.”

Sera’s face twitched with a flicker of discomfort, but she quickly masked it. Michael, however, clenched his fists, the veins in his hands showing, his eyes narrowing with coldness.

Lilith wasn’t done. “Adam mentioned something interesting. You said you were going to send special Heavenborn angels to Hell, right? Well, you weren’t planning on using him to birth them, were you?”

Both Michael and Sera froze. There was a brief moment of complete silence. Neither spoke, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of Lilith’s words had sunk deep into their minds.

Michael quickly recovered, though there was something strained in his posture.

“That’s none of your concern,” he snapped, brushing it off with a wave of his hand.

Lucifer leaned forward, his voice dripping with anger. “That’s not an answer, Michael. What exactly are you planning? Using Adam to breed your army of Heavenborn angels? Is that your grand plan?”

Michael’s gaze remained cool, his eyes meeting Lucifer’s without flinching. “We demand that you return Adam to his rightful place. Heaven. His place is with us, not here with you.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, the rage in them evident. “You’re really deluded if you think Adam belongs in Heaven anymore. After everything you’ve done to him, you can’t just take him back like a toy. He’s not yours to command anymore, Michael.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow, her voice cutting. “Heaven may have been his birthplace, but Hell is where he’s meant to be now. And you have no right to tear him away from what he’s come to love.”

Lucifer’s gaze didn’t leave Michael’s as he spoke again, the weight of his words heavy. “We’re not just going to sit here and watch as you destroy everything we’ve built. Not this time.”

The tension in the room escalated, the weight of Lucifer’s declaration pressing down on the air like a thick, suffocating fog. The words hung in the space between them, ringing out with the force of a thunderclap. Lucifer’s sharp, predatory grin only widened as he leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous and unyielding certainty.

"Adam will never be returned to Heaven," Lucifer snarled, the power in his voice rippling through the air. "He belongs to Hell now. And there’s nothing you can do about it."

Sera huffed, her expression one of barely contained frustration. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her wings flaring slightly in agitation.

"Hell has no claim to Adam," she spat. "You’re in no position to keep him. He’s still Heaven’s responsibility, and you can’t change that."

Lucifer’s grin widened impossibly more, the sharpness of his teeth sending a chill down the spines of those who dared to meet his gaze.

"That’s where you're wrong," he said, his voice dripping with malicious satisfaction. "I can put a claim on him. I can keep him here in Hell. And I am fully within my rights to bind him to me, if I choose."

Sera's eyes narrowed dangerously, her patience growing thin. "And how exactly do you intend to do that, Lucifer? Please, enlighten me."

Lucifer’s gaze shifted to his brother, Michael, who had been standing silently by Sera’s side, his features cold and unreadable. Lucifer snickered darkly, his voice dripping with derision. "Do you wish to tell her, or shall I?"

Michael’s cold expression didn’t change, but his voice cut through the air with an icy finality.

"He’s right," he said flatly, his tone devoid of any warmth. "He can make a claim, if he so wishes. And he is well within his right to do so."

Sera blinked in confusion, her gaze flickering to Michael in disbelief.

 "What?" she demanded. "How? How can that be?"

Silence fell over the room, heavy and thick, as Sera turned toward Michael, waiting for an explanation. Lucifer’s smug grin never wavered as he enjoyed the chaos he had just unleashed. He was in control now, and he relished in the discomfort it caused the celestial beings in front of him.

Lilith, who had remained eerily calm through the exchange, couldn’t help but allow a sly smirk to curl on her lips. Her eyes gleamed with quiet triumph as she addressed Sera, her voice dripping with superiority.

"Isn’t it obvious?" she asked, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade. "Lucifer and I are bound to Adam, and he is ours. We are his consorts now, and there’s nothing that Heaven can do to change that."

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, his expression almost mocking as he turned his attention fully to Sera and Michael.

"We will wed him at noon tomorrow," he continued, his voice a dangerous whisper filled with undeniable authority. "And when we do, you’ll see. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. He belongs to Hell now, and no amount of your petty threats will change that."

The room seemed to grow even colder, and the silence that followed was almost suffocating. Sera’s eyes blazed with fury, but there was a flicker of uncertainty beneath the surface. Michael remained stoic, his eyes locked onto Lucifer with an intensity that matched his brother’s.

Sera's jaw tightened as she struggled to process the full weight of Lucifer’s words. The idea of Adam, the first human, being bound to them in such a way was incomprehensible to her. The sheer audacity of the act, the rebellion against Heaven’s will—it was a violation of everything she had ever known.

She finally spoke, her voice shaking with barely contained rage. "You can’t possibly think this will hold. Heaven will not stand for it. We will not allow you to take him from us."

Lucifer’s grin never faltered, his voice cool and mocking. "You underestimate us, Sera. You underestimate Adam. He’s ours now, and there’s no going back. So enjoy the last few moments you have of thinking you can control him. Because tomorrow, everything changes."

The tension in the air was thick, a crackling energy that threatened to erupt at any moment. But there was a dangerous finality in Lucifer’s words, a certainty that made it clear: this wasn’t a negotiation. It was an ultimatum.

Turning her gaze to Michael, Lilith's voice was low but cutting. "You’ve pushed him too far. You’ve hurt him for too long. This is the price you pay for your cruelty. Adam is with us now, and he will never return to your false paradise."

The silence that followed felt like an eternity, and in that moment, the battle lines were drawn. Heaven and Hell stood at odds, and nothing would be the same again.

The doors to the hall slammed open, the weight of Lucifer and Lilith’s words hanging heavily in the air as the two factions stood on the precipice of war. And at the heart of it all was Adam—no longer a pawn, no longer an angel caught between two realms. Adam was with them now, and nothing, not Heaven nor Hell, would ever take him away again.

[baldwinivmybeloved]

Hi, (I’ve been obsessed with Anne Boleyn lately) could you please do one where King Baldwin IV’s wife is executed by beheading on false charges of adultery and witchcraft in front of a large crowd, Balian, Tiberius and Guy de Lusignan are in the crowd, and they are devastated (well, except guy of course) and a few months after her beheading it’s proven she was innocent and Baldwin regrets it and is very depressed, and his wife comes down from heaven to visit him. (Please revolve most of the story during her execution) Thx ❤️❤️ (love your writing!)

༘｡𖦹  THE EXCECUTED QUEEN✴︎  ㌍㍉ BALDWIN IV

In the summer of 1180, Queen Maria of Jerusalem stood on the scaffold of Acre Castle, awaiting execution by beheading. Her eyes fixed on the crowd of men, women, and children surrounding her, and she felt her entire world slipping away.

The charges of adultery and witchcraft, accusing her of killing her own child, seemed unfounded. The king, Baldwin IV, had trusted her, and she had returned that trust with love and affection. But the resentment and envy of others had led to her downfall.

Balian of Ibelin, Tiberius, Count of Champagne, and Guy de Lusignan watched the heartbreaking scene with grief-stricken eyes as Queen Maria was left behind to be executed. They hoped someone would intervene on her behalf, but they knew it was already too late.

All of them were close friends and loyal to the queen, and she loved them more deeply than anyone. But the Maiden's Tower loomed over her, and she was destined to be brought down.

The knight who would behead her had been chosen by the king, and she knew he was not inclined to show mercy. The other knights had requested the execution to be carried out immediately, so the people would not realize the truth behind the sentence.

Queen Maria stood firm under her red mantle, preparing for her death. Her face was as serene as an angel's, but her eyes silently pleaded for help.

But that would not happen.

Someone shouted from the crowd, and all eyes turned toward him. It was a dwarf man, carrying a metal pike and a mat.

"This is the man who accused the queen of witchcraft," said the dwarf, loudly. "This is the man who has caused the fall of our innocent queen."

All eyes turned to him, and Queen Maria's hair turned white with fear.

The dwarf continued, "This is the man who has been lying for months. He is the real witch, not her. He is the real murderer, not her. He is the real adulterer, not her."

Queen Maria's eyes trembled, and she felt that everything that had been happening over the past few months was no longer real.

The dwarf went on, "From what I have found, and from what I have known, and from what I have come to believe, all of this has been a heap of lies, and Queen Maria is innocent."

The crowd went wild, drowning in their shouts and cries.

Balian of Ibelin, Tiberius, Count of Champagne, and Guy de Lusignan stood silently in grief as Queen Maria was absolved of her false accusations of witchcraft and adultery.

The people were also astonished, and they looked at Baldwin IV with a gaze of confusion and anger.

Baldwin, who had trusted his advisers and the evidence presented against Maria, now found himself consumed by doubt and guilt. But it was too late. The executioner's sword was already raised, and with a single stroke, Maria's head rolled to the ground, her eyes still open in a final plea for justice.

The crowd's horrified scream echoed off the city walls. Balian fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, while Tiberius covered his face with his hands, unable to bear the sight. Guy, on the other hand, maintained an expression of indifference, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body of the queen.

The months following the execution were a torment for Baldwin IV. Guilt consumed him day and night, his dreams plagued by the image of Maria and her eyes filled with love and betrayal. Finally, the truth came to light: Maria had been incriminated by enemies at court, and the evidence against her was fabricated and false.

One night, as Baldwin sat alone in his chamber, steeped in despair, a soft, warm light filled the room. Maria appeared before him, her spirit descending from heaven. Her face was full of peace, and her voice was a soothing whisper.

"Baldwin," she said, "do not torment yourself any longer. I have forgiven you. The truth always comes to light, and though my life was unjustly taken, my love for you will never die."

Baldwin, tears in his eyes, fell to his knees before her. "Maria, my love, my queen... how can I live knowing what I did to you?"

Maria extended an ethereal hand and touched his cheek. "Live with the truth, Baldwin. Honor my memory by seeking justice, and find peace knowing that I have forgiven you. Love transcends death."

With those words, Maria's spirit faded, leaving Baldwin with a mix of pain and hope. Though the guilt would never completely leave him, the king vowed to honor the memory of his innocent wife, working tirelessly to ensure that such an injustice would never happen again in his kingdom

[hellfirecvnt]

Subordinate (Pt. 2)

Lee Russell x Fem!Reader

Summary: Something goes wrong at the pep rally. You and Lee get closer.

Warnings: SEX (but what's most important is the journey), weed brownies, overstim ig?

Notes: Yee haw, amirite? Hey, sorry this took so long. My life did a 180, but hopefully maybe I'll be back in the writing groove soon???

Part one here!!

Over the weekend, you stay home, battling it out with your soon-to-be ex-husband. Finally, you're able to convince him to leave, taking the bulk of his belongings with him. You toss the rest into the yard and dare your HOA to knock on your door anytime between now and four months from now at 8:27 PM.

You stand outside on your porch, watching your ex return at night to collect his strewn possessions from the dewy grass. You're silent, even as he tosses you manipulative puppy-eyed glances. You bring a skillfully rolled joint to your lips and light it, making heart-wrenching eye contact with Mark through the flames. God, it hurts, but Daddy didn't raise no bitch, Y/N.

Mark rolls his eyes, calling out some sort of degradation for your recreational marijuana use, but you barely hear him. You're barely here at all. Not from the plant, but the numbness of it all. The empty feeling that follows a great loss. So many years with someone who threw it away so fast. And that poor lady, barely aware of what she's gotten herself into.

Once he's finally gone, you finish your joint and allow yourself to rest. Alone in your bed for the first time in over 10 years. Seven years of marriage, 11 years of knowing each other. You think you know someone.

Monday morning, day one of spirit week, you dawn your muted blue blazer and pencil skirt. Monday is the Blue Out. All day long, everyone tells you that you look like you took a page out of Lee Russell's book but made it "actually wearable."

"We fucking this pep rally up on Friday or what?" Gamby asks, pacing the pine needle-covered ground of their meeting place.

"Outdressing these stupid cunts every single day. She wears a primary color one time..." He mumbles.

"Russell! Pay attention!" Lee is yanked away from his hateful mumbling. The two men are hatching another poorly thought-out plan to deter you from sticking around. Right now their primary focus is stressing you out to the point of leaving town, or getting yourself fired via one of your episodes.

Tuesday's Spirit Week theme is Historical Figures. You're dressed in a dark emerald pantsuit with a cheap remake of Anne Boleyn's initial necklace featuring your initial. Mr. Gamby comes in without a costume, and you can't have that.

"Mr. Gamby, what historical figure are you today?" You tilt your head.

"Oh, I don't do dress ups."

"But it's Spirit Week! You're part of the admin team. We can't skip these things." You shift your weight onto your hip.

"Then I'll be sure to participate tomorrow," Neal rolls his eyes, attempting to walk away and end the conversation.

"No, I think we can set something up for you. Let's go have a talk with Mr. Seychelles." You lead him to the drama room and excitedly task the students with dressing Mr. Gamby as whatever historical figure they can throw together.

"I don't see how this is necessary to express school spirit," he protests.

"Mr. Gamby, I need you to not be a wet blanket this week. Please? I'm begging you." You pinch the bridge of your nose between your index finger and thumb. Once the kids are done, we're left with a very convincing William Shakespeare. "Perfect!" You exclaim, clapping your hands.

Up front, you and Neal resume welcoming late car riders and staff into the school. Lee arrives a little late, explaining that his neighbor has been causing a few altercations with him at random. You barely hear any of that explanation because of his outfit. He's wearing a gray monochromatic suit with a dark crimson tie and something about seeing him in colors so mute is absolutely doing it for you. You're quick to put that thought away.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Neal asks, from atop his ridiculous Shakespeare collar.

"The greatest Korean warrior, Yi Sun-sin." He looks Gamby up and down. "Bold choice."

"He's Shakespeare!" You chime.

"I'm taking off this stupid fucking collar!" Gamby finally blows a fuse and rips the fluffy neck piece off of him. Just then, a group of students pass by.

"Yo, Mr. Gamby, nice Columbus costume!" One shouts as they drift on.

"No... Okay, I need to have a talk with the history department..." You furrow your brow. "Collar stays on."

Wednesday is Warrior Wednesday. Students get to wear their pajamas because you weren't about to let them show up in native American headdresses.

Lee meets with a student to buy a few substances meant to derail all the careful planning you've put into this upcoming pep rally and football game. He purchases a small eyedropper vial of LSD and plans to essentially drug the students so they fumble the game. He wouldn't have to stoop this low if it weren't for this godforsaken spirit week you've put together. It blows anything he and Neal have ever come up with together right out of the water.

Thursday, the theme is Literary Favorites. It's another chance for the kids to dress up, only this time, it's book characters. You wear a gingham shirt, tan slacks, and a straw hat. You're Huckleberry Finn. Everyone thinks you're little Debbie. You're not sure how well this school will do in yearly statewide testing...

Neal Gamby is costume-less again, so you slap another straw hat on him and call him Tom Sawyer. Lee arrives late, once again. He's also sans costume.

"What the hell, Mr. Russell? You can't both leave me hanging like this," you throw your hands up.

"I know, I'm sorry. It's my fucking neighbor! Every fuckin' day is like a knife fight in my God damn driveway," he spits, aggravated and still fuming.

"You should fuckin' kill that guy." You don't exactly mean to say that joke out loud. And you certainly don't mean to deadpan the way you do, causing the two men standing with you to wonder if you're being genuine or not.

"That's what I said!" Lee turns to Neal dramatically, queuing him to remember their conversation where he said exactly that. Wishing over-reactively that he could just murder his troublesome neighbor, Jackie.

"Oh fuck, I'm sorry, guys. That was supposed to be an inside thought," you place a hand over your lips, attempting to stay more aware of your own dialogue.

"There are no inside thoughts here, darlin'. I'm an open book," Lee chuckles.

"Well, speaking of books, you can't just walk around like this all day." You rummage through the drama room once again and find a cheaply made knights robe and a wooden sword. "There. You're King Arthur."

"Why the fuck is he King Arthur and I'm Tom motherfucking pussy ass Sawyer?"

"I will strike you down." The words leave your mouth unprompted. A jestful threat you only find funny in your mind, yet here you are, blurting it out because today's wake and bake got the best of you.

"What?" Neal asks, unsure of what you said due to the low pitch and quickness.

"Mr. Gamby, I just want us to be friends. Please stop pushing me away." You flash your big, shining, puppy dog eyes and place a friendly hand on his shoulder before walking away dismissively.

"I think she might be as fucked in the head as you are, Russell." Gamby confusedly watches you confidently strut down the hall.

"She's something," Lee shrugs, losing the knight's robe, but keeping the sword and plastic crown.

Finally, it's Friday, as a treat for the students and staff, you've taken the whole day to rally in preparation for the biggest game of the year. The theme today is simply school spirit, so you're back in your blue pencil skirt, only this time with a North Jackson football jersey featuring your last name and the last two numbers of your birth year. It felt extra, but you like it that way.

Gamby shows up in his usual school sweater vest and for once, it's on theme, so you have no notes. You send him to the auditorium where the first half of the day will start before moving to the gym. This will allow the band, choir, and drama students to showcase their "spirit."

"Lee Russell, late again..." You mumble quietly to yourself, considering if this is going to be a recurring issue or not. Eventually, you see his car pull into the lot and you step outside to meet him, hoping to talk to him in private to administer a firm warning. He steps out of his car and from a distance, you can hardly notice anything wrong. When he gets a bit closer, you can see a still-oozing split on his lip and a purple and yellow bruise peeking under his sunglasses.

"Sorry I'm late-" he rolls his eyes, tossing his arms up in defeat. Clearly too tired to argue.

"Mr. Russell, you're bleeding," you stare at him with concern, walking him inside and guiding him to the privacy of your office. "That guy really wailed on you, huh?" You tap at his lip wound until the bleeding finally stops.

"I'm not worried about it," he says flatly. It's clearly a sore spot, physically and metaphorically.

"Well, I think we can work up a little stage magic here. Haas is coming by, and-"

"Fuck, I forgot about motherfucking Super Intendant Haas," Lee groans.

"It's fine! I'm a frequently stressed woman in my mid-twenties, I have makeup on hand at all times." You fish for a certain pallet, one meant specifically to color correct and mix for any skin tone. Literal stage makeup, but it worked like a charm in the day-to-day.

With each gentle tap of your hand smearing pigment against his skin, he watches your focused face. He can't pry his eyes away from yours, and you don't notice the entire time. His sight dances from your eyelashes, to your lips, and to the concentrated wrinkle that forms between your eyebrows. You cover his blacked eye effortlessly and his lip split is nearly unnoticeable when you finally stay away to admire your work. He does everything in his power to ignore the stored images of your breath rising and falling in your chest only inches away from him. You swoop into his personal space once again to powder the makeup down with a poofy cotton applicator. His breath hitches in his lungs as your eyes meet his and your bright smile melts whatever it is he has in place of a heart. Maybe one of those monkey toys with the cymbals.

"Perfect. I really am an artist," you brag. The two of you share a laugh and head to the Pep Rally. As you walk down the hall, completely out of your line of sight, two troublemaker students sneak into the unoccupied cafeteria kitchen. They fight to stifle their laughter as they unload their supplies from their backpacks.

A tub of medicated butter slams onto the metal countertops with a loud bang. They manage to bake an entire sheet of brownies with everything they brought, only to be run off from the kitchen by you. You left the pep rally crowd when they switched from auditorium to gymnasium, just to get away for a while. You're overwhelmed by the large crowds and loud sounds.

The kids book it out of there, leaving their dosed treats behind. They're just quick enough to elude your sights, melting back into the line of students filing into the gym.

"Oh, no." You speak aloud, certain you've stumbled upon one of the trays of brownies meant for the students. You're sad and going through a divorce, so what's better than a brownie or two while taking a moment to yourself? You eat one and it tastes peculiar. You chalk it up to being a "healthier" brownie situation meant to be "better" for the kids.

"Hey, there. Dr. Y/L/N." Lee appears before you.

"Excuse the tray of sweets, Mr. Russell. I promise I didn't steal these from the kids. I found them here," you laugh, pushing the dish toward him. "Try one. They taste like someone who's never had a brownie tried to make one using only things they could find outside." He can't refuse if he wants you to get comfortable enough to share sensitive secrets and weaknesses with him, so he digs in. The two of you eat a decent amount between you, unsure why as the hour passed, you just kept getting hungrier...

You and Lee are practically draped across the countertops, leaning against them for support. You were completely unaware of your leisurely stance until the two students returned for their contraband and it felt like it took you seven business minutes to stand up straight again.

"Oh, shit..." One of them gasps.

"What? Who are you two? Robin Shandrell, do not let Mr. Gamby see you sneaking around during assemblies!" You warn with a maternal tone, though it's barely slurred as your high only continues to creep in as the brownies catch up with you.

"You guys just ate so many fuckin' pot brownies..." The alternative-looking kid mumbles with an expression that reads unfazed.

"These are... What?" You and Lee look at each other in horror. The students bolt off in different directions, but you two are too shocked to react to them.

"We gotta get out of here!" Lee exclaims.

"We can't! We can't leave Gamby to fend for himself against all these fucking kids!" There's a certain level of vitriol in your voice.

"We can't just stay!"

"Ugh, fuck! Okay! We need to get out of here and we cannot be seen leaving together." You talk frantically with your hands.

"What do you mean, together?" Lee shakes his head, assuming every man for himself. He wasn't worried about where you were gonna end up.

"Lee, neither of us can drive. I'm not paying for two Ubers. They're fucking expensive."

"Fuck!" The two of you make the first length of your labyrinthian journey out of the school without running into Haas or Gamby, mostly. But anyone would be an obstacle neither of you are ready to face.

"Listen, we've got about 30 minutes to an hour before it gets really bad-" your reassurance is cut off when you hear Ms. Smith's voice calling your name from behind you. She urges you to hurry to the gym where they're waiting for you to give a speech, encouraging the players and all the students. You look at Lee, terrified, following Ms. Smith down the hall as she continues to talk. All Lee can do is shake his head.

You step out, and by the grace of whatever higher power you do or don't believe in, you deliver perhaps the best pep rally monologue in existence. You'd be worried the high is giving you false confidence, but the students are more hype than they've ever been. Neal looks around the gymnasium with wide eyes, unsure if it's about to be a riot. The bleachers break out into a chant as your high climbs, seemingly amplified by the energy of the room. Lee stares in stoned awe as you glow under the adoration of your students. You start to feel your smile extend to a painful territory, and that's how you know it's time to exit, stage left.

You drop the microphone on the ground and dash off toward the door. The room is too distracted by the excitement, barely anyone notices your getaway. Lee notices, of course, because he can't take his eyes off of you. Super Intendant Haas notices, because he needs to talk to you, so he recruits Ms. Smith and starts hunting you down. As soon as Lee notices their objective, he rushes to meet you on the other side of the school.

"Hey! We gotta go, we gotta get out of here!" He exclaims, sprinting down the long hallway.

"What? Why? What's happening?" You panic. "The Uber isn't here yet!"

"Well then we need to hide," he speaks sternly. Just then, you both hear the sound of footsteps approaching you from down the hall. "Fuck this!" He shoves you into the nearest Janitor's closet and the two of you remain perfectly quiet. You're so focused on the sound of passing footsteps, you're both late to realize you're pressed chest to chest with each other.

"Not very much room for Jesus in here, Mr. Russell," you laugh, fighting hard to hold back the sound. Lee's face reddens and he apologizes under his breath, stepping out of the closet. Just as he does, he spots Haas and Smith at the end of the hallway, luckily too distracted by their own conversation to notice him stumble out into the hall. He quickly zooms back in, retaking his place flush against your body.

"They're right outside," he whispers. This time, waiting for them to leave seems to take an eternity as he's hyper-aware of each inch of him that's touching you. He's doing everything in his power to not wrap you into his arms and pull you closer to him, he's so fucking touch-starved. You were his adversary yesterday, but today has changed something. Not to mention he's absolutely blitzed.

You can still hear people talking outside the door, so Lee remains in your personal space. You both try your best to hold perfectly still, as any amount of friction could trigger something in his touch-starved mind or your heartbroken psyche that there's no coming back from. It's pitch dark in the closet, and the faint scent of Pine Sol fills your nose for just a moment before Lee's cologne takes over. The scent causes your knee to buckle, but you catch yourself.

The sharp, grinding motion of your body against his elicits an involuntary huff from Lee's chest. His face heats up, and he's ever thankful that there are no lights or windows in the closet. Finally, you both hear the sound of Haas and Ms. Smith saying goodbye and heading separate ways. Haas leaves the building and Smith returns to the rally. You're in the clear... But you're still in the closet.

"Um, Mr. Russell," you start. "You can open the door now."

"No, ma'am. I cannot." He wiggles the doorknob, jostling against you.

"What are you talking about? Is the door jammed?" You whisper harshly, trying not to draw accidental attention to this seemingly highly inappropriate situation. "Let me try!" You attempt to turn the knob and it seems completely stuck.

"Grab your walkie and radio for Mr. Gamby," you suggest, readjusting your hips against his for easier access. His cheeks burn in the cover of darkness. He attempts to reach for his walkie in the crowded, small closet and when he finally gets it back up to his face, he presses the button to absolutely no sound.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbles.

"It's dead, huh?" You sigh.

"It's dead." The two of you spend the next 15 minutes or so attempting to wiggle the knob loose. All the jostling of the hardware leaves the two of you aching from teasing friction between you. Neither of you wants to be the one to speak on it, unable to see the other in the blacked-out storage room. You're almost certain you can feel his cock stiffening under his slacks, but just then, the door slings open and he stumbles backward.

"Oh!" You gasp, in shock and reeling from the absence of touch. You feel damn near edged by the whole encounter. You remain in the closet while Lee stares at you from the hall, speechless for only a moment.

"Okay, well. I guess I'll- I'll see you Monday, Dr. Y/L/N." He begins to nervously walk away, as if he's still considering if that's what he wants to do.

"You can call me Y/N," you call to him without thinking. At this point, you two are close enough for casualties. He deserves a first name basis since you would definitely be revisiting this event in your bedroom by yourself later.

"You can call me Lee, Y/N." He smiles, walking away a little more confidently. The door to the closet slowly creeps closed and you remain there for a moment, collecting yourself and reminding yourself that it's fucked up to lust after an employee just because you forgot what intimacy feels like. You take a big, shuddered breath and straighten up your clothes.

Suddenly, you're hit with the wind of the closet door slinging open. The sudden revealing of light causes you to squint your eyes, but when you open them, you see Lee. He's standing there with purpose, mouth slightly agape as his eyes desperately study your face in the light. Neither of you says anything and he steps into the closet with you again, intentionally pulling the door shut with one hand, while the other finds and cups your face as he plants a hungry kiss on your lips.

With zero hesitation you kiss him back, pulling him into you like he's the air you need to breathe. He takes a well-kempt hand and slowly trails down the side of your body, hooking under your thigh, and pulling your leg up to his waist. Your pencil skirt is forced up from the motion, and you can feel the air brushing against your damp panties.

"Goddamn, you drive me fucking crazy," he growls into your mouth as you both move your heads in sync. He snakes a hand between your legs and gently toys with your clit through your underwear. The wetness expands until you're nearly dripping in his hand, then he finally pushes them aside. One long finger slips slowly inside of you, followed by another. Quiet, held-back moans pour from your mouth. Lee pumps his nimble fingers in and out of you, still holding your lips captive.

"Lee," you gasp as he curls his fingers inside you. "P-Please..."

"You really want me to fuck you on the job? In this Janitor's closet?" he taunts with that trademark sass in his voice. "The boss?"

"Right fucking now, Lee," you whine.

"Alright, alright. Keep it down," he chuckles as he wrestles his fly down in the close quarters, freeing his throbbing erection. He can barely hold himself back, he pulls your panties to the side and slips his head in delicately. A long, sensual sigh emits from his lungs as he sinks further inside of you, reaching his hilt. He takes your other leg and wraps it around his waist as well, fucking you rhythmically against the shelves.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" You whisper harshly, gripping hopelessly on his shoulders for support as he drills into you.

"Shh, sweetheart. You gotta be quiet or we're both fucked," he speaks condescendingly to you as his hips sharply buck his shaft as far as you're body can take him. Each stroke guides you closer and closer to your climax, and the scandalous environment and time limit only add to your adrenaline. One of Lee's hands leaves your legs and begins to work little circles into your clit, still fucking you steadily. You throw your head back, snapping your lips shut, begging the universe to keep you quiet while he fucks you to and through your orgasm.

"There it is, now, darlin'. Cum for me," he mumbles, listening closely to the sounds of your poorly stifled gasps and moans. You reach your climax and he doesn't let up, whispering praises to talk you through it.

"I don't think I can-" you gasp, overwhelmed with pleasure.

"You can take it, Y/N," he huffs, quickening his pace. He fucks you rough and hard for a moment, almost out of character. Almost as if he's angry at you for something you're unaware of. His grip on your skin tightens and you can feel the pressure securing bruises on your flesh. He's creeping into hatefucking territory, angry at you for Amadeus-ing at this job he wants so badly, but you're none the wiser. You just assume the weirdly dressed VP is a little bit of a freak and you're into it.

"You're gonna knock every one of these shelves off the wall," you huff between thrusts, relishing in the lightning bolts of pleasure coursing through you with each slam of his hips against yours.

"That's. Fucking. Right," he punctuates each word with hard thrusts, filling you to the point of cum dripping down his cock. When he finally stills, he remains sheathed inside you, breathing heavily in your ear. As everything falls quiet, your lust-fogged mind clarifies and you realize how insane this was. You're both devastatingly high, jumping in startled fear when you receive the text that your Uber has finally arrived.

"Oh, uh... Our ride's here," you relay the message as you read it from the lock screen of your phone.

"Right, yeah. Okay," Lee nods, stoned and oblivious.

"So, could you just..." You do a kegel around him, eliciting a shocked gasp of overstimulation.

"Oh, fuck, sorry," he chuckles, finally pulling out. You're both a mess and no amount of cleanup in this tiny closet is going to get you right. You pull your skirt back down to its proper length and decide to just handle it when you get home. Lee does the same, fastening his pants and hoping the evidence of your orgasms is well enough concealed by his fly.

Later on, just before the game is scheduled to start, Gamby and Russell meet up near the locker rooms to execute two different plans that neither of them discussed with the other.

"Alright, let's get in and get out while they're doing warm ups on the field." Lee slinks into the locker room with Gamby in tow. It isn't until just now that Neal realizes Lee's plan to drug the students.

"Whoa, whoa. What the fuck are you doing?" He asks with urgency.

"What? I'm putting fuckin' acid in the water so these little fuckers lose! It'll make her little show at the pep rally look like a joke!" Neal can't deny, Mr. Russell makes a good point.

"We can't... Look, we can't throw the game over this."

"The hell we can't?" Lee sneers at him, reaching an arm over the water, just seconds from emptying the small container of LSD.

"You're really gonna do this to Y/N?" Gamby asks, hands authoritatively on his hips. Lee hesitates. "I knew it!" He points at his enemy-turned-partner in crime. "You can't come up with a worth a fuck plan because you're over here falling in love. Catching feelings and shit."

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking child. Nobody's in love. It was a one time thing in the Janitor's closet-"

"When the fuck did that happen?"

"Few hours ago, idiot." Lee screws the cap back on the tiny bottle of hallucinogens. "So what's the plan if we're not throwing the game?"

"I don't know! I was following your lead, an obvious mistake." Gamby scolds himself.

"A mistake? Motherfucker, I'm the only one who showed up with a plan at all!"

"You know we can't risk losing this game. If we win, it'll be the-" Gamby's reasoning is quickly cut off.

"Will you shut the fuck up for a minute. Do you even hear yourself? If she wins the first game after all this time, we are fucked."

"This plan won't work, Russell. You can't do it to your new girlfriend and I can't let you do it to North Jackson. Figure something else out." Neal's words are serious and harsh, a certain power lingers behind them that he usually doesn't quite possess. Lee stuffs the container into his handkerchief pocket of his fancy little suit.

"Then what do you suggest we do, Gamby. Fuck all my fucking plans." Lee tosses up his hands in frustration.

"Well give me a god damn minute. I didn't know I was gonna have to rewrite the fucking blueprints because you're over here falling in-"

"Will you please shut the fuck up with that?" Lee whines.

"Oh, shut the fuck up? I thought you wanted me to make a plan. Because you apparently fuckin' can't!" Neal speaks quickly in harsh whispers. Finally Lee loses his cool, he shoves Gamby against the locker. As he hits the metal storage areas, he bounces off and flies toward Mr. Russell. They collide and a faint 'pop' can be heard between them. When they both look down, a large wet spot stains both of their shirts.

"You fucking idiot!" Lee exclaims, still to Neal's confusion. "This shit gets absorbed through the skin!"

"Oh fuck!"

"We need to get out of here, now!" Lee shoves him out the door. They're scrambling into the hallway as you round the corner, seeing Lee for the first time since your awkward, quiet Uber ride home.

"My seconds in command. I was just looking for you!" You chime, smiling brightly at your administrative team. They both glance at you and then break into a sprint in the opposite direction. Your stomach sinks. You've certainly been avoided after a hook-up before, but this seems quite bold. "Oh."

@sexy-monster-fucker !!!

Pt. 3 in the works!!

[lounesdarbois]

Le séjour en Angleterre, l'hiver. 1/2

En 1998 Londres était une ville noire, le train se frayait un chemin via Brixton, Clapham, Lambeth avant de vous jeter avec les bagages dans un entrepôt gris appelé gare de Waterloo. Le wagon avait longé des heures semblait-il, les murs des habitations de Croydon par des couloirs de briques noires déglinguées, brunâtres, édentées sous la pluie, une vision qui vous glaçait le sang. C'était ça le plus riche pays d'Europe ? Cette ville de Londres était comme un camp de travail de damnés. En plein été une pluie noirâtre détrempait la zone. La pelouse des stades était noire, les églises, les rues étaient noires, ainsi durant des semaines, des mois, toute l'année, tout le temps.

Tout a changé depuis 2007. l'Eurostar entre désormais dans Londres par la gare Saint-Pancras, château néo-gothique bien frotté avec sa toiture en verre et ses marchands de fleurs. La brique est redevenue tendance, l'esthétique usine ancienne est soudain passée au premier plan et les bobos raffolent des lofts en brique et poutrelles d'acier depuis le grand tournant de l'année 2000.

Nous sommes vendredi, 8h du matin. À peine le pied posé commence la mission d'esquiver les touristes. À eux les magasins de souvenir, les photos devant Buckingham, les files d'attente à la Tour, à eux l'imagerie d'Épinal des cabines et des uniformes rouges, illustrations de nos manuels de langue de classe de sixième. Les touristes veulent voir "les choses à voir". Dans les voyages l'envers du décor seul est attirant. La rue du vrai peuple comme dans Nil by Mouth, Gosford Park, Scum, Get Carter. Les recoins, les embrasures, les jardins privés d'arrière-cour, les escaliers de service, les remises, les guérites de concierge, les fenêtres entrebaillées, les renfoncements, les appentis, la lucarne d'une tourelle, les portes dérobées, les cheminées fumantes, les sentiers de lotissement privé, les courettes d'anciennes écuries, les préaux, et toute cette vie prise sur le fait, cent fois plus parlante que les monuments pétrifiés.

Pourquoi des vacances en Angleterre ? Pour le repos. On se délasse très bien dans les villes affairées pendant que les gens travaillent. L'art du repos est un paradoxe, "Je vais dormir tranquille car je sais désormais que mon pire ennemi veille sur moi" dit Eastwood dans un western ancien. Londres est un lieu de méditation pour tout ce qui n'y existe plus: la ville en bois d'avant l'incendie, les docks, les entrepôts de marchandises "East India", le rêve colonial qui permettait d'importer sur un territoire sombre mille choses colorées, étonnantes et parfumées venues du bout du monde, débarquées par des centaines de bateaux à voile chaque jour. C'est la ville froide qui se chauffe au thé indien et aux tapis persans.

Londres est enfin la ville des églises et des stades, deux raisons valables de traverser la Manche quand on a rassemblé assez d'argent et de journées de congé payé. Vaste sujet que les sous, chose honteuse et cruciale, c'est la "partie honteuse" de notre être social, "one's private part". Les années de vaches maigres où l'on est bloqué chez soi au minimum vital sont des années perdues. La vie, c'est tout de suite. Il est trop tard pour voir White Hart Lane, Highbury et Boleyn Ground, tous démolis alors qu'ils comptaient parmi les plus beaux stades du monde avec leur déclivité splendide, leur premier rang à deux mètres de la ligne de touche. Samuel Pepys, William Thackeray, John Henry Newman, Antoine de Souroge, qui ont tous foulé le pavé de cette ville, ne sont plus lus par personne. Les époux Mosley sont voués à l'oubli pour le crime d'avoir eu raison contre Churchill, enfin Stuart Pearce, Paul Gascoigne et Darren Anderton ont pris leur retraite. Restent les kidney pies, les pintes, les chants d'église et les chants de stade, quelques îlots traditionnels de culture populaire qui feront l'affaire pour changer d'air quelques jours.

Bien que ce ne soit pas un "pays ami", le Royaume-Uni est un sujet d'étude pour qui cherche un passage dans la déglingue occidentale actuelle. Il est probablement invincible, dépositaire par une résolution mystérieuse de la Providence de quelque qualité de guide lorsque le continent va bien et de contrepoids lorsque le continent va mal, notamment parce qu'il est une synthèse du continent mais placé à l'écart de celui-ci. Contre toutes les certitudes statistiques je crois plausibles les thèses du style "Les anglo-saxons et l'alliance", en tout cas il est impensable que ce pays et ce peuple, nœud du premier empire mondial de 1066 à 1960, s'effondrent vraiment. Parions que tout ce que subit cette nation actuellement n'est qu'apparence, que sa substance protégée par la légendaire hypocrisie locale mieux que par la mer est intacte, vivace comme au temps des docks. Ces vacances seront l'occasion de s'en assurer sur le terrain.

Aller tous les 2 ans avec un thermomètre en Angleterre pour prendre sa température est le moyen de comprendre où en est notre pays à nous par comparaison. La France est ma filiation, elle seule m'importe, et tous les voyages loin d'elle me la font davantage aimer. Mais la France envahie est un bagne que je ne puis souffrir et je l'ai quitté d'abord pour prévenir un possible pétage de plombs. Peuple joli, pays artisanal, les voir chaque jour alors qu'ils sont mon seul repère ici bas, écrasés de merde industrielle, sadiquement retournés, souillés, dévorés, dans une atmosphère tantôt ricanante tantôt indifférente, dans un désastre à ce point monstrueux, à ce point diabolique, à ce point pornographique, répété chaque année pire avec le néant comme seul dieu, avec le déclin comme seul horizon pendant que tout le monde s'en fout… habiter là, voir cela, et ne rien faire? Je suis comme J*, j'ai le tempérament de Carthage, seul trait que j'ai gardé de l'autre filiation. J'aurais un jour difficile commis contre un cloporte pris au hasard un "acte désespéré" aussitôt traité dans les médias comme (etc)… Alors je suis parti. Ailleurs c'est moche, c'est sale, c'est nul, c'est envahi tout autant certes, mais ce n'est pas chez moi. Alors c'est supportable. C'est tout.

L'Angleterre est-elle envahie? Depuis 1989 à y faire des aller-retours, jamais là-bas je n'ai vu les quartiers pakistanais et jamaïcains prendre la forme de l'invasion massive, de ce dégueulage sans respect, de cette agression sur la France par millions et millions de resquilleurs. L'Angleterre a fait marcher au pas ses importations dés les temps élizabéthains, c'est la culture du dock et de l'entrepôt qui s'exprime: d'abord faire payer ce qui entre, marchandises, marchands, voyageurs, pour les calmer. Billingsgate. Après on parle. Ce qui rentre doit rapporter, doit payer, ou crever sous la pluie, ou dégager.

L'Angleterre n'est pas envahie au sens où on l'entend chez nous. C'est le lad local qui tient la rue, pas la racaille. Si la racaille bouge une seule oreille elle se fait repeindre en rouge d'abord par la rue puis par la loi, garde-fous redoutables qui vous écrasent et vous ruinent à la première incartade, et qui espèrent même que vous commettiez l'incartade pour pouvoir jouir de vous rosser. La racaille est plutôt sujet de dégoût chez la gent féminine qui a besoin d'hommes réfléchis et durs pour survivre dans le marche-ou-crève qu'est ce pays. L'Angleterre est un pays dur, la France aussi, mais la première est plan-plan, organisée pour que les profiteurs s'appauvrissent et se déshonorent. Les femmes toujours un peu chiennes renifleuses d'air du temps disait Céline, comprennent inconsciemment ce genre de ligne de force, et se marient en conséquence. Années 1980, au moment où ils remontaient durement la pente sous Thatcher nous coulions doucement sous Mitterand.

Qu'est-ce que la vraie bourgeoisie française a gagné depuis 1981 à part un peu d'argent dans le meilleur des cas? Elle est passée du prestige au dérisoire, du vêtement BCBG aux loques du rappeur américain. Elle a dit pardon à des gueunons qui prenaient les places assises dans le métro, en ajoutant "madame" pour se persuader de céder par politesse, non par soumission. Elle s'est déshonorée en élevant ses filles dans le coton quand il fallait sortir le fouet. Elle a tourné de plus en plus vite dans la cage à hamster, affolée de servitudes croissantes pour une rétribution en monnaie de singe. Elle s'est mise même à parler de plus en plus vite, perdant tous ses codes structurants, déposant son Littré sur le trottoir avec une pancarte "à donner" pendant que la pelouse de la maison de campagne se couvrait de ronces.

Le peuple qui va au pub et regarde le foot a intégré le slogan "No room for racism" autant que l'irruption des turbines à vent et des antennes 5G dans le paysage. Ils savent que c'est incongru, que c'est faux, que c'est forcé, que ça ne les concerne pas. La longue histoire anglaise nous apprendra que l'attitude d'approbation chez ces hypocrites-nés était feinte, que cette ruse de la raison les fera survivre aux dépens de beaucoup d'autres Blancs qui eux se sont laissés entraîner par cette propagande. Devancer et surexprimer une loi pour en faire un escabeau, permet de traverser le torrent à pied sec.

London loves. Réservation faite dans un hôtel victorien minuscule à Lancaster Gate, dans Paddington, juste au-dessus de Hyde Park. Un quartier immobile, inchangé depuis notre dernière venue ici en 2003. Les vêtements et les voitures ont seuls pris du plomb dans l'aile. Il y a 20 ans c'étaient encore les années de l'imperméable Burberrys et de la Jaguar XJ Sovereign, aujourd'hui ces sont les baskets en mousse et les quatre-quatre électriques. Désolants signes extérieurs de richesse des bourgeoisies actuelles, à vous écœurer de trimer pour un argent qui n'est plus dépensable qu'en horreurs.

Chambre d'hôtel soi-soi pour passer l'hiver. Etroite, feutrée, avec son chauffage et sa douche proprette, pourvue d’une fenêtre à guillotine donnant sur une place calme avec église, c'est la planque idéale pour voyageur transi de froid. Chaque palier de l'escalier prend jour par une fenêtre avec vue sur une cour vaste comme un parc, bordée d'anciennes écuries converties en maisonnettes. Elles sont peintes en rose pâle, en vert menthe, en bleu ciel dans le style Notting Hill, et sont typiques de l'impulsion vitaliste qui a remonté Londres du marécage à la fin des années 1980, phénomène qui coïncide avec le renouveau des quartiers de l'est, évoqué dans les films A Long Good Friday et dans Trainspotting ("Londres était la ville du boum").

Bagages posés, direction Brompton Oratory. On traverse cette campagne appelée Hyde Park, si grande qu'elle dissimule toute construction urbaine lorsque l'on se trouve en son centre. Ainsi était conçu le Luco, le plus charmant jardin du monde gâché en 1973 par la tour Montparnasse.

Brompton Oratory est la plus grande église catholique de la ville. Religion persécutée, puis déconsidérée, de nos jours anecdotique, la foi de l'Eglise catholique était chez les Anglo-Saxons associée aux Irlandais, peuple jugé ici comme les Bretons l'étaient par la troisième république, des gens pieux qui seraient arriérés, de bas standard, suspects de déloyauté envers le pouvoir central, et pour toutes ces raisons, tués en masse dans des famines et des guerres. La devise du cardinal Newman est gravée en lettres d'or près d'un vitrail. Cor ad cor loquitur. Elle n'a l'air de rien cette devise. Certaines sentences apparemment banales ne tombent sous le sens que dans certains moments de grâce, ou de crise. Fleurit là où Dieu t'a planté (S-F de Sales) est ce cette teneur. Dans la vie normale plus la chose est simple plus on passe à côté. Et puis l'on se figure mal aujourd'hui le sens du chemin spirituel parcouru par Newman, de l'anglicanisme à l'Eglise. C'était un grand bourgeois de l'establishment, il avait la voie royale pour une vie sacerdotale tranquille. La recherche de la vérité l'a exilé loin des cercles d'Oxford pour le placer dans la religion des Irlandais et des continentaux avec toute l'aura d'infamie que cet amoindrissement supposait.

La partie sainte de l'église est séparée du reste par une clôture. À dix mètres se trouve un monsieur longiligne occupé à allumer les hauts cierges de l'autel avec une tige spécialement conçue. Il me faut lui parler, je lui adresse un signe d'excuse, il vient. C'est un prêtre dans le style High Church, comme le Reverend Runt de Barry Lyndon, sans la perruque toutefois. Soutane noire, col oratorien. Je lui demande dans quelle chapelle latérale est enterré le corps de Newman. Il répond que sa sépulture n'est pas ici mais à Birmingham. Il ressemble beaucoup au Reverend Runt. Remerciements. Je réserve un billet pour Birmingham.

En sortant, étonnement de croiser la marmaille de l'école Saint-Philip voisine qui vient en sens contraire pour la messe. Cette école était le nec plus ultra des écoles RC de Londres, les écoles non-anglicanes, catholiques. Les temps ont changé. Dans un désordre banal de sortie scolaire une soixantaine de fils de consuls tropicaux repousse les portes d'entrée comme si c'étaient celles d'un saloon, sûrs de leurs droits, mal encadrés par trois types effeminés et autant de bonnes femmes qui portent des pantalons.

Admiré quelques gravures anciennes chez un antiquaire en face du parvis, puis un jardin privé fabuleux appelé Thurloe Square. Les entrepreneurs en rénovation sont à pied d'œuvre dans ce quartier de South Kensington et opèrent ici selon des directives que l'on devine strictes, résultat pas un seul dépôt improvisé, pas une poussière sur les murs, et partout du revêtement protecteur apposé le long des surfaces bâties. Sur la chaussée pas de congestion de trafic, les voitures se garent à distance les unes des autres, on sent qu'un règlement draconien fait marcher au pas tout ce beau monde. Un saut à Sloane Square pour entrer chez les marchands de mobilier. Des rayons entiers de meubles et tissus fabuleux attendent sagement que la vraie vie commence, que leur vocation de servir d'arrière-plan à quinze enfants d'une famille blonde commence, dans une maison pleine de musique et de lueurs de feu de cheminée, cela répété en centaines de foyers par milliers de rues. Mais nul souffle n'anime cette matière inerte dans les allées vides et en guise de clients potentiels déambulent en se donnant le bras deux misérables p*.

Un peu plus loin voici Stamford Bridge, l'un des seuls stades de Londres encore au milieu des habitations, et l'un des plus beaux du monde pour la déclivité des premiers gradins, pour la profondeur des virages et la proximité du premier rang avec la pelouse. Mais le plus beau stade du monde se trouve à Manchester, c'est Old Trafford hélas. Devise "Amare et servire" au fronton d'une école. Le goût pour le latinisme est ancien, il est comme le blasonnement, il permet de poser une institution, une marque, un nom. Les emblèmes des clubs rappellent la l'affection locale pour les animaux. Les enfants sont éduqués avec les chansons de Moondog et en grandissant ils voient chaque semaine jouer des équipes signalées par tout un bestiaire en écussons. Sheffield Wednesday a une chouette, Wolverhampton a un loup, Watford a un cerf, Millwall, Chelsea et Aston Villa ont un lion, Ipswich a un cheval, Crystal Palace a un aigle, Bristol City a un pinson, Leicester a un renard, Derby County a un bélier, West Bromwich Albion a une grive, Norwich a un canari, Brighton a une mouette, Brentford a une abeille, Tottenham a une poule, etc.

À Sheperd's Bush, un bref tour chez le vendeur de vêtements de sport classiques Stuarts London. Un peu plus loin je prends deux pintes dans un pub qui se remplit à toute vitesse. Nous sommes vendredi soir et la fête commence dans ce pays, et quelle fête, quand on sait de quoi les Anglaises sont capables. Je paie et vais à l'embarcadère du bateau-taxi.

C'est la nuit. Le bateau met toute la gomme et fend les flots à l'allure d'une voiture sur la route. Les rivages de la ville défilent d'ouest en est. C'est un trajet qu'a souvent décrit Samuel Pepys dans son journal des années 1660, lorsque la ville était tellement encombrée que la longer en bateau à voile allait plus vite que la traverser à pied. Débarquement à Blackfriars, puis métro jusqu'à Mile End. Ce nom de quartier est le titre d'une chanson de Pulp que l'on peut entendre dans Trainspotting. Affamé je prends un maxi Fish & Chips dans une échoppe en préfabriqué, un "cheap chippy". Retour en métro avec Orbital, Bicep, Dido, Oasis dans les écouteurs, l'album de 1991 de Blur, et surtout Happy Mondays. Qui a parlé d'époque triste pour ces chères années 1990? Les Mondays sont le stéréotype de l'explosion de joie naïve, "laetitae" du début de la musique électronique, phase qui a culminé avec Dance Machine entre 1993 et 1995. Oh certes l'ecstasy y était pour beaucoup, et l'héroïne. Trainspotting n'est pas un film sur la drogue, c'est un panorama du changement qui s'est opéré entre 1986 et 1991 au plan du vêtement, des musiques, du rapport à l'argent, au travail, au sport, au loisir c'est un vrai film sur la Culture, un outil performant pour dater les us et coutumes. Les gens qui ont vécu la charnière dont Pierre-Marie et Alain Soral, plus critiques sur les années 1990, m'ont dit que l'année 1986 était la dernière pour vivre en vrai marginal. Après, le mainstream a tout emporté, il fallait obligatoirement engranger du fric, et les marqueurs comme Bernard Tapie, les Bains Douches, la montée des cailleras et du Sentier, les digicodes et les interphones, les néos-cons et les ringards-show-bizz sont autant de signes irréfutables dont on peut retracer la montée aujourd'hui.

Retour tardif à l'hôtel. Voilà une journée comme elles devraient toutes se dérouler, consacrées aux découvertes, aux églises, à l'étude, aux stades, aux gens charitables qui connaissent leur place. Une vie dégagée, surtout. La bourgeoisie actuelle surjoue l'aisance? Elle est perclue de tracas. Nous avons un immense besoin de longues plages de temps données à la musique, à l'amitié, au paysage, à la peinture, au sport, de périodes complètement délivrées des servitudes administratives et matérielles. Nous rêvons d'une vie rustique et habitée, semée de brave gens, décorée de matériaux bruts. Après une soirée arrosée, se caler la faim avec un pie & mash dans une échoppe en regardant les résultats du foot, rentrer pompette en taxi et monter chez soi par des escaliers en bois à une chambrelle sans chauffage, se blottir dans un lit sous trois couverture de laine mérinos et dormir quinze heures.

SAMEDI

Déballage de valise. Il en tombe un adaptateur de prise électrique Europe/Grande-Bretagne qui date de l'aventure à Hong Kong, voici 18 ans, et qui fonctionne aujourd'hui sur les prises de l'hôtel. Un charme des colonies était d'y vivre comme chez soi, selon des mœurs, des rites et même des normes techniques conservées dans les plus petits détails. Nous n'avons pas assumé d'être nous La Civilisation, avons voulu croire à la relativité, aux civilisations. Contresens total. En reniant nos droits sur l'étranger chez lui qui y naissait grâce à nous, soudain notre chez-nous est devenu chez l'étranger. Nous propagions la vie, la nôtre donnant vie à la sienne, il propage la mort. Fort peu de connards de Blancs éteints et attentistes ont mit bout à bout ces évidences de statistiques médicales malgré leur arsenal d'arguments rationnels par milliers de lignes de tableaux Excel. La catégorie moderne c'est l'indifférence, "nous vaincrons car nous sommes les plus morts".

Marylebone. Joli, aisé, mais pas puissant comme à l'époque… Vague odeur de faisandé, et cette impression d'arriver trop tard. "J'arrive toujours quand on éteint" disait Morand. Penhaligon par exemple, est bien là, mais ouvert, putassier, racoleur, démocratisé. Le décor est là, mais où est cette distance, cette exclusivité, ce léché, ce feutré, cette légende sous-jacente, ce "meilleur à venir" qu'exhalait une seule de ces enseignes il y a seulement 15 ans? Vague ambiance de fast-fashion, de triche et de sauve-qui-peut commercial dans l'air.

Midi, c'est bientôt l'heure du match. Direction la gare d'Euston déjà remplie de fans de Tottenham qui attendent le métro aérien. Dès confirmation du panneau d'affichage toute la foule bouge ensemble vers le quai et vient s'entasser dans les wagons tubulaires. Tension palpable mais ce ne sont pas non plus ces visages fermés qui en font des caisses, comme on en voit à Anderlecht, Lyon ou Paris. C'est familial, c'est bon enfant. Ce sont des bandes de potes de 60 ans qui ont esquivé leur femme, des lycéens, des enfants avec le grand-père, ce genre de public. Le métro aérien passe des ponts élevés au-dessus des rues, entre les bâtiments gris. Quartiers sans beauté notable mais sans vandalisme, qui se donnent tel qu'ils sont. Vie, ciel, vitesse, plein air, aperçu des perspectives, comme dans le premier clip de King Krule, avec les infrastructures nues. Enfant j'étais complètement émerveillé par Paris vu du métro numéro 6, celui qui traverse la Seine et qui est en "aérien" de Passy à Lamotte-Picquet. Les appartements éclairés que le wagons frôlait, la vie déclinée en mille possibilités partout qui nous était promise en héritage.

La raison de cette visite à Tottenham, tout au nord de la ville, est son nouveau stade de 62 000 places. Les ingénieurs en étagement des gradins, les scientifiques du terracing, ont trouvé le compromis entre l'ancien et le nouveau style. Gradation faible en bas, forte en haut, de sorte qu'un pan de tribune pris du lower au upper tier commence à 25% de déclivité pour finir à 33%. C'est une configuration médiane entre l'ancien et le nouveau style, en vogue depuis 15 ans. La pire étant celle répandue largement sur le continent avec ses pentes à 30% dont le plus bas gradin est à 3 mètres au-dessus du sol et à 10 mètres de distance du terrain. Ce n'est pas du stade c'est de la mise en cage par des invertis des ondes qui ne sentent pas, qui ne savent pas ce qu'est l'émotion grégaire (pour ce qu'il en reste).

On passe les tourniquets. Direction le bar. Le remplissage des pintes se fait par le fond du gobelet pourvu d'un clapet anti-retour où insérer le robinet. Plus vite, plus propre. J'en bois deux en binge sous les gradins dans ces hangars en béton bondés de monde, avant d'entrer dans le stade proprement dit. Strapontin réservé au local 107 comme dans Irishman, c'est un "lower block" situé à quelques rangées de la pelouse. Et bon sang, quel stade…

La proximité pelouse-gradins dans les stades c'est l'art de faire servir le peuple au club et le club au peuple. Tottenham bat Brighton 2-1. Assez sympa mais beaucoup de touristes et de Coréens amortis. Retour à pied par le long boulevard lugubre décrit dans Football Factory, bondé de foule à cette heure, et pause bière en chemin dans une auberge Tudor prise d'assaut.

Londres, moitié prison, moitié village. Sinistre ici, ravissant là. Quantités de plaques de rue en ancien français comme à Conduit Mews ou à Montagu Row, avec des constructions organiques où tous les équipements sont externes, où un pont sur les toits permet le passage d'un bâtiment à l'autre sans descendre en rue.

Dans cette manière de construire il y a quelque chose de chaleureux et de sécurisé qui vous charme d'autant mieux que le climat est lugubre. La vie possible. Enfant j'ai vaguement eut cette intuition en tombant dans un journal Spirou sur une page de la bande dessinée "Les chevaliers du pavé", plus tard avec le jeu "Versailles", plus tard encore avec "Les boucliers de Quetzalcoatl", notamment quand il fallait passer la guérite des quais du port. Londres s'est enrichie deux siècles durant grâce aux plus grands quais de marchandises du monde. Alors que j'étudiais le sujet dans des livres on m'apprit suite à des recherches généalogiques récentes que le père de mon arrière-arrière-grand-père travaillait aux tonneleries des docks de Bordeaux. "Ce que tu cherches te cherche".

DIMANCHE

Dans un monde qui pourrit on doit chercher la permanence d'une forme incorrompue, chercher une base arrière hors du temps, presque hors de l'espace. Quelle est cette citation vue chez Zentropa il y a deux ans, introuvable depuis, qui évoquait un lieu qui soit un refuge sûr, mais libre du temps et de l'espace, ou quelque chose comme cela. C'était bien amené.

Traversée de Hyde park vers l'église. Quelques nageurs font leurs longueurs dans la Serpentine. Le thermomètre affiche 7 degrés. Un crochet par l'église orthodoxe où officiait autrefois Antoine de Souroge. On comprend ici comme la beauté de ce parc et le charme feutré de ce quartier ont servi d'arrière-plan à ses trois conférences sur la stabilité intérieure (Le Temps, Le Silence, Le Corps). Quelque chose de profondément stable émane de ces lieux alors que tout y est jeune et frais comme les fleurs de saison. Ainsi de chaque mot du Métropolite Antoine. Cor ad cor loquitur aurait pu être sa devise, d'ailleurs il ne pouvait ignorer la proximité immédiate de Brompton Oratory. C'est comme si John Henry Newman avait déteint sur lui.

Dans l'église orthodoxe, quelques hommes durs à têtes rasées, style mafieux slaves, se tiennent immobiles sur un côté. Selon l'excellent usage des orthodoxes la dévotion est active, on peut entrer ou sortir pendant l'office, chaque membre de leur Eglise en est un sociétaire. Chuchotements, ambiance feutrée, dames voilées qui vont et viennent en bon ordre, ravissantes, visages déterminés lorsqu'elles embrassent leurs icônes sacrées. Grâce décontractée des femmes traditionnelles, les vraies, qui connaissent leur place, qui savent ce qu'elles doivent faire. Ces femmes servent leur religion et leur race comme on tient sa maison. Disposition qui leur confère ce charme visible aujourd'hui et qui suppose une rude éducation préalable, un arsenal complet d'habitudes prises dès l'enfance, une sorte de diète du mode de vie dont nous n'avons pas idée. Catholiques en carton, nous voulons la tradwife et enseignons à nos filles qu'elles ont par exception spéciale tous les droits en ce monde. Résultat, des empotées à la fois tyranniques et apeurées, qui "font carrière" et ne savent même pas servir un bœuf bourguignon correct. Une femme féminine c'est quelqu'un de propre, de souriante, de débrouillarde, c'est tout. Les autres sont les féministes.

Pendant les psalmodies, apaisante vision que celle des prêtres hiératiques avec leurs gestes coulés, leurs signes de croix, les inclinaisons, les mains qui touchent terre. Un jour on comprendra mieux l'initiative de Benoît XVI saluant un dignitaire orthodoxe, et concluant la rencontre non en bénissant le patriarche comme le supposait sa position de Primus Inter Pares mais en demandant à cet orthodoxe de le bénir, lui. Noble Benoît XVI, belles années d'espoir où l'on croyait une embellie possible.

Brompton Oratory, l'église de Newman. Sa prière Lead kindly light, dont la lecture peut faire pleurer. C'est la Messe du dimanche. Loin des touristes on peut se faire visiteur des rues qui n'intéressent personne et à l'encontre des troupeaux du parterre, le fidèle des chapelles latérales. Le désordre moderne qui suppure jusqu'en ce sanctuaire est agaçant et pourtant... et pourtant cette petite fille appliquée à son devoir de catéchisme, qui recopie Our Father avec soin sur un prie-Dieu qu'elle utilise comme un bureau, n'est-elle pas divine? Elle calligraphie ligne à ligne toute la prière et décore le titre avec des fleurs dessinées au crayon de couleur. N'est-il pas vrai qu'en certains cas l'on peut croire au Créateur par ses créatures ? Appelée par sa mère elle quitte à regret son beau dessin en faisant "rhooo, pfff so!", vissant son index sur la tempe dans un geste que faisaient les enfants de ma génération en Essonne il y a 35 ans et que je n'avais plus vu quiconque faire depuis.

Le monde est violent, le monde est méchant, la plupart des gens ont la scélératesse chevillée au corps et je n'ai aucune confiance en eux. La confiance, cela ne se gagne pas, au contraire cela s'éprouve par des imprévus et des revers, par des bastons, par tous ces moments où l'on découvre par les faits qui est qui. J'ai pour ces raisons été très ami avec la bande de Grenoble à l'époque. C'étaient de jeunes Français réchappés du déclassement, des divorces, de l'échec scolaire et de la drogue, de tout ce qui a tué à petit feu tant de braves gars. Ensemble nous menions grand train sans payer dans cette ville haïe, sans commettre une faute d'orthographe, sans nous mêler ni aux racailles ni aux gauchistes ni aux étudiants. L'amitié c'est d'être un Razoumikhine les uns pour les autres. Au premier coup dur vous verrez vos soi-disant amis s'enfuir comme une volée de moineaux, et vous apprendrez qu'ils n'étaient que des voisins de beuverie. Je n'ai jamais compris la confiance en la vie des gens du mainstream, les fêtes de collègues aux sourires confiants alors qu'ils peuvent se tuer socialement la semaine suivante. Je n'ai jamais compris qu'il faille rester civique lorsque les gens vous sortent leurs opinions sur la politique, l'athéisme, sur n'importe quoi, comme s'il était entendu que vous serez d'accord avec eux. Ils n'ont pas lu Gustave Le Bon ni Céline et ils parlent quand même. Toujours les mêmes opinions, les mêmes sujets vus mille fois, interprétés par automatisme. La manière qu'ils ont de croire en la vie, comme si l'invasion n'existait pas, comme si les atrocités en Afsud et Algérie n'avaient pas existé, comme si la partie en était à 0-0 et venait de commencer... Le score est à 0-36 et même davantage. "Les gens". Leur naïveté me fait pleurer. Leur indifférence m'exaspère. Leur méchanceté me fait vouloir les tuer. Je suis content d'être un f* et de n'avoir ainsi nulle commerce avec eux. Comme Schopenhauer j'ai souvent regretté d'avoir pris la parole en public pour "essayer d'être sympa avec les gens" mais jamais je n'ai regretté de m'être tu.

Au stade, à l'église, partout, être avec les autres mais en léger retrait, ne communiant que par le chant, l'écriture ou la prière. Cor ad cor loquitur, le reste est bavardage. Les mondanités déçoivent toujours: soit guindées, soit familières, toujours heurtées, pleines d'entorses aux saines hiérarchies. Le travail lui, ne déçoit jamais. Pour le reste il y a encore le stade et l'église, contrepoids d'un équilibre idéal. On s'est rendus fous dans ce pays par les mondanités, cela jamais mieux décrit que dans la pièce "L'après-dîner" de Sylvie Joly. Elle avait tout compris. Les relations sociales sont non pas le lieu de la charité mais une manière de se placer, d'obtenir, de dominer. "Dans n’importe quel salon, en dix minutes d’assemblage, il se commet plus d’impairs, d’horreurs de goût et de tact, que dans tous les Corps de garde de France en dix ans"(Céline). S'intéresser aux autres est impoli mais ne pas s'y intéresser l'est aussi. En somme on n'en sort pas. Par-delà ce champ clos il faut chercher les charités de réseau, les gens sur qui compter et qui puissent compter sur nous, les lieux exclusifs et gratuits "réservés aux membres".

Passion quasi-générale des jeunes Anglaises pour l'enlaidissement artificiel appelé maquillage, notamment pour l'assombrissement du visage à grandes peletées de fond de teint ocre. Finies les jeunes filles élisabethaines pures comme la neige des gravures de Lucas de Heere (Wives and daughters, 1560). Celle située à droite de l'œuvre avec son cache-gorge et son chapeau dissimule un type physique rare, qui persiste jusqu'à nos jours dans la vraie vie, et trouvable chez Kelly Rutherford, pour donner un point de repère, ou encore chez d'autres filles méconnues du grand public mais pas de moi, et dont le souvenir, les mots et l'odeur sont encore là 20 ans après.

West Ham. Ce club était autrefois logé à 20 minutes à pied des Royal docks, tout à l'est de la ville, à Boleyn Ground, de son vrai nom Upton Park, stade de 32 000 places. Depuis 2014 il est au London Stadium qui a 62 000 places. C'est un stade loin de la ville, neutre, normé, entouré de terrains vagues comme tous les nouveaux stades extirpés de leur terroir local. Signe des temps. On peut lire une époque par l'évolution du stade: règlement intérieur, prix des places, sociologie des spectateurs par stratification des gradins, domaine d'activité des sponsors, origine des spectateurs, des joueurs et des "femmes" de joueurs, des investisseurs et des employés, etc.

Dès les abords du London Stadium on est abasourdi du profil des supporters qui affluent. Majorité de vieux types assez gros et surtout très grands, le crâne rasé, en Stone Island, Lyle & Scott, Barbour, Fred Perry, mais Lacoste a presque disparu du paysage. Le vrai smart casual était le plus beau style jamais inventé. C'est écrit dans L'avenir de Lacoste. Discussion informelle avec un supporter pour en savoir davantage. Il dit notamment que l'aversion la plus notoire des Hammers n'est pas Chelsea ni Millwall comme le disent les médias, mais Tottenham. Ce derby, lorsqu'il a lieu, rappelle l'antagonisme ancien des ouvriers chrétiens et des bourgeois franc-maçons (et pire), la détestation est totale. Il est vrai que l'on entendait de curieux slogans hier ("y* army"). On entre. Siège attribué en bas d'un virage, à 10 mètres de la pelouse et à proximité immédiate du parcage visiteur. C'est West Ham contre Arsenal aujourd'hui. Les stades donnent à voir la vraie échelle des choses. Tout d'abord, la majorité des joueurs sont étonnamment petits. Le terrain lui aussi est nettement plus réduit que sur un écran. Par contre les gradins, les virages, les courbures des rangées de sièges garnis de spectateurs révèlent une immensité, une amplitude qui vous souffle. C'est particulièrement prégnant lorsque la foule ainsi ordonnée se met à chanter. La foule qui devient peuple c'est l'esthétique de l'empyrée.

Le vrai club de Londres est toutefois Chelsea à mon sens, surtout avant 1996, année de publication de Football Factory par l'un de leurs fans, étincelle qui a mis le feu aux poudres et ouvert le filon des livres de supporters. Avant 1996, Chelsea était ce club populaire anonyme dans un quartier d'élite, avec un maillot classe, un blason classe, une sorte de PSG des années 1980. Tottenham: truc de bourgeois franc-maçons et d'étrangers, mais très beau maillot, très beau stade. West Ham et Millwall, clubs historiques d'ouvriers des fonderies et des chantiers navals, réputation de cogneurs, forte culture, fort ancrage local. Arsenal, devenu après Wenger et Highbury un club de pakistanais et de jamaïcains, sans intérêt. Palace, club de banlieue plan-plan qui joue demain. Fulham, QPR, Charlton et Wimbledon, à découvrir, une autre fois.

Beaucoup de chants et de ferveur. West Ham ramasse un méchant score de tennis, 1-6 à domicile, et le stade se vide de moitié pendant la seconde période. Le parcage visiteur fait coucou de la main aux locaux parce que le doigt d'honneur est interdit et que tout est filmé. Il faudrait demander à ces gros durs s'ils sont vaccinnnés, s'ils se sont mis à genoux pendant BLM. En sortant, un petit Pie and Mash dans une échoppe ambulante puis une pinte dans un pub de centre commercial qui s'est rempli de tous les déçus du match.

Plus tard, Marylebone, de nuit. Trottoirs mouillés, fenêtres éclairées. Je me laisse choir en terrasse d'un bar à chicha protégée de la pluie par un store en tissu pour commander l'arôme pomme, un verre d'eau et un thé. Enfin goûter la grande paix des dimanche soir lorsqu'on ne travaille pas. La vie, voilà, que dire d'autre. I need the night, bonne petite chanson. Les tenanciers sont de gras Somaliens confortablement allanguis en des couches molassones, promontoires depuis lesquels ils jugent le monde qui passe en levant le menton, comme des pachas négriers (dont ils descendent peut-être). Dire que l'école nous contraignait d'offrir du riz pour sauver ces gens-là de leur famine en 1991 et qu'aujourd'hui ils se croient arrivés par eux-même. Sans nous, vivraient-ils seulement?

Ce soir j'observe cela sans affect, de loin, depuis ma plane. La rue est un spectacle à part entière dans ce quartier riche, avec la pluie dans le halo des lumières des fenêtres d'hôtel. Cette chicha me fait extrêmement plaisir. "Être ailleurs" disait Paul Morand, et dégagé de tout, sont des ambitions suffisantes en vacances. Il y a deux façons de se soulager. On peut essayer de jouir du monde et comme Pepys foncer sur "force gigot" et "jeunes filles bien propres à me divertir". On peut encore vivre sans besoin. Déposer le fardeau du rôle social. J'aurais depuis longtemps fait un heureux moine s'il n'y avait eu cette fascination pour les jeunes filles, notamment pour les beaux visages féminins, les belles jambes, les belles mains, le charme que leur confère l'éducation stricte, les manières distinguées, l'émotion contenue.

[professor-abeloved]

Warmer Than Whiskey [ Drake x TRR!MC ]

Fandom: The Royal Romance Series (PlayChoices)

Characters | Ships: Drake Walker/Original Female Character (My Time At Sandrock)

Summary:

A get-away vacation is just the thing Briar and Drake need this Christmas--but memories, both the good and the bad, don't just fade like footsteps in the snow.

Notes: Choices Fandom Secret Pal Exchange Gift for @tveitertotwrites on tumblr! Briar Boleyn (she/her) belongs to them! It was fun getting to know more about her (as a fellow TRR and Six the Musical fan HAHA!) and it's so cool seeing all your references! You're very creative and organized, friend!! Writing Drake Walker in 2024 gave me immense flashbacks as someone who was around when the first book was still updating, and it makes me want to (re)play the series again, ngl. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! As always, DMs and the k0fi are open for requests/trades <3

cc: @choicesfandomappreciation thank you so much for hosting this and letting me be a part of it all!! you're amazing!!

—

The cabin in the middle of the woods is bigger than Briar thought it would be. It’s also much older, with fading brown paint that the pure white snow can’t quite cover with wooden planks that look as though they’d crumble the second someone so much as breathed on them.

As soon as they get out of their car, Drake watches the surprise flickering on his wife’s face. “Well? What do you think, B?”

“This looks so… rustic!” Briar flounces towards the cabin with a picnic basket, examining the rickety front porch in a mix of genuine awe and concern. “Like something out of the Blaire Witch project. Can I even come in or do I need a password to enter sacred Walker grounds?”

read the rest on ao3

[jezabelofthenorth]

Anne would reign for only 1,083 days before disaster engulfed her, and yet in that short time she would enlarge the role of queen. Her formative years had impressed upon her what forthright and determined women could achieve. She stood her ground for what she believed in, and her devotion to ideas, especially religious ones, meant she was bound to prove divisive in the aggressively masculine environment of Henry’s court. She was a keen judge of men, appreciating the impetus for change which eager young evangelicals could exert, and was protective and encouraging towards them. She took her responsibilities in financial affairs very seriously, understood the value of landed wealth and how in the case of monastic assets their partial reallocation could benefit society. She knew when to persist, and when to pause or step back, fully aware of the hackles a woman could raise when exercising authority in a deeply patriarchal world. In these qualities, she stands proudly in the pantheon of history alongside her daughter, Elizabeth.

Hunting the Falcon: Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, and The Marriage That Shook Europe, John and Julia Fox

[master-john-uk]

Easter 1963 -Hever Castle was first opened to the public by Gavin Astor. (It was another thirty years before it became a major visitor attraction.)

Hever Castle dates back to the Norman era. The main building which you can see today was built after Sir Geoffrey Bullen purchased the estate in 1462. (Geoffrey Bullen was the father of Anne Boleyn, second wife of Henry VIII.)

William Waldorf Astor bought Hever Castle in 1903. He extensively renovated the interior of the castle to use as a family home. He also created the Italian gardens, and built the Tudor village.

In 1904, my maternal grandfather purchased one of the cottages on the south side of the estate, which had been rented by his family for many years.

I was born in this cottage.

As I grew up, I was fortunate to be able to use the Hever estate as my playground. I was forbidden to enter certain areas close to to the formal gardens and the castle... but I was occasionally a little naughty! And my father managed the grounds on the outlying estate.

I hate the commercialism involved with maintaining historic Hever as a visitor attraction. But I understand the reasons.

Hever holds so many special memories for me! I still own the cottage in which I grew up, but it is currently rented out. I am also allowed to visit Hever Castle and Gardens free of charge at certain times.

[protect-daniel-james]

Would love to hear your thoughts about Bramley-Moore Dock!

Oh, what an ask! Where do I even begin?

(I dedicated a big part of my master's thesis to it, and I still know shit about it, lmao). I was in Liverpool three times - in October 2022, April 2023, and finally in September 2024, and every time I went to see it (the first two trips were "part of my research", so I say).

Disclaimer at first: I love Liverpool. I love the city, I love the vibe, I love the accent, I love the humor - I know it's the stereotype but I genuinely think there is some truth in it, having a laugh because what else can you do. "Supposedly universal Scouse qualities as resilience, cheery buoyancy in the face of adversity, and the ubiquitous good sense of humour" ; "micro-culture of truculent defiance, collective solidarity and fatalist humour” - I love all of it. Or maybe I'm just in awe of port cities (coming from a landlocked country) and I love people calling you "luv". So, I will never be fully objective when it comes to this.

Anyway! Back to Bramley-Moore Dock! I, in general, love old stadiums, stadiums that have been built in ancient times, because of the things I write about in the enfermo Unai stories - the history, the heritage, the place the old stadium has in the folklore, and the role it plays in the memories of the supporters. I highly recommend the two books - or, rather, one book and one thesis - that changed my life and made me a stadium fucker (not literally), and that I use a lot for stuff in building Unai's World of Wonder & Fútbol:

Frank, S., Steets, S. (eds.) (2010). Stadium Worlds: Football, Space, and the Built Environment. Routledge.

Thomas, F. E. (2018). The visual culture of football – heritage and nostalgia in ground moves. [University of Central Lancashire, Preston, United Kingdom].

I could copy and paste all the literature I gathered for my research lmao. But these two volumes I really remember fondly and come back to for a quick skim when writing about Unai.

Well, during my visits to Liverpool, I saw the stadium "coming to life". And, I will be honest, at first, I hated the idea of a club moving to a new place. Obviously, as a latent West Ham fan, I have had my share of (online) experience of fans moaning about "the soulless bowl" of London Stadium, and the neverending longing for the Boleyn Ground spirit and atmosphere. BUT - I think the difference in Liverpool is the placement of the new stadium.

(left: April 2023, right: September 2024)

I think the dock was/is a genius idea, especially once the waterfront is fully regenerated and the actual "promenade" reaches all the way from the city center to the stadium. Honestly, as things stand now, the stadium is in a very "wasteland-like" area, and I feel like the current bus routes only rarely pass anywhere near it? (I walked there every time from the city center and back lmao). There's basically nothing to see around as you walk down Regent Road. I'm curious to see how it will look at the beginning of the new season - and a few years from now on. (In a few years’ time, hopefully, it will be possible to evaluate whether 'marching down the Regent Road' will retain some of the qualities and values associated with the practice of 'marching down the Goodison Road'.)

Tl;dr I started off as a new stadium hater. But when the move is inevitable - there should be a place of significance in the city used for the new stadium. I would hate it - and I understand why there was an uproar about those plans - if Everton had moved to Kirkby when they had the chance. Like, fuck no. The club is woven in the fabric of the city, and it should be proudly kept in it. The Fans' Led Review called for football clubs to be classed (or at least considered) as heritage, and many of them have long been treated as tourist attractions in their cities - so their placement in the city should be in line with that.

Also, since I fell in love with Liverpool, I genuinely think the Albert Docks look cool and offer so much and is in general such a great blueprint for the use of the other docks of Liverpool. So if Bramley-Moore Dock can be anything like that, I will be happy.

And it seems like the reaction of the actual Everton fans - whose opinion matters much more than mine over here - has been positive this week (I get it that with Moyes at the wheel now, everything is sunshine and flowers but I think the response has been very positive because of the location for a long time). From what I've seen, it looks really cool. I'll definitely check it out when I'm in Liverpool.

I'll end this lovely stadium fuckery with a quote from the podcast Royal Blue:

“You couldn’t have dreamt it better. If I was to interview 100 000 Everton fans across the world where would they love their brand new stadium, I guess 99 % of them would say Liverpool city centre, on the docks, on the waterfront, shining like a beacon to the rest of the world. You can’t ask for more than that. And I think that’s what they’ve got, that’s what they deserve. They’ve been patient for twenty odd years with no trophies, watching their neighbors with everything in sight – this is their reward for patience and support, and I think they deserve it.”

[fideidefenswhore]

The Dean said the King would not insist on this point of free consent, and he confessed that the King frequented the society of a lady of a noble house, whom it was reported the King intended to marry, if he obtained a divorce. Mentioned a report that the King wished to marry this lady to legitimate by subsequent marriage a son whom he had by her; but the Dean said that this son was by another lady, who was already married. Said he had never heard of this, and he thought that the King's love for another than his wife must be for the mother of his son. Remarked also on the suspicious nature of the King's intimacy with the lady in question; but the Dean said he had never heard anything of it. Asked him if he knew these two ladies, and whether they were beautiful, worth leaving his wife for. He said he knew them both, and the mother of his son was eloquent, gracious, and beautiful, but the other lady was more beautiful still. Suggested that the King must have been charmed by potions, or otherwise; but the Dean said he had not heard of anything of the kind.

"Rapport de M. Loys Helwighen touchant l'home de Louvain." Loys de Heylwigen, of the Emperor's council in Brabant, was supping with the porter of the castle of Louvain on 22 June 1532 [...]

add to tags: elizabeth blount's preeminent biographer agrees that this is indeed the correct translation....

When Heylwigen pressed the dean on the two ladies, Barlow [conceded] that Bessie was indeed beautiful, eloquent, and gracious, although [commented] that Anne Boleyn was also a beauty.

...except somehow, also, doesn't?

In contemporary sources Bessie was commonly referred to as a beauty with the Dean of Westbury stating, when she was aged around thirty, that she was more beautiful than the king's second wife, Anne Boleyn.

so. if i wasn't confused before...

[edwardseymour]

^^^

on the topic of stanne's being incapable of viewing feminism through any other lens than 'not like the other girls'... would anne even be regarded as so exceptional if she wasn't as privileged as she was? would the idea of her innate exceptionalism, her standing out at court as more fashionable/passionate/moral/intellectual/exotic still persist? i just have to wonder how many women could have been remembered by history as exceptional, if only given the ability to — if they had the resources from birth that anne had etc.

[malkaleh]

☀️

Thomas (Tommy) Boleyn-Tudor-Cromwell. Prince Of Wales. Duke Of Cornwall. King Thomas I of England. My biromantic demisexual wife guy of all time. What happens when you live up to your (extremely positive) legend as a leader and a person and then somehow exceed them by an infinity.

Tommy gets migraines, really struggles with asking for help for himself which does make his family feel useless/like he doesn’t trust them to help him as a person/open up, feels like he absolutely cannot fuck up anything ever. Struggles to talk about his own problems So Hard, though he’s a fantastic listener/advice giver if you want. Loves dogs, loves Small Humans and will be So Patient with kids/babies, best dad you could imagine. Literally only into his wife, will sacrifice anything for other people (his wife does not trust him with his life because he’s good and kind and does not consider himself) and maybe needs to work on that, kind of also sees the best in people a lot/his family worries that he’s too gentle, disney princess.

Does so much policy/infrastructure with his wife. Genuinely progressive by modern standards too, a lot by virtue of himself but also see again his wife, unconventional family etc.

Married to (in this universe she’s the youngest child and also she and her brothers are doing independent of England reforms) Mihrimah Sultan who would methodically burn the universe to the ground if anything happened to him even if he would not want that. She does not care. He would be gone.

Does have moments of feeling like he’s not living up to what a Tudor Prince should be honestly but everyone loves Tommy, even if it’s just the image they have because he’s so like, gentle and kind and wise presence. Actually does have a sense of humour if you get to know him.

Character models are (book versions only): faramir, elrond and aragorn.

send me an emoji and I’ll tell you about one of my OCs

[thomascromwelll]

THE MIRROR AND THE LIGHT EPISODE ONE ANALYSIS

Part II — The Dog

The new series premiered yesterday (10 Nov), and I am keen to analyze the first episode titled 'Wreckage.'

── .✦First and foremost, I want to clarify that my analysis is based on the novel, "The Mirror and The Light" At times, I may reference historical events as well.

── .✦Secondly, this analysis is grounded in my personal perspective; yours may differ, and I welcome a respectful discussion in the comments.

── .✦Lastly, please be advised that this analysis will contain spoilers.

Now in the first episode from series two, we have not only Wolsey back as a ghost, but him revisiting that dog reference at the end of the episode. But what I notice is that the meaning was transmuted into something deeper, not only Cromwell the loyal server and friend to Wolsey, but Cromwell the protector of those who he feels inclined to.

In episode two of 'Three Card Trick' we see Cromwell on his way to becoming one of Wolsey's servers. And although, from what I've noticed, Boleyn seems to call Gardiner "butcher's dog", Stephen turns the situation and puts Cromwell in the place Wolsey's puppy.

For now, we have two protégés — Mary and Thomas Wyatt — and for those who have read the book there's more to add afterward.

In the book we have a strong reference to what this means with Crumb:

"You know what I am, he thinks. You should by now. Henry Wyatt told me, look after my son, don’t let him destroy himself. I have kept the promise though I had to lock him up to do it. In the cardinal’s days, they used to call me the butcher’s dog. A butcher’s dog is strong and fills its skin; I am that, and I am a good dog too. Set me to guard something, I will do it."

And we can see that in the episode when Cromwell is with the boys, and let all of his past doings —the promises he made— come out to light.

That being said, we can go back to when he visited the Poles. In my view, when he was entreating with them about Lady Mary's matter, he meant not only to get things straight about treason schemes but also make sure they don't put Mary in a place she can be framed as a traitor. To me it's not about saving the Poles, it's more about taking Mary out of their plot. And it is clear to me when after Margaret Pole called him a "Snake" he says:

'Oh no, a dog, Madam'

I think we can see the same determination when at the council meeting he drags Fitzwilliam after a rage burst. Fitzwilliam could — and seemed to— anger the king (and God knows what that man could do after having his pride hurt). Mary's life was at risk, and even if Henry thought all that energy Cromwell used was for him — in loyalty — I believe he had done it to save Mary once more from her father's anger. We can add some personal gain there too, but I think the main message was that.

I think we'll see more of this plot with the addition of Thomas Wyatt on the show. I hope he's to be introduced next Sunday 🤞🏾. And we're yet to see Jenneke and Wolsey's daughter.

Sorry if I let some other information out of this analysis (you can add in the comments). I wish I can do a better thread for the next episode. And I'm making this post from my phone. Baaad... Bad decision.

[catalinadearagonsblog]

The conservative party saw their chance to strike and supplant Anne Boleyn with Jane Seymour, who, they hoped, would convince the King to return to the Catholic Church and Princess Mary legitimised and reinstated to the line of succession. By April 1536, Mary was informed by her friends who conspired against Anne Boleyn that “very shortly her rival would be dismissed”. Mary took a keen interest in the unfolding conspiracy and firmly believed that her father would soon divorce Anne. She instructed Eustace Chapuys to “watch the proceedings, and if possible help to accomplish the said divorce”. Mary was eager to emphasise that she did not wish for the King’s divorce from Anne Boleyn “out of revenge for the many injuries inflicted on her mother, the late Queen, and on herself” because she had forgotten and forgiven them “for the honour of God, and she now bore no ill-will to anyone whomsoever”

It is evident that neither Mary nor Anne Boleyn’s enemies were aware of what was about to happen. They often used the words “dismiss” and “divorce” interchangeably when speaking about Anne’s ruin. This clearly points out that they expected Henry VIII to divorce Anne and send her away from court in disgrace.

On 27 April, John Stokesley, Bishop of London, was approached to give his opinion “as to whether the King could or could not abandon” Anne Boleyn, but he wisely refused to give his verdict unless invited to do so by the King himself. Clearly, the conspirators tried to ascertain whether there were any legal grounds that the King could use to annul his marriage to Anne.

At some point, however, the conspiracy turned deadly. Thomas Cromwell soon began interrogating Anne’s ladies-in-waiting, hoping to build a case against the Queen. On 2 May, Anne Boleyn was arrested on multiple charges of adultery, incest with her brother George and plotting the King’s death. She was executed on 19 May.

Sylvia Barbara Soberton, The Forgotten Tudor Women: Gertrude Courtenay. Wife and Mother of the last Plantagenets