#deadly-symphony-story

[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ I. Adonis ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,9k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, use of y/n, blood, detailed descriptions of violence, terms of endearment (anaticula, Adonis), slavery, Roman history, vomiting, angst, swearing. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Song: Fight for Survival – Klergy

a/n: The original plan was for this to be a oneshot, but in the end it seemed impossible. I've got a lot planned for this story. Hope you stay tuned! 🥰

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Poem by @fairytalesques

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I am a rose unfurling, winter’s bloom. Poison dripping down my throat and out of my bladed fingers. I spin stars into black holes, drive monsters to extinction in the dead heat of summer. You ever stop to think what life could have been if the poison had been potent? A lifeline in the carnage. A blessing or a curse? The flower is now festering like a disease but with Adonis I’ll be safe, he keeps the antidote. 

The metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, hung heavy in the humid air, a shroud of death as thick as smoke. It was a symphony of war, conducted by the piercing shrieks of the wounded and the barked commands of the officers. A cacophony that blurred my senses as I moved with deadly precision through a haze of silver and red.

I fought with the savage efficiency of a wild animal, yet my kills were clean and quiet, each motion honed by years of training under Hanno's tutelage. My vision tunneled to a singular, deadly focus – the annhilation of the Roman usurpers by any means necessary. In this moment, I was a force of nature, an instrument of retribution. I would purge the land of their corrupted touch if I were to die trying.

The enemy pressed on, a relentless tide. For every ten I felled, another twenty rose to take their place. Yet somehow, the more I fought, the stronger I became, as though the adrenaline that infiltrated my every tissue contained a potent elixir that invigorated my muscles and dulled their exertion. 

Clashing blades rang in the air. Our two armies mingled near indistinguishably; clanging, crunshing and screaming. It would be difficult to tell friend from foe, if it weren’t for the Romans distinctive galeas, the red fur frilling atop the silver helms like beckoning targets. 

Just then, the crowd parted like clouds from the sun, unveiling a figure descending the battlement steps, a silhouette of lethal grace. Donning a sable breast plate emblazoned by Sol, sprawling across his chest with a douzen golden rays, he moved with the effortless grace of a dancer, his blade a blur of silver death, his countenance molded into a rigid canvas of authority. A retinue of red fringed galeas encircled him, their bodies his shields, their presence a testament to his rank. 

My gaze fixed him through the crowd as the next wave of men in their peculiar-looking helmets came charging at me. I ducked, slicing open the patellas of the first two, making them buckle in the sand. The third I dodged, sidestepping before plunging my blade into his brachial plexus. The fourth I parried, our blades screeching in unison, before I kicked under his flared skirt. There wasn’t much fight left in him after that.      

Jubartha’s words echoed in my mind as I tracked the approaching entourage, “Take out the leader of your enemy, and it matters not how much blood stains your sword.”

He moved fluidly like a windless sea. His spatha whipped around him, trailing shadows in the dust-ridden air, splattering the sand with blood. His expression was a paradox. As though he would not rest until Rome had pocketed another conquest, while simultaneously longing for a different fate entirely.

Crimson trailed around him like crushed punica granatum. None breached the shield of bodies surrounding him, and those who tried did not emerge alive, like prey entering a lion’s den. 

I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Jubartha atop the parapet, fending off the ruthless wave from the assaulting sea. The walls had been breached, our numbers were dwindling. A sense of desperation seized me, a reckless courage driving me forward.  

There was but one choice at my disposal.

I sprinted up the steps of the opposite parapet, scaling the heights with desperate urgency. Ducking behind a wooden pole, I dashed across the platform until I reached its bosom. I leaned out over its edifice, where down below, a second protective roof had been built. I started the climb downward, the splintering wood tearing at my hands like an angry cat. I landed on the roof with a thud and crouched towards the edge. Our men were still charging through the opening of the parapet, but before I knew it, they began to slow, getting knocked back by the shield wall of fearsome Roman guards. I rose to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. My hand found the hilt of my sword and clasped it into place. For what I was about to do, risking becoming unarmed was to invite my doom.

The chaotic shadowy flare of guards flanking the steady shadow of an unyielding assassin grew in the sand below. I filled my lungs, washing out the biting fear of death creeping around the edges. 

A warrior’s oath echoed in my mind: I am Numidia. 

I dipped, toes to the edge. A head of dark and silver emerged below. 

What could go wrong?

I leapt. 

The fall felt decelerated, as if in a dream, and all surrounding noise faded underwater. My feet met his back, and a heavy grunt of startlement escaped him as he fell forward. His body broke my fall, and I rolled with the force of the impact, swiftly regaining my footing as I turned to face him. Dazed for but a second, his face dusted with sand, he grappled for his sword. But before he managed to get a proper grasp of the hilt, I pressed my boot atop his knuckles. He groaned in frustration behind gritted teeth. The next second, my one hand had clasped the knife from my boot, while the other had gathered a fistful of his hair and snatched him backward. 

In the third second, my blade was poised at his throat, ready to claim his life when, for reasons unexplained, the edge paused in his skin. 

In the fourth second, I had met his eyes, and an unfamilliar current passed down my spine. They were big, and brown, and full of contradictions, staring up at me with equal surprise, malice, and admiration. But no fear. His chest was heaving. His hair was a full, tangled mess of black and silver beneath my fingers, textured from the unsettled sand. The strands of silver had leaked into his beard which covered his dark, dirt-and blood-spattered complexion. His nose was sharp, angled like the limb of a bow, and his lips were slightly parted from gnashed teeth. The wound I had inflicted seemed to defy the vision of him I had before me, bleeding red but ichor. 

In the fifth second his resistance faltered, his head growing heavy against me. But before I could savour my victory, a sharp blow clattered my teeth, and suddenly my body was not my own. My vision blurred, my ears buzzed, and my fingers loosened the grip of the knife, no matter how hard I fought against it. 

In the sixth second, I was laying in the sand, grasping for consciousness. I thought I could hear Hanno screaming in the distance, but it was just beneath the surface. Gathering the last ounces of strength I had left I reached for the blade laying inches away. The contours of Adonis hovered over me, as one of the guards kicked my weapon out of reach. My other hand dragged itself to my waist, half-limb, seeking to undo the clasp to my sword.

“Tsk tsk tsk...” Adonis clicked his tongue. I winced as his boot came down on my hand, pressing down. “You have some fight in you, anaticula,” his voice, laced with what I would percieve as… concern, circulated around my head like a distant echo. “Grab her.” The words consumed me, nuzzling my cognisance like a warm blanket, and as I lifted off the ground, I faded into oblivion. 

_

Vae victis. Woe to the vanquished. 

The declaration travelled with me between the realms of my unconsciousness, followed by the distant wails of bereaved mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. 

I awoke to the comforting crackle of the fire we used to cook our supper. The air was thick with the scent of fresh fish, and the vague neigh of my stallion drifted in from outside. I sighed, nuzzling my face into the pillow, and was captivated by the unfamiliar softness of it. Something was different. The ground beneath me seemed to shift and sway, and as I opened my eyes, the pillow under my cheek was foreign to me – vibrant with patterns winding around the fabric like climbing vines.

Reality slowly dawned. I was not home. And the crackle of the fire and the neighing from my stallion was in fact the creaking and squeaking of ship timbers. 

I groaned as a sharp pain lanced through my skull. Everything came back to me. The Roman invasion. The battle. The blow to the head. Adonis … 

My breath stilled when I met his gaze across the room. Clad in the same sable armor and a royal scarlet cape, he was seated at the head of a table bedecked in plates of fish, cheese, fruit and caraffes of wine. He held my stare with a distant look of interest, rolling a purple grape between his fingers before plopping it into his mouth, his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

The throbbing pain pulsed in my temple in tune with my heart as I sat up on the setee. Sludge stuck to my thoughts and it felt as though my center of gravity was off the way the room kept rocking.

“Easy,” came his voice, a low rumble. His chewing ceased, his movements stilled, as if ready to rise in haste.

The ship’s rhythmic rocking intensified, the sound of waves lapping against the hull growing louder. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. My breathing surged and grew ragged, trying to subdue the rolling sense of nausea consuming me. 

But it was futile.

With a violent shudder, I retched, the contents of my stomach emptying onto the wooden planks.

I stared blankly at my mess, a strange blend of satisfaction and shame washing over me. Relishing at the thought of having defiled the ship of the Roman usurpers, I was humbled by doing so in front of the man who I failed to kill. My guts were ready to spill again at the very thought.

His chair creaked against the floor as he rose. I only saw his legs as he approached, dropping to his haunches in front of me – in my vomit, and I recoiled, equally to his sudden advance as to the indignity of it. He moved with intent, the scarlet cape pooled around him, and I could not help but feel intimidated. It was like he didn’t know what he was standing in. Or rather, didn’t care. Furthermore, based off his attire alone, he was too high in station to be on his knees for a commoner like me. Even less, kneeling in a commoner’s bodily fluid. 

He was so cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something alive played in his dark brown eyes. Something that could snap at any second. His complexion was still riddled with dried dirt and blood from the battle, and the cut in his neck had leaked down his throat like spilt ink. 

I knew not if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of the blow to my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re a truly terrible commander.” I dried the dribble off my chin with the back of my hand.

A furrow etched between his brows and genuine concern flickered in his eyes, like he was contemplating whether it might be true. “I conquered your city,” he parried.

“I nearly killed you,” I retorted.

A hint of malice clouded his features. “Nearly.” His tone of voice gathered timber; that the word came off as a threat. 

He stared at me. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as spiced wine. 

Finally, his eyes drifted downward to the pool of vomit at his feet. “I’ll have someone clean this up,” he said, before leaning forward and putting his arms around me. 

Adrenaline shot through me like a violent storm, and I pushed him away instinctively. His face was a mask of indifference, and he reached for me again, and this time he didn’t let go, no matter how hard I fought him. He carried me up off the settee as I kicked, squealed, grunted and clawed. My mind raced with the thoughts of what he might do to me. His breast plate was ice cold against my skin, but I was too frantic to notice. I came to my senses once he dropped me down in a chair next to the table. He glared at me, clearly unimpressed by my defiance, before grabbing a plate off the table, methodically filling it with a chaotic assortment.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking off a twig of grapes as a final touch before serving it to me, rounding the table to seat himself.

I simply gaped at him, too bewildered to respond. My chest heaved from exertion, my tense body clutching onto the wood of the chair, trembling slightly from the waning adrenaline spike.

“You need not fear me, anaticula,” he soothed. His voice was a strange blend of velvet and steel, a combination I believed to be uniquely his; calming and unsettling me in equal measure. And despite the ingrained hatred I harbored towards his people, an inexplicable, vexing trust for him began to bloom within me.

“I am General Marcus Acacius,” he boomed, as though I would have trouble hearing him from across the table. Where he came from, I’d wager men stood to attention at the mere mention of him, but I remained indifferent. Belittling him was all the power I had.

His name grew heavy in the air, silence stretching. I’d expected him to explain my fate next. That I would be sold as a slave for men to plunder as they wished, or perhaps executed for having his life at my disposal. Perhaps he’d do it himself.

“What do I call you?” he asked finally.

“Whyever does that matter?” I snapped.

“Is it so strange to wish to know the name of the woman who nearly killed me?” His voice dipped at the very mention of it. 

“I’ll be dead soon enough,” I said with feigned indifference. Acacius stiffened, watching me carefully. “Or if you do not kill me, I’d kill myself before I ever become a slave.” I watched him relax slightly and continue his meal.

“That’s not going to happen,” he muttered inbetween chews.

My gut flared with anticipation, “Which part?” I demanded.

He looked up at me. “What’s your name?” he asked, deliberately ignoring my question. 

“Y/N,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. 

He repeated my name, the sound rolling off his tongue like honey while he fixed me with his eyes dark like amber. I grew strangely warm and restless, and a sudden urge to flee seized me, a wild beast gnawing at my nerves. 

“Where is my brother?” I blurted out, rather raggedly, a note of desperation creeping in, but as I did, I recalled I had not seen Hanno since the start of the battle. Was he even alive?

“Your brother?” he asked, like the notion I’d have a family was aberrant to him, a fleeting spark of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He swallowed sharply, picking at the salted fish on his plate. “With the other prisoners,” he muttered.

“So,” I began, molding myself out of the rigid posture I had assumed, and leaned forward. “Why am I here?” I asked, casting a disapproving look around his opulent cabin.

He stopped and fixed me with a gaze ice-cold. “For safe keeping,” he said sternly. “You nearly killed me today, Y/N. I wouldn’t want to find out what else you’re capable of.”

Vague images flickered before my eyes – chaos, then darkness. “You talk as if it’s some big feat,” I scoffed.

His eyes, twin pools of lethal venom, bored into me. “I assure you,” he hissed, resting his bracers against the edge of the table, a hint of admonition lingering in his voice, “It is.”

My face heated at the thought of having impressed him, but the word ‘nearly’ was a nettlesome creature.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

Acacius cocked his brows in recognition and poured wine. “Why didn’t you?” he asked, raising the cup to his lips. 

The question caught me off guard, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I recalled myself hesitating. I had the blade at his throat. I could have ended the battle there and then, declared Numidia victorious against the power of Rome. But I couldn’t do it. 

“I-,” I don’t know, I thought. 

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence, and a sentry entered the room, bowing slightly. “General Acacius,” he spoke, his voice laced with duty and reverence. “Rome awaits.” 

Chapter II. | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

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[seiwas]

suguru looks at you and thinks he could tell you everything.

it's tempting—how you hold his gaze when others normally avoid it. anyone else and their eyes dart away immediately, blurring him into the background. not with you though; with you, he exists in central focus.

there's a strand of your hair that's fallen out of place, and he reaches to tuck it behind your ear, quickly. it's a trick, a sleight of hand that conceals the tremble of his fingertips.

(your breath hitches when he grazes your cheek.)

the noise in the cafe is a symphony of indistinct chatter and soft alternative folk music, with ceramics clinking as the constant underlying beat. none of it is supposed to go together, but it carries the ambiance in its harmony.

he leans in closer when you speak.

you continue your story, off on a tangent already; his head tilts to the side, a finger to his temple as he nods along, lips curling at the edges fondly. this same look has made others nervous, flustered, but you seem unfazed; meeting him eye-to-eye overtly.

which isn't normal.

and if he's being truly honest with himself, none of this—what he's doing, thinking, how he's feeling—is normal.

suguru believes in secrets, that some things are better kept to himself.

but, it's one look into your eyes, at the way you regard him so unlike everybody else that has him wondering how you'd react if he tells you you look pretty instead of nice today—how you are pretty much a frequent visitor to his thoughts lately.

(you talk and talk and talk because you can never tell what he's thinking—mysterious smile matched with an unnerving stare is a combination too deadly.)

he doesn't do 'brunches'—it's either a late breakfast or an early lunch, pick one—yet he finds himself seated in a cafe at 10:27 a.m., having one with you.

the lock to his chest has been tampered with; if he dusts it off, he'll find your fingerprints, left behind unknowingly. you are innocent until proven guilty, but his lips, usually shut tight, are now slowly unzipping; it's you, the root of all this.

if he tells you he likes looking at you—might always want to—would you consider having another brunch with him? to stay longer in that suspended in-between of breakfast and lunch time?

(you blink, suguru still leaned in, listening.)

(if you tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, will his breath hitch just the same?)

for @rinniessance; a lil birthday gift for you angie bby! (i might be a lil early posting this... oop!) i've never written sugu but wanted to try for you 🥹 ily you beautiful soul!! (not a birthday fic itself but i hope i gave a decent characterisation of him! 🥺)

thank you notes: @mysugu @soumies for helping me try to figure this man out 😭

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Summary: After a deadly tempest rage against Berk, a maelstrom in the sea claims your parents—Where you were then eventually passed into the gruff, tender care of Gobber as his adopted niece. Help raising you beneath the clang of his forge alongside his own godson, Hiccup, a boy destined to defy the world. Hiccup and you stand through many hardships as childhood friends, and awkward occasions as two misfits against the world—a fierce baker of breads and a dreamer craving Viking glory. Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 5.1k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader descriptions are not described besides the clothing, true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 1

The Great Hall of Berk hummed with the morning clamor of a village waking to the promise of a new day. The air was thick with the scent of yeast and woodsmoke, the sweet smell of fresh baked goods ready for the taking but not without a symphony of chaos swirling around you as you danced between ovens and tables in a blur, with flour-dusted hands.

Loaves of bread, their golden crusts glistening with a crisp perfection, stacked high upon the counters in a tantalizing display. Among them, an irresistible assortment of buns—barley, ryes smothered in butter, and berries with oats—each mouthwatering with rustic flavor.

Stretching before you, a mile-long table groans under the weight of temptation: frothy eggnog, honeyed mead, and robust ale, each poised to dance with creamy skyr's or steaming bowls of porridge. And that's just the beginning. Succulent meats, tender fish, plump eggs, vibrant fruits, and crunchy nuts sprawl across the spread, a cornucopia of delights ready to satisfy the ravenous hunger of the tribe.

While the shouts of hungry Vikings echoed through the stone walls—orders barked with the urgency of warriors prepping for any sudden battle.

"More rye, lass!"

"Where's the barley flatbread?"

"Don't skimp on the butter this time!"

You stumbled over your own feet, catching yourself against a barrel of pickled herring before it toppled, a laugh bubbling up despite the madness. This was your domain, your forge of flour and fire, and though the frenzy threatened to swallow you whole, pride sparked in your chest like a well-tended ember.

You kneaded the last batch of dough with a fierceness that would've made a dragon crawl away, slamming it onto the table with a satisfying thwack. The rhythm of it steadied you—knead, fold, press—until the dough was smooth and ready for the oven. Wiping sweat from your brow with the sleeve of your elbow, already streaked with flour, you surveyed the kitchen.

Milkmaidens darted about, their aprons flapping like dragon wings, juggling trays of cheese and slabs of smoked fish. The head cook, a stout woman named Marta, bellowed at a young lad who'd nearly upended a cauldron of porridge. It was a storm, yes, but one you'd learned to ride with the same grit that kept Berk standing against the war.

"That's the last of it," you called, sliding the dough into the roaring oven. The heat kissed your face as you shut the iron door with a clang. Turning to Marta, you tugged at the ties of your apron. "I've got to run—Hiccup's waiting."

Marta's head snapped up; her wooden spoon poised mid-stir like a weapon. "Now? You're leaving me in this mess? The chieftain's crew'll be here any minute, and they'll eat us alive if the bread's not—"

"You've got it under control," you shot back, already halfway to the door, snagging a cloth from the counter. With a deft hand, you bundled a wedge of creamy goats' cheese, between a hunk of fresh flatbread, with some smoked meat and a fried egg—Hiccup's favorite, a little morning ritual you'd started years ago when his skinny frame needed coaxing to fill out. "Besides, I'll be back before Stoick's beard hits the table!"

"Lass, you're a menace!" Marta hollered in her heavy accent, but there was a grudging fondness in her tone as she waved you off, already turning to scold the porridge boy again.

You burst out of the Great Hall into the crisp morning, the wind tugging at your hair as it carried the tang of salt and pine from the cliffs and mountainside. Berk sprawled before you, alive with the clatter of hammers, the bleat of sheep, and the distant roar of a blow horns and shouts overhead—probably one of the twins stirring trouble again.

Your boots pounded the dirt path, the bundle clutched tight against your chest, warm and fragrant. The village blurred past—old man Mildew grumbling at his cabbages, a gaggle of kids chasing a chicken—and your heart thudded with a mix of urgency and something softer, something that always stirred when you thought of Hiccup.

He'd be waiting, probably perched on that rocky outcrop overlooking the harbor you two always shared, scribbling in his sketchbook or muttering to himself about some wild new idea. Ever since you were kids, he'd drag you into his schemes—mapping new ideas that would benefit Berk, testing contraptions that usually ended in singed eyebrows or a stern lecture from Gobber.

You'd been his shadow, his anchor, and somewhere along the way now both at the tender age of fifteen, that quiet crush you waved off had settled in your chest and blossomed more unwillingly. Only sometimes you'd hope he'd never see you as just the bread making Viking who tagged along. A small hope that flickered every time his green eyes lit up with a grin meant just for you—though you'd long convinced yourself it was nothing more than friendship to save yourself.

The path climbed, and your breaths came sharp as you rounded the final bend. There he was, silhouetted against the rising sun, a lanky figure hunched over, legs dangling off the cliff. Hiccup's auburn hair caught the light, tousled by the breeze, and his head was bent over something—probably another madcap invention doomed to earn Gobber's exasperated sigh.

You slowed, catching your breath, and felt that familiar tug in your chest. As you stepped forward, cheesecloth in hand, the wind carried a faint growling-rumble from him, and a laugh slipped from your lips—half at the oddity of the sound, half at the sight of Hiccup's hunched frame as he scribbled away in his journal.

His head snapped up at the sound, green eyes catching yours as you crested the hill. A grin flickered across his face—real and unguarded, the kind he saved just for you—and he set down his tools quickly as you closed the distance. You dropped onto the grass beside him, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"Brought you your fave again," you said, unwrapping the cloth with a flourish. "My original, egg-cheese, meat breakfast muffin!"

Hiccup's eyes lit up, and he snatched it from your hands, sinking his teeth into it without a second's pause. "Gods, this is my favorite," he mumbled through a mouthful, voice warm with that earnestness that always tugged at you.

You smiled, pulling out your own and taking a bite, the rich tang of the cheese and smoky meat settling on your tongue. For a moment, you both fell quiet, chewing in companionable silence as the sun rose higher, painting Berk's jagged cliffs in hues in warm orange and blue. The village sprawled below, a patchwork of roofs and smoke trails, framed by the endless sea stretching toward the horizon. It was a rare stillness, the kind that felt like a held breath.

Hiccup finished first, brushing crumbs from his tunic with a satisfied sigh, then turned to you, his face alight with sudden energy. "I did it," he said, voice buzzing with excitement.

"Finished your food first?" You respond sarcastically.

"Yes, but no—Finished the dragon trap. It's gonna catch a Night Fury—the Night Fury."

You nodded, still savoring your muffin, as he leaned closer to you.

"This is it, y'know? If I can pull this off, everyone'll finally notice me—Dad, the village, everybody. Maybe I'll even. . ." He hesitated, a flush creeping up his neck. "Maybe even get a girlfriend."

You kept chewing, the meat turning a little tougher in your mouth as you tilted your head, listening. His eyes were fixed on the horizon now, bright with dreams you'd heard a hundred times—dreams you'd helped him sketch on scraps of parchment, dreams you'd quietly wished might one day include you. But you nodded anyway, letting him ramble on about the trap's clever gears and the glory he was chasing.

"You'll do it, Hiccup. You've been planning this for months now. Now we just wait for that dragon. Hopefully, of course, without destruction on its part. . ."

His eyes flicked to yours, brightening, and he nodded—a small, grateful smile breaking through his usual tangle of nerves. "Thanks," he said, soft but sure, the word landing like a spark between you. "And for having my back on this."

For a beat, you held his gaze, that ache in your chest flaring, before the distant clang of the forge bell snapped you both back to Berk's relentless rhythm.

"Gobber's gonna skin you if you don't get back to work," you teased, brushing crumbs from your hands as you stood. Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, and Marta's probably got a ladle with your name on it," he shot back, smirking. You laughed, hefting the empty cloth.

"Meet you at the forge later? After I've survived the Great Hall, and you've dodged Gobber's wrath?"

"Deal," he said, already turning back to his workbench, muttering about adjustments. You lingered a moment, watching him, then turned down the path, the rumble fading into the morning's hum.

The hours slipped by in a blur of Hairy Hooligan chaos. Back at the Great Hall, you dodged Marta's sharp tongue and the Vikings' endless appetites, morning, afternoon, and now evening. Your hands stirring while your mind wandered to Hiccup's trap—and the plans to come after.

Meanwhile, the village churned on: smoke curled from chimneys, sheep bleated, and somewhere, a horn sounded signaling another practice raid thwarted. By evening, the sun hung low, casting sharp shadows over Berk's rugged sprawl, and you finally broke free, boots kicking up dust as you headed for the forge again.

The forge glowed like a dragon's maw, heat rippling the air as you approached. Gobber's voice boomed over the clang of metal, his hammer-hand punctuating a lecture you could've recited by heart. "—and if ye think I'm cleanin' up another one of yer 'genius' messes, Hiccup, ye've got another thing comin'!"

Hiccup stood by the anvil, head ducked, fiddling with a tangle of rope and gears that looked suspiciously like his trap. He caught your eye as you stepped in, flashing a sheepish grin—half apology, half plea for rescue.

"Saved by the baker," you called, leaning against a workbench. Gobber wheeled around, his eyes narrowing, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Oi, lass, don't encourage him! This one's been goofin' about all mornin'—nearly set me eyebrows on fire, he did." Hiccup opened his mouth to protest, but Gobber barreled on, waving his hammer-hand.

"And you—shouldn't ye be feedin' the village instead of nursin' this troublemaker's ego?"

"Already did," you said, crossing your arms. "Thought I'd see if Hiccup's still in one piece." Hiccup rolled his eyes, but the grin lingered as he hefted the trap's frame, its metal glinting in the forge light.

"It's ready," he said, voice brimming with that restless energy you knew too well. "Tonight's the night—I can feel it."

Gobber snorted, muttering something about "fool's hope," but you caught the flicker of pride in his gruff stare at Hiccups invention. The forge hummed around you, a heartbeat of steel and sparks. Whatever Hiccup was chasing, it was coming fast and it almost made you nervous.

The forge's glow dimmed into the late dark evening, shadows stretching long across the cluttered workbench. Gobber's patience finally snapped, his hammer-hand clanging against an anvil for emphasis as you too went on and on about things he could care less about.

"That's it—I can't be around ye two anymore tonight! Bunch of misfits, schemin' and chatterin' like a pair of natterin' nannies. Don't blow the place up, ye hear?" He stomped toward the door, muttering under his breath about needing a tankard of mead and a moment's peace, leaving the air buzzing with his departure.

You side glanced at Hiccup, catching the glint in his eye as he turned to you, practically vibrating with excitement. "Finally," he said, running up to his dragon trap tucked away near the corner space. You admitted it looked really neat, like some of his previous inventions—this was a contraption as wild as his imagination. It didn't surprise you.

"C'mere, look at this." He said excitedly patting it before he crouched beside it, beckoning you closer, and launched into an explanation that tumbled out faster than a terrible terror could attack.

"See, the tension's all in the springs here," he said, tapping a coiled mechanism. "One good shot, and it'll snap shut—bam!—right around the Night Fury's entire body. Fastest dragon out there, but it won't see this coming." His hands danced over the trap, tracing ropes and pulleys, his voice alive with that reckless hope you'd always admired.

You leaned in, squinting at the tangle. "Looks like it could catch a Gronckle. . .or maybe just tangle you up instead," you teased, nudging a loose rope with your index finger. He huffed a laugh, adjusting it with a quick tug.

"Nah, it's foolproof. Well, mostly. Okay, fifty-fifty." He grinned. "But if it works, Dad'll have to notice. The village, too."

"And Astrid?" you added before you could stop, keeping your tone light despite the sting. He flushed, shrugging, and you let it drop, pointing at a jagged edge.

"Better smooth that down—don't want your Night Fury limping away with a grudge."

"Good call," he said, grabbing a file and setting to work. You traded ideas back and forth—tightening bolts, testing the trigger—until the forge grew quiet, the night pressing in around you. Hours slipped away, the fire dwindling to embers behind you both as you sat waiting on the cliff again, and still no raid came. Hiccup's shoulders slumped as he stared out at the dark, star-strewn sky expression disappointed.

"No dragons," he muttered, disappointment lacing his voice. "Thought tonight was it."

You placed a hand on his back, forcing a smile. "They're just waiting to catch you off guard. C'mon, let's call it—Gobber'll have our hides if we're dead on our feet tomorrow." He nodded, reluctant, and you both trudged out, locking the forge behind you.

The village lay silent under a shroud of clouds, and you parted ways—him to his house, you to yours—carrying the weight of an empty home to go back to.

Hours later, the skies still clung tight to the new morning night, heavy and restless, when the first screech tore through Berk. A dragon raid—fierce and sudden. You were already in the forge, having been shaken up by Gobber barging in and yelling at you for help.

Sweat streaking your face as you and Gobber worked in a frantic rhythm, the air thick with sparks and steel. Axes clattered onto the counter, swords hissed against the grindstone, and Vikings roared past the window and above, silhouettes against bursts of flame attempting to steal the sheep.

"Faster, lass!" Gobber bellowed, tossing a freshly sharpened blade to a burly warrior who barely grunted thanks before charging back into the fray.

"These beasts'll have us for breakfast if we don't arm this lot!" You nodded, hands steady despite the chaos, passing out axes like loaves of bread on a feast day. The forge was a storm—metal clanging, fire roaring, and the stench of singed wool and leather as a stray ember caught someone's cloak.

Then the door banged open, and Hiccup stumbled in, all gangly limbs and wild hair. "I've got it—tonight's the night!" he whispers shouts to you. His eyes were bright, desperate, like he'd finally glimpsed his chance.

You glanced up from the axe you were sharpening, catching his gaze, and flashed a quick grin before continuing to sharpen the blade down for a waiting warrior. Gobber spun around; hammer-hand raised mid-swing.

"Oh, nice of ye to join the party!" he bellowed, sarcasm dripping like forge sweat. "I thought ye'd been carried off!"

You snorted, hefting a different weapon, a sword, onto the grindstone, sparks showering your apron. "Aye, by a dragon too picky to eat him—couldn't stomach all that brawn," you quipped, shooting Hiccup a smirk.

He grinned, shoving your shoulder playfully as he hauled a giant hammer to the wall and moved closer to you, nearly tripping over a pile of scrap metal.

"Who, me?" Hiccup said, puffing out his chest. "Nah, come on—I'm way too muscular for their taste. They wouldn't know what to do with all. . .this." He flexed, all gangly bravado, the gesture so absurdly exaggerated you choked on a laugh, even as you handed off the sword to a Viking who didn't spare you a glance.

Gobber rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?" he joked, turning back to the anvil with a grunt.

You smirked, but the high demands of Berk's warriors drowned out any retort—shouts for "More axes!" and "Hurry it up!" pulling you back to the grindstone. Your hands flew, sharpening steel, passing tools, your focus split between the work and Hiccup's whirlwind energy as he darted past you, dodging Gobber's half-hearted swipe to reach the window.

Hiccup wrestled getting to work muttering about angles and tension, a lanky form of determination. You tracked him with quick glances, axe blades singing under your hands, too buried in the rhythm to catch every word of their brewing argument.

Then Hiccup's voice cut through—"I might even get a date"—and your head snapped up, interest flaring with small hope.

Your eyes flickered to him, catching the hopeful tilt of his grin, until a Viking's bellow—"Oi, lass, where's my sword?!"—jerked you back. You muttered an apology, hands scrambling to finish the blade, ears still tuned to their banter.

"If ye want to get out there and fight dragons, ye need to stop all. . .this," Gobber said, waving his hammer-hand at Hiccup in a broad, exasperated arc. You turned, mid-motion, eyebrow raised as you caught the tail end.

Hiccup blinked, incredulous. "But you just pointed to all of me. . ."

"Yes! That's it! Stop being all of you," Gobber shot back, flashing a winning grin that made your stomach twist. You shook your head, jaw tightening, and slammed a pile of sharpened tools onto the counter for the next wave of Vikings.

Gobber's jabs at Hiccup always stung you sideways—too close to the scorn the village heaped on him—and you buried the flare of anger in the work, pounding steel harder than necessary. They kept at it, trading barbs over the forge's roar, while you stayed silent, letting the clatter of metal drown out the urge to snap.

Then a shout shattered the air—"Night Fury!"—and the forge trembled as a shadow-streaked past, unseen but felt, a ripple of dread through the chaos.

Gobber straightened, peg leg thudding. "Mind the fort, ye two! They need me out there!" He wheeled on you both, hammer-hand jabbing.

"Stay. Put. There. . .both of ye. Ye know exactly what I mean." With that, he was gone, charging into the fray with a bellow, leaving the forge quieter but no less alive.

You turned to Hiccup, wide-eyed, the air between you crackling. You knew that look—the glint of a chance he'd been chasing since he first sketched that trap. "You going?" you asked, voice low but steady, a hint of worry.

"Yep!" he shouted, already snagging the trap's frame. "I'll see you soon!" He bolted for the door, a blur of lanky limbs and reckless hope, and you watched him go, heart thudding against your ribs. The forge hummed along with yelling Vikings piling up, embers glowing all around outside, and the Night Fury's sound echoing everything growing chaotic.

"Be careful. . ." You had whispered after he could let you say anything.

You stood alone in the heat, the air thick with soot and the tang of molten steel and turned back to the grindstone. Vikings pounded at the wood framed window, hands outstretched—"Axe, lass!" "Sword, now!"—and you moved quickly, sharpening blades, tossing them out, your arms burning but relentless.

You kept your head down, hands focused on the job at hand, but your mind flickered to Hiccup—out there with that rickety trap, chasing a dream he worked so hard to build. You only prayed he'd be ok.

The raid raged on, a blur of shouts mixed with dragon's roars and flame. You sharpened another sword, passing it back to a warrior whose beard was singed black and strands still burning. The forge was your second battlefield besides the kitchens, and you held it—alone, steady, until a distant crash jolted the air, sharper than the usual din.

You stayed put, as Gobber had ordered, piling blades on the counter before they could take them, ears straining for any hint of Hiccup's fate. The sky lightened, a bruised gray creeping over the horizon as morning began to peak, when a new sound reached you—Stoick's bellow, loud enough to rattle the forge walls, followed by the murmur of a gathering crowd.

Wiping sweat and soot from your face, you stepped outside, the dawn air sharp against your skin. Down the hill, the village had clumped around the wreckage of a catapult tower—flames licking its splintered remains. Hiccup stood at the center, shoulders hunched, dwarfed by Stoick's towering frame.

A Monstrous Nightmare roared, pinned by a toppled net, and Stoick wrestled it back, barking orders—"Take it to the pens!"—before rounding on his son. You edged closer, boots crunching on charred earth, catching the tail end of the lecture as the crowd watched, a mix of pity, shame and scorn in their eyes.

". . .Every time you step outside, disaster follows!" Stoick thundered, his voice a hammer strike. "Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter's almost here, and I have an entire village to feed!"

Hiccup shifted; voice small but defiant. "Between you and me, the village could do with a little less feeding, don't you think?" A few Vikings gasped offended, while you covered your mouth to hide the laugh, but Stoick's glare silenced them.

"This isn't a joke, Hiccup! Why can't you follow the simplest orders?" he demanded, hands clenched.

"I—I can't stop myself," Hiccup stammered, gesturing helplessly. "I see a dragon, and I have to just. . .kill it, you know? It's who I am, Dad. . ."

Stoick pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation carving lines into his face. "You are many things, Hiccup. But a dragon killer is not one of them." He straightened, turning to the crowd.

"Get back to your homes!" Then, softer, to Hiccup, "Get back to the house." He glanced at Gobber, who'd limped up beside him. "Make sure he gets there. I have his mess to clean up."

Gobber nodded, slapping Hiccup with his good hand. "Aye, come on." The crowd dispersed, muttering, and Hiccup trudged forward, head down, hands shoved into his tunic as he ignored the other teens. You stepped out from the edge, heart twisting at the slump in his frame, and caught up as he passed. Gently, you laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to say I'm here without words.

He glanced at you, eyes shadowed but softening, a faint, tired smile flickering. "See you later," he murmured, barely audible, and you nodded, letting your hand fall as Gobber steered him toward the house. You watched them go—Hiccup's lanky silhouette beside Gobber's hobbling bulk—until they vanished up the path, the weight of his failure and your quiet worry settling like the ash around you. Lingering a moment, the weight of his slumped shoulders etched into your mind, then turned back to the forge.

The chaos had ebbed, leaving charred wood and bent steel in its wake, and you busied yourself stacking axes, the rhythm dulling the knot in your chest. But it didn't stop your ears from straining for his footsteps, or your thoughts from circling back to that scream down the hill.

By mid-morning, you'd exhaustedly traded the forge for the Great Hall, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in dough like every other day before it. This time with barely any sleep. The air hummed with yeast and mead. The low grumble of Vikings in the hall nursing wounds with pride over their porridge.

Marta barked orders as she always did, her ladle a scepter, but you barely heard her—your mind was still out there, with Hiccup, wondering what mess he'd stumbled into now, and how you wished your shift would end so you can visit him or sleep.

Flour dusted your arms as you kneaded, the familiar pull and press a tether to sanity, when a shadow slipped through the door. 

Hiccup—eyes wide, darting like a hare caught in the open. He sidled up, voice a hushed rush. "I hit something," he said, tugging your sleeve with that restless energy you couldn't ignore. "Last night, with the trap—I think it worked. C'mon, you've gotta see." His breath was quick, his grin half-thrill, half-panic, and it left a spark of unease in your gut.

You froze, dough clinging to your fingers, and shot a glance at Marta. Her back was turned, but her glare could burn holes through stone. "Hiccup, I'm up to my elbows here—" you started, but his pleading look cut you off, green eyes bright with the kind of wild hope you'd never learned to say no to. You sighed, wiping your hands on your apron. "Fine. But if Marta skins me, you're baking the next five batches."

"Deal," he said, already halfway out the door. You followed, ducking Marta's wrath and the curious stares of a few Vikings, your boots hitting the dirt as Hiccup led you uphill, past the village's edge. The woods loomed, damp and tangled, and he rambled as you went—words tripping over each other about the trap's "perfect shot," the bola's arc, how he'd heard something crash. You stumbled over roots, swatting branches, and tossed him a dry look.

"Perfect shot, huh? Or did you just knock down another tower and call it a win?" you teased, dodging a low limb. He huffed a laugh, shoving you lightly.

"Come on, really? This is it—the Night Fury. I know it." His voice trembled with conviction, and you didn't argue, just kept pace, the air growing thick with pine, earth and the faint tang of rain. You didn't bother to counter, simply matching his stride while you two made it deeper into the woods.

The woods closed the deeper you got. The damp earth tugging at your boots, your heels throbbing after what felt like hours—though you couldn't be sure. Maybe one, maybe two; time blurred by quickly. You hadn't wanted to disappoint him, not with that fire in his eyes. So, you kept on, even as he groaned every mile, his makeshift map—a mess of 'X' marks scratched into his sketchbook—crumpling in his grip.

He edged closer to you, shoving the map under your nose. "Here—see? It's gotta be near," he muttered, tracing a jagged line with a dirt-smudged finger. You squinted at it, biting back a smirk at the chaos of his art, and shifted your weight, wincing as your heels protested.

"Hmm. . .Hiccup?" you said, slowing to a stop. "You think maybe we should head back and try again tomorrow?"

He sighed deeply, a gust of frustration that seemed to deflate him, and snapped the book shut. "Oh, the gods hate me," he grumbled, voice dripping with self-pity. "Some people lose their knife, or their mug. No, not me." You froze, biting your lip to stifle a snort, watching him trudge on, still ranting to the trees—and you.

"—I only manage to lose an entire dragon," he spat, slapping a broken branch in his path. It whipped back, smacking him square in the face, and that broke you. A burst of laughter erupted, echoing around you both as you doubled over, hands on your knees, the sound of your laugh leaving you silent at its peak from sheer force. Hiccup whirled, cheeks flushed and waved a desperate hand to cover your mouth. "Shh! Shush, shush—quiet!" he pleaded, voice a frantic hiss.

Your smile faded as his urgency hit, and you ducked lower beside him, breath catching. The woods stilled—too still—and a rustle rippled through the underbrush. Hiccup's wide-eyed glance met yours, a shared pulse of adrenaline, and you crept forward together, his crumpled map forgotten in his fist. The trail dipped into a ravine, steep and shadowed, and he slowed, breath catching as he heaves—quickly ducking.

"There," he whispered, pointing with a trembling finger. You peered over the edge, and your stomach twisted. There it was—the Night Fury—bound in a snarl of ropes and bola weights, black scales glinting like wet stone against the earth. Its wings still, pinned, and its chest unmoving.

"Hiccup. . ." you breathed, voice barely a thread. "You actually did it," you murmured, awe tinged with worry, your gaze darting between them. He swallowed, face pale, and you saw it—the crack in his resolve, the flicker of something deeper.

He edged closer, pulling his knife from his belt. You lunged to grab his arm, roots jabbing your knees, but he slipped free, clambering over the ravine's lip before you could stop him. He ducked behind a boulder—the only shield between him and the beast—and you crouched, watching, worry gnawing at you. Your lip stung as you bit it hard, tasting iron, eyes locked on his lanky frame huddled in the dirt.

He peeked out, voice rising, loud and brash. "I—I did it! Ohh, this. . .this fixes everything! Yes!" He straightened, chest puffed, and you rose too, both of you bold with the certainty the dragon was dead—its stillness a grim trophy. "I have brought down this mighty beast!" he crowed, stepping forward to plant a foot on its side, triumphant.

Then the Night Fury twitched—a shudder of muscle under scales—and Hiccup froze, the blade shaking in his grip. You stumbled forward, the air thick with earth and the beast's ragged breaths, its green eyes snapping open to bore into his. Very much alive.

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

[liliacamethyst]

SNEAK PEAK - Webs of Redemption Part 4

Hey friends, I owe you all a huge apology for the delay, and an even bigger thank you for your patience and support for this fanfic. Life's been super chaotic lately, and I haven't had much time to do the thing I love most: dive into writing about a certain dominant, irresistibly strong, mouth watering hot, too stern for his own good, yet clearly traumatized hunk who could use some serious therapy to unpack his self-destructive hero complex. Anyway, here's a sneak peek of where the story's headed. Please take care of yourselves and thank you again for everything! 🩷

The piercing cries of your baby boy, Gabriel, are a haunting symphony of fear that reverberates through the labyrinthine corridors of the Spider Society headquarters. Your heart pounds in your chest like a drum, each beat echoing the terror that grips you. After your recent fight with Miguel, you felt weakened but your mind is a whirlwind of fear and worry. You sprint through the maze-like structure, your feet moving as if on autopilot.

Unbeknownst to you, Lyla, the holographic AI assistant you've always found slightly weird, had been assigned to watch over Gabriel. You never imagined she could pose a threat to your child. But as you approach Gabriel's room, a chilling sight stops you dead in your tracks. A laser barrier, courtesy of Lyla, blocks the entrance. Your solar powers, usually so reliable, are fizzling out, leaving you helpless before the impenetrable barrier. You keep trying to tap into your power, but no luck; that barrier's way too strong.

The room beyond the barrier is filled with an invisible, deadly gas - monoxide. You can't see it, but the signs are there. The malfunctioning heating unit, under Lyla's control, suggests sabotage. She must have manipulated the unit to produce the lethal gas. Gabriel's cries grow fainter, more desperate, and you're powerless to reach him.

Your pleas for help echo through the corridors, your voice raw with desperation. You call out for Miguel, your words a plea, a command, a prayer. Miles is there, his powers at the ready, but they're useless against the laser barrier. You watch as Miles strains, his powers flickering against the barrier, but it's no use. The barrier remains, as unyielding as ever.

Suddenly, the cries stop. The silence is deafening, a void that swallows your heart. "Gabriel!" you scream, your voice a raw wound. "Gabriel!" But there's no answer, only the oppressive silence. Your world grinds to a halt, every second stretching into an eternity. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare at the barrier that separates you from your son.

"Miguel!" you cry, your voice breaking. "Miguel, he's not crying! He's not... he's not..." The words die in your throat, too terrible to voice. You turn to Lyla, desperation etched on your face. "Lyla, please! Open the barrier! Miguel, tell her to open it! He's not crying, Miguel, he's not..."

Miguel's eyes turn blood red, a terrifying sight that sends a shiver down your spine. With a guttural growl, he lunges at the barrier. His claws rip through the laser code, tearing it apart. The barrier flickers, wavers, and finally shatters under his assault. Miguel pulls his suit over his mouth, rushes into the invisible cloud of monoxide, and moments later, emerges with Gabriel in his arms. His heart pounds in his chest as he pulls back his suit, revealing his son's face. "I got you, baby," he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. "You're okay, I got you. Nothing will ever happen to you. Please, open your eyes."

But Gabriel doesn't react. His little body is still, too still, and a cold dread seizes Miguel. He doesn't hesitate. With a urgency, he rushes over to the medical bay, pushing past the shocked faces of his friends. He gently lays Gabriel on the table, his hands shaking as he starts to perform CPR.

"Come on, Gabriel," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. "Come on, baby." He administers chest compressions, his hands moving in a steady rhythm. He gives two rescue breaths, praying for a sign, any sign, that Gabriel is okay.

The room is silent, everyone holding their breath as they watch Miguel work. The seconds stretch into an eternity, each one a lifetime of fear and hope. And then, finally, a small cough. Gabriel's eyes flutter open, his gaze unfocused but alive. A wave of relief washes over you and you fall to your knees thanking God that your boy is alright.  

Tears blur your vision as you rush over to Gabriel. Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest as you scoop him into your arms, holding him close. His small body is warm against yours "You're alright,  my baby," you whisper into his hair, your voice thick with emotion. "We're going home, you're alright." You rock him gently, his soft breaths against your neck soothing the ache in your heart.

But as you look up, your gaze finds Miguel. The relief of the moment does nothing to quell the anger boiling within you. His eyes meet yours, wide and filled with regret, but it does nothing to soften your glare. "This is YOUR fault!" you scream, your voice echoing through the room. The words hang heavy in the air, a damning sentence. "You did this! You brought this danger into his life!"

Tears stream down your face, hot and unchecked. Your words are choked with emotion, each one a raw wound. "You will NEVER see Gabriel again. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve to know his laughter, his tears, his NOTHING." The words are a bitter poison, spat out with all the venom you can muster. "You deserve to SUFFER, just as you've made me suffer and HIM."

[purple-goo-writes]

Punk Hazard

Now to put this into a story.

Part 2 Here

It was a normal day in Central City. The Flashes were fighting the latest team-up between Killer Frost and Captain Cold. So of course it was snowing in July now and traffic was stalled due to ìce attacks making the roads impassable. But the heroes had the villains on the ropes. Then a fresh wave of ice and cold came out of nowhere, covering everything and everyone in frost. Dropping the temperature further as the crunching of boots on ice drew everyone's attention. Dressed in distressed black leather pants with frosted chains, a black crop top with a deep v-neck lined with blue, and plenty of ice chains to rattle as he walked was a teen near Impulse's age with pale blue skin, elfin features, and long black hair streaked with white and blue. Blue lips pulled into a deadly smirk as the air started to thrum with vibrations and the beat of crackling ice, "Time to drop the beat down."

Unfortunately for the heroes, they were not familiar with this villain's move set or powers. And it seemed they had made a mistake in assuming that his powers were similar to the other two ice villains. Only to be thrown for a loop when they missed a beat and started to freeze. And the music was only getting faster and with it came faster ice attacks.

Later, Barry groaned as his team worked to get him, Wally, and Bart out of their ice prisons. The three of them were shivering and turning blue from how cold their core temps had dropped. Looked like they would be hitting the showers on max heat once thawed out.

"What in the world was that?" Wally groaned once he was finally freed, while Barry rubbed his hands together to get feeling back, "I don't know but we better get investigating to figure out how to fight this new guy."

"Yeah, I don't fancy being a Flash-cicle just because I can't keep the beat," Wally grumbled, "Dick is going to make me play sooo much Just Dance once he hears about our new villain."

"You noticed it too?" Bart shivered, taking his mind away from the fact that the new villain was around his age and rather interesting to look at. Something he hadn't noticed before on others. he shook his head, no he needed to focus, "We had to follow the beat of the music or we started to freeze up. It was pretty easy to do until he started to ramp up the difficulty. Also...He has to follow the beat as well."

Barry groaned softly as he wrapped the blanket handed to him around his shoulders, "Wally is right, we are going to have to start ramping up our Just Dance scores...Hal is going to laugh himself sick."

All three groaned realizing their respective teams were going to be insufferable.

---

"You are pretty badass, kid," Killer Frost smirked once they got away from the heroes, "What even are your powers?" "A cross between music manipulation and Ice control," He shrugged, "I've been calling it Cryo Symphony." "Got a name?" Captain Cold grunted looking over the little punk, though little probably only applied to age given the kid was nearly his height and in that awkward stage between Twink and Tank.

"I was thinking Punk Frost-" "Yeah no, I got Frost already covered and I'm not looking for a side kick," Killer Frost hissed at him, making the kid raise his hands in surrender, "Okay, how about Punk Hazard? After all, I am a punk and my powers are hazardous to other's health if they can't keep the beat." "Sounds good kid, now you got a place to stay?" Snart asked, tone gruff but concerned. He never liked seeing kids turn to the villain life, didn't really like kiddie heroes but at least they had more support then kiddie villains did.

"Ummm not really?" Danny shrugged, "Probably the bridge I've been sleeping under."

Even Frost looked concerned at that, causing Snart to sigh, "Yeah no, I got a safe house you can crash at. Come on, you look like you haven't eaten in days." Danny blinked in confusion, "Huh?" Making Frost snicker, "Sorry, kid looks like you've been adopted."

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

15 Beautiful Lover-to-Enemies Dialogue Prompts | Betrayal Prompts

"Do you remember the vows we made under the moon's gentle glow? How quickly they turned to ash, scattered by the winds of deceit."

"Your words were once my solace, but now they cut deeper than any blade forged in malice."

"In the labyrinth of our love, I found myself lost, only to realize you were the minotaur lurking in the shadows."

"Every kiss we shared was a dagger coated in honey, sweet yet deadly."

"The stars witnessed our passion, but they now mock our folly as we stand on opposite sides of a war we ourselves ignited."

"Our hearts beat as one, once upon a time. Now they drum the rhythm of discord and resentment."

"I thought I knew the depths of your soul, only to find abysses of betrayal waiting to devour me whole."

"Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I emerge from the ruins of our love, reborn as your adversary."

"You were the melody to my symphony, but now your discordant notes shatter the harmony we once shared."

"We danced on the edge of oblivion, oblivious to the precipice that awaited our descent into enmity."

"The echoes of our laughter haunt me, mocking the innocence we thought would shield us from the venom of betrayal."

"Our love was a tapestry woven with threads of gold, now unraveling into a tangled web of lies and deception."

"I offered you my heart on a silver platter, only for you to feast upon it with the appetite of a ravenous beast."

"We were poets of passion, crafting verses of devotion with every whispered promise. Now our words are weapons, dripping with venomous intent."

"The sunrise that once painted our love with hues of warmth and hope now heralds the dawn of our animosity, casting long shadows of regret across the battlefield of our hearts."

Short Note From Me!

Many fans of Enemies to Lovers often overlook the possibility of exploring Lover to Enemies. This underrated trope is one of my favorites and I believe it has the potential to make a novel truly stand out. If you have space in your story for this unique twist, I assure you it will result in an amazing read.

I created these dialogue prompts to inspire writers to explore the theme of lovers turning into enemies, showcasing a different form of betrayal.

Happy writing - Rin T.

[chishiyasdearjacket]

Dangerous

Summary: Chishiya, a master strategist and a player in the deadly games of Borderland, is used to facing fear and cunning in his opponents. He thrives on the challenge, the thrill of the unknown. But he's never encountered someone like her. She's not afraid of death, not in the least. She doesn't fear it, she plays with it, dances with it, as if it were a familiar friend. This reckless abandon, this defiance of the ultimate fear, captivates him. He's intrigued by her, drawn to her, but also wary. She's a force of nature, unpredictable and dangerous, and he's not sure how to handle her. Their encounter sparks a tension, a challenge, a game of wits and survival. He's used to controlling the game, but she's a wildcard, a player who doesn't follow the rules. This is a story about the clash of personalities, the allure of the unknown, and the unexpected attraction that blooms in the face of death.

Request?: ✅

The wind whipped at her hair, carrying the salty scent of the ocean and the weight of unspoken fears. She stood at the edge of the vast, empty beach, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sun dipped below the waves, painting the sky with streaks of fiery orange and crimson. It was beautiful, yet it felt oddly hollow, like a painted smile on a mask.

A strange feeling gnawed at her. Not fear, not exactly. But a sense of unease, of unease that she wasn't quite sure how to name. She had been thrown into this game, into this bizarre world where the rules were cruel and the stakes were life or death. She had defied death so many times, played with its edges, that she had begun to think of it as a mere spectator in her life, a silent observer of her wild dances with danger.

But here, on this beach, the air thick with the scent of salt and dread, something felt different. The weight of the game, the knowledge that every decision, every move, could be her last, pressed down on her.

Then, she saw him. Chishiya. Standing on the rooftop, a lone figure silhouetted against the vibrant sunset. She always noticed him. How could she not? He was... well, clever, after all. He thought highly of himself, and it didn't annoy her, it... it amazed her. She suddenly came to think about their differences. He played with death using manipulation, while her, she was like the Jester. She mocks her way to death. She was never afraid of death, instead she flirted her way with it. And that's what made it fun.

She smiled, a knowing smirk playing at her lips. He was a challenge, a fascinating puzzle. She was curious about him, about his mind, his strategies, his motivations. She wondered how he would react to her, to her unorthodox way of playing the game.

She knew, deep down, that their paths would cross, that their games would intertwine, that they would be forced to confront each other in this brutal, unpredictable world. And she was ready. She was ready for the challenge, for the game, for the dance with death.

She was ready for Chishiya.

The elevator hummed with a strange symphony of anticipation, each rise in altitude bringing her closer to the unknown. She pressed her back against the cool metal, her gaze fixed on the numbers flickering above, counting down the floors. She wasn't afraid, not really. Not the way most players were. This game, this deadly dance with fate, felt less like a threat and more like a challenge, a test of her mettle, a chance to prove herself.

She was a different breed of player, one who saw death not as an enemy to be feared, but as a constant companion, a familiar shadow that danced alongside her, a reminder of the preciousness of each fleeting moment. She relished the thrill of the game, the adrenaline rush of knowing that every choice could be her last, every step could lead her to the precipice of oblivion.

The elevator shuddered to a halt, the doors opening onto the seventh floor. She stepped out, taking in the panorama before her, the cityscape sprawling out like a canvas of concrete and steel, the sky a vast expanse of twilight blues and purples.

She made her way to the corner of the observation deck, the wind whipping at her hair, the city lights twinkling like a million stars below. She felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins, the exhilaration of standing on the edge of the unknown.

“It’s a curious thing, isn’t it?” A voice, low and sardonic, broke through her musings. She turned to see Chishiya, the blonde, standing a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

“Ahh, of course he's here too," she said, her voice a whisper, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes.

She found it oddly comforting, almost reassuring, that he was here, on this precipice, sharing the stage with her. They were two sides of the same coin, two predators in a game of life and death, drawn to each other by a strange, magnetic force.

She raised her eyebrows, a hint of playful challenge in her gaze. "What is?" she asked, her voice a melodic whisper that seemed to carry on the wind.

Chishiya tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. His gaze was fixed on the sprawling cityscape below, the lights twinkling like scattered diamonds against the velvet expanse of the night. He seemed to be lost in contemplation, his thoughts a labyrinth of strategy and calculation.

"Death," he said, his voice a low murmur, his words carried on the wind. "It hangs over us all, a constant companion, a shadow that follows us to the very end. Yet, we cling to life, we fight for it, even when it's clear that we are just pawns in a game, mere toys in the hands of fate."

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city below. His gaze shifted to her, his eyes a study in icy calculation. He knew her, he saw through her, he understood the dance she was playing with death.

"You seem to have a different perspective," he continued, his voice laced with a hint of curiosity. "Perhaps, you've made peace with it, accepted it, even embraced it."

His words were a challenge, an invitation to a game of intellect and perception. She, with her reckless disregard for death, and he, with his calculated mastery of the game, were two sides of the same coin, both defying the odds, both embracing the precipice.

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that seemed to echo through the empty space. “It’s a game, isn’t it? But aren’t all our lives just games? We play our roles, we follow the script, we pretend to be in control, but in the end, we’re all just actors in a play written by someone else.”

“But some of us,” Chishiya countered, his gaze turning to her, his eyes piercing, “have the luxury of choosing our roles, of crafting our own scripts.”

“And you?” She asked, her voice laced with curiosity. “What’s your role, Chishiya? The manipulator? The puppet master? The one who plays the game with cold, calculating precision?”

He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “I play to win,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “And I always win. Even when the game is against all odds, even when the stakes are life and death. I have learned to embrace the rules, to bend them to my will. Death is just another player, another piece on the board.”

“And what about the pieces that aren’t so easily manipulated?” She challenged, her voice a whisper of defiance. “What about the ones that fight back?”

“The ones that fight back,” Chishiya said, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, “are the most interesting. They are the ones who make the game truly worth playing.”

She felt a strange thrill course through her, a mixture of excitement and apprehension. This was a game they were playing, and it was a dangerous dance, but she was ready. She was ready to play with fire. She was ready to face him, to challenge him, to see what this game could truly become.

And in that moment, she realized that, for the first time in a long time, she wasn't just playing for her own survival. She was playing for something more, something she couldn't quite name, but something that burned in her heart like a wild, unyielding flame.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, a fleeting beauty that mirrored the fragility of their existence. She watched the sunset, her heart a drumbeat of anticipation. Chishiya was right. This game, this desperate fight for survival, was more than just a game. It was a test, a crucible where they would be forged, broken, or reborn.

"I don't play by anyone's rules," she said, her voice cutting through the silence, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "I make my own."

Chishiya's lips curled into a smirk. "And what rules do you play by?" He asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo in the vast emptiness of the beach.

"My own," she repeated, her voice firm, unwavering. "I'm not afraid of death. I'm not afraid to lose. I play to win, but even if I lose, it doesn't matter. I exist beyond the rules, beyond the fear, beyond the limitations others impose."

Chishiya tilted his head, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to penetrate the layers of her being. "You're an interesting one," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Intriguing, even. But dangerous. Do you know how dangerous you are?"

She laughed, a sound that carried the wind, the salt, the scent of the ocean, the echo of the unspoken rules that bound them. "Do you?" she asked, her voice a whisper against the dying light.

He didn't answer. His gaze held hers, a silent battle of wills unfolding between them, the unspoken question hanging in the air: who would win?

She wasn't sure if she wanted to win. Not really. She just wanted to play, to challenge him, to see if his game, his cold, calculated strategy, could truly withstand the unpredictable chaos she brought with her.

As he continued to stare at her, his eyes a study in enigmatic silence, she glanced down at her phone. The clock was ticking, counting down the minutes to the game's end. Eight minutes.

A wry smile played at her lips. He was a fascinating puzzle, a formidable opponent, but time was running out. She wasn't one for waiting around for an answer, especially when the game was about to begin.

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she turned and walked away, her steps light and confident, her gaze fixed on the safe zone. She didn't need to say anything. Her actions spoke volumes.

"See you around, Chishiya," she said, her voice barely a whisper, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. She paused, throwing him a playful wave, her smile a challenge, an invitation to join her in the game, to face her in the heart of the chaos.

And then, without waiting for his response, she disappeared into the safe zone, a fleeting shadow in the twilight, leaving him alone on the precipice, the city lights twinkling below, a reminder of the game they were both playing, the dance they were both destined to perform.

She had a game to play, a dance to perform, and she was ready. Ready to break the rules, to defy the odds, and to see if she could truly outmaneuver the one who claimed to be a master of the game.

She walked away, the city lights twinkling below, a thousand tiny stars in the vast expanse of the night. Her steps were light, confident, yet she could feel the weight of his gaze on her back, a lingering intensity that seemed to burn a path through the air.

It was like a predator's stare, a silent challenge, a promise of a game that wasn't over. She could almost feel his eyes tracing her movements, a phantom touch that sent shivers down her spine.

For a moment, she considered turning around, facing him, meeting his gaze, acknowledging the unspoken tension that hung between them. But something held her back. It wasn't fear, not really. It was a strange mixture of intrigue and defiance, a sense of anticipation, of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She came to a halt, not turning around, her back still to him. The wind whipped at her hair, carrying the scent of salt and the promise of danger. She closed her eyes, letting the cold night air wash over her, her senses heightened, her body alert.

She knew he was still there, watching, waiting, his mind a labyrinth of strategy, his gaze a silent threat. She could almost feel his presence, a phantom touch that lingered in the air, a reminder that the game had just begun.

He stood there, his gaze fixed on her, a quiet amusement playing at the corners of his lips. She was fascinating, this woman, this wild card who had entered his game, a player with a disregard for the rules and a seemingly unshakeable confidence in her own power. He had seen her at the beach, a solitary figure against the endless expanse of sand, a woman who seemed to defy the very notion of fear.

She was more than intriguing, more than dangerous, she was... a challenge. He had encountered many players in his time, some more cunning than others, some more ruthless, some more determined. But this woman, she was different. She was a storm, a tempest, a force of nature that could not be easily controlled. She was a wild card, an unpredictable factor in a game where he was accustomed to being in control.

He could ignore her, yes. He could choose to focus on the other players, the ones who followed the rules, the ones who fit neatly into his calculated strategies. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. She was a puzzle, a riddle, a challenge he had to unravel.

He had never been one to shy away from a good challenge, and this woman, this unpredictable force of nature, was a challenge he was willing to accept. He would watch her, study her, anticipate her next move. He would play her game, her dangerous, unpredictable, exhilarating game.

They stood there, two figures silhouetted against the dying light, the wind whipping around them, their breaths mingling in the chill air. Their paths had crossed, their destinies intertwined, and the game had just begun.

And for the first time, she felt a sense of excitement, not fear, but a sense of anticipation, of possibility. She was ready. Ready to play, to lose, to win, to defy, to embrace the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of this strange and beautiful world. She was ready to dance with death, to walk hand in hand with chaos, and she was ready to do it all with Chishiya, the manipulator, the player, the only one who seemed to understand the language of the game, the one who, she suspected, would be her only true opponent.

The first game, a test of their wits and survival instincts, unfolded like a chess match played on a battlefield. Each move, each strategy, held the weight of life and death. She watched him, Chishiya, as he moved through the game, his mind a maze of intricate calculations, his gaze as sharp as a predator's. He was a master strategist, his every move calculated, his every decision precise.

She, on the other hand, played a different game. Her strategy was a whirlwind of chaos, a symphony of intuition and calculated risk. She moved with a reckless abandon, defying expectations, bending the rules, pushing the limits of what was possible. She was the storm, a force of nature that couldn't be contained, a wild card in a game where the odds were stacked against her.

His game was a game of control. Hers was a game of freedom.

And yet, in the midst of the chaos, their paths kept intersecting. He would see her, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding of the game, the rules, the stakes.

There were moments when their eyes would meet across the chaotic landscape, a silent conversation passing between them, a battle of wills fought with unspoken words. They were playing a game, a dangerous dance, and each move was a gamble, a step closer to the unknown.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the beach, she found him sitting alone on a weathered rock. He looked like a lone wolf, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the ocean, his expression unreadable.

She sat down beside him, her presence a silent question mark in the stillness. He didn't acknowledge her presence, didn't turn to look at her. He just kept staring out at the ocean, his mind lost in a world she couldn't penetrate.

“What are you thinking?” She asked, her voice soft, her words breaking the silence.

He didn't answer right away. He just continued to stare out at the horizon, his brow furrowed, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and somber.

"I'm thinking about the rules," he said. "The rules of this game, the rules of the world, the rules that bind us. We play by them, we try to follow them, but in the end, they are always there, lurking in the shadows, dictating our choices, controlling our destinies. They are the invisible hand that shapes our every move, our every action, our every breath."

She understood. She knew the feeling, the sense of being trapped, of being a puppet in a game where the strings were held by unseen forces. It was a feeling she had known for a long time, a feeling that had driven her to push boundaries, to challenge the status quo, to live life on her own terms.

“But sometimes,” she said, her voice a whisper, her gaze fixed on the horizon, “the rules are meant to be broken."

Chishiya turned to her then, his eyes meeting hers, a flicker of curiosity, of intrigue, passing between them. "You think so?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

She smiled, a knowing smile that hinted at the dangers that lurked beneath the surface. "Oh, I know so," she said, her voice a whisper of defiance, her gaze locked on his. "Because when we break the rules, we find freedom. We find ourselves."

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. His eyes, usually a cool, calculating blue, seemed to flicker with a new kind of light. A challenge, a spark of intrigue, a flicker of recognition.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice low and measured, "but freedom is a dangerous illusion. It's a mirage that leads us astray, tempting us with the promise of liberation while ultimately trapping us in its own web of chaos."

He paused, his gaze unwavering, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. "And who are we," he continued, his voice a murmur against the wind, "to decide what freedom truly means?"

His gaze drifted to the sprawling city below, its lights a glittering tapestry of hope and despair. "The rules," he said, his voice a whisper, "they are there to protect us, to guide us, to keep us from the abyss. To break them is to court chaos, to invite destruction, to dance with the devil."

His gaze returned to her, a silent question hanging in the air.

She laughed, a sound that carried the wind, the salt, the scent of the ocean, the echo of the unspoken rules that bound them. "But isn't that the point?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. "Isn't that what makes it fun?"

The air crackled between them, a potent mix of anticipation and danger. He knew she was right. She was a wild card, a force of chaos, a player who defied expectations and embraced the unknown.

He tilted his head again, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Perhaps," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Perhaps it is."

He turned, his gaze fixed on the city lights, a thousand tiny stars scattered across the vast expanse of the night. His mind was a labyrinth of calculations, his heart a storm of emotions. He was a master of manipulation, a puppet master who controlled the strings of fate. But she, she was different. She was a force of nature, a wild, untamed spirit that defied control.

He knew, deep down, that he couldn't ignore her, couldn't deny the magnetic force that drew them together. He would watch her, study her, anticipate her next move. He would play her game, her dangerous, unpredictable, exhilarating game.

He knew it would be a battle of wills, a clash of ideologies, a dance with death. But he was ready. He was ready to play.

And so, with a final, enigmatic glance back at her, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone on the edge of the precipice, the city lights a thousand tiny stars twinkling below, a silent reminder of the game that had just begun.

__________________________________________

I hope I've met your expectations, I'm sorry if it's not as good as you thought it would be. Thank you for trusting me with your idea, i really appreciate it. @httpsf0cuss

[wordpress-blaze-226387755]

Peace Heroes

A card game featuring some of history's greatest peacemakers

Peace Heroes is a fast-paced, fun, and educational card game of 67 cards where the object is to rescue as many Peace Heroes as possible.

We are excited to announce that our first “peace game” - Peace Heroes - is complete! The design was submitted to the manufacturer and we received the first printed deck March 11. Everything looks great so the game is now available for purchase!

Purchase PeaceHeroes at https://www.thegamecrafter.com/games/peace-heroes

One special feature is the amazing original artwork of 17 historical peace heroes by Leo Hartshorn! The first 10 purchasers of Peace Heroes will receive a special card insert autographed by Leo Hartshorn! Send us proof of purchase and your address, and we will send you your autographed card. More art by Leo can be found here.

Source: Peace Heroes

[himegureisu]

The Yule Ball [PTII]

Summary: The Yule Ball is about to commence and you arrive in the nick of time.

<< PREV

——————————— 🪄———————————

On Christmas Eve, in the sparkling silver frost of the Great Hall, students’ conversations come to a hush at the sight of their Potions Professor.

His usually greasy hair was clean and silky smooth. On the other hand, an open black double-breasted tailcoat, black vest, black high-collared dress shirt, black pants, and shiny black shoes replaced his daily robes.

It was different. Conservative but also very appealing.

Especially for the female students. Their grumpy Professor so pleasing in the ladies’ eyes has the boys reminding them why they didn’t like him in the first place. Their giggles and murmurs didn’t stop though, and one thought it would be the best if the scowl on his face disappeared, but alas, they could not make miracles happen.

“Would you look at that?”

“Is that truly Professor Snape?”

“Bloody hell,” Ron mutters under his breath, “Even the old dungeon bat looks better than I do,”

In a procession, the champions walk through the oak doors accompanied by their chosen partners, disrupting the comments,, and enter the Great Hall. Their thunderous claps and ever-so-curious gazes shift at the sight of Hermione Granger on Victor Krum’s arm allowing a moment of vulnerability for you.

In their distraction, from a tunnel behind the pine trees, you emerge behind the Headmaster, Severus none the wiser at your arrival, as he speaks.

“I will keep this short because you all might be sick of hearing from me,” the headmaster quips, and the Hogwarts students laugh, “This evening, I hope that every one of us creates meaningful connections and enjoys the feast. However, before we start, I would also like to welcome a special guest.”

Their students were truly the worst gossips as whispers started once again speculating who the special guest could be, making the stories known to their Durmstrang and Beauxbatons friends.

“I’m glad that you’re here and I am very much eager to indulge in your future antics,” Dumbledore smiles, saying nothing further, and turns, “If you’d please, Filius,”

Their students are curious and confused, a rather deadly combination, at the lack of information from their wily Professor as the orchestra starts the song. The sound of string instruments soon echoes throughout the space as the waltz begins.

On the floor, champions lead their partners through the beginnings of the waltz. Their audience is divided between finding the mystery guest and watching their friends glide seamlessly across the room.

In minutes, the headmaster nudges their Transfiguration Professor, who happily accepts the offer and joins the throng of dancing students, on the floor. His absence allows you to stand beside your husband whose gaze remains afront.

“Don’t you look dashing?” you say, breaking the silence among the staff, “I hope you saved me a dance?”

His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice. His eyes quickly take a once over of you. In your sage green dress that highlighted the very best of your features. Your hair in a braided half updo and holly pin presented simple but elegant.

“They’re only for you,” he answers, raising his hand for you to take, “Shall we?”

“On your lead,”

Onto the fray together, the students not so quietly observe. His hands, on your waist and outstretched hand, lead you to the floor. However, closer than appropriate for students, he whispers in your ear.

“You’re determined to do this?”

“I’d like for them to see what I see in you,” you cup his cheek, your gaze on his as the scowl slowly melts away, “Even just for a bit,”

He sighed in defeat.

Your gazes lock on each other, his steps slow but confident guide you through the symphony. In his embrace, the world blends to the background. To the awe of the crowd, a soft smile settles on his lips, his grip, however, tightened and your merry bubble pops at the sight of his restrained ire at the students who admired you from afar.

“You are the only one I desire,” you breathed, cheeks flushed and eyes only on him, as the veins on the side of his head vanished, “No one else can ever compare,”

His eyes softened at your words, breaking through his facade for the night. By the end of the dance, he places a protective hand on your back and gently leads you through. His form towers over you, briefly leaning on your ear to whisper.

“Being with you feels like a dream,” his voice barely audible as you weave through the people, “That I don’t want to end,”

“It will not end,” you declare, as you finally see his colleagues, and some others you don’t know, “We’ll see through it,”

The Headmaster smiles, at the sight of your hands entwined together, as you approach the faculty and guests. Minerva steps up much faster than the rest and says.

“I’m glad you could make it, dear,” she also smiles, as Severus stands behind you, “You two were lovely out there,”

“Were we?” you coyly ask, glancing at Severus, who resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “I didn’t notice. I’m glad I didn’t trip,”

“I would’ve caught you if you did,” Severus declared, as the others approached, and from there Madam Maxime interjected, “Severus! Who is the lovely lady?”

“Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, this is my wife, Madame Snape,” he introduces you, as you shake friendly hands, “At the moment, she works for the Ministry of Magic,”

“Oh!” the tall lady exclaimed, as Minerva cut the conversation, “I hate to break up this introduction, however, we must be seated for dinner,”

“Of course, Minerva, lead the way,”

In a flash, she transformed into her role as Deputy Headmistress, and seats you beside Severus and her, but also near the Headmaster and the new staff that hasn’t met you. Your friendly smile was a stark difference from the unimpressed line that formed on your husband’s lips.

“Will you be staying the night?” Minerva asks, as you observe Albus who spoke of what he wanted for dinner and it appeared, and answered, “Yes, the headmaster was kind to allow me to stay in the castle for Christmas break,”

“Did he?” Severus said as he looked at you, “Headmaster?”

“Merry Christmas, Severus,” Dumbledore grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously at the light, as Severus exhaled, “Thank you, headmaster,”

“Do enjoy the feast,” Albus said, “There is more to come,”

On his words, you and Severus briefly give each other a look before shrugging it off, oblivious to the utter madness that would transpire once you left the Great Hall for much more amorous and festive pursuits.

There would be time to get to know the students during the break. However, a part of you admits that you were partial to your husband's little snakes.

But they didn't know that.

[sapphicromanoffxo]

Rhiannon ˑ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ who will be her lover

｡°✩ pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

｡°✩ wc: 4.2k

｡°✩ warnings: fluff, smut, enchanted strap on, humping, possessive and aggressive sex, a teeny bit of angst

｡°✩ summary: Natasha's spontaneous research on witches aimed to enlighten Wanda about her lineage, prompting Wanda, in turn, to delve into her own discoveries.

A/N: This fic is born out of whim and I love it. A very special thanks to the co-author of this story, @mikaila-m. Your writing prowess is beyond amazing. ILY 🫶💜

╰┈➤ Masterlist

Natasha stood on the other end of the training room, observing the intense engagement between two figures, Steve and Wanda, locked in a mesmerising display of hand-to-hand combat. Their movements were a flawless blend of offense and defense, a choreographed symphony of skill and synchronization.

Wanda's improvement in her training was noticeable as she seamlessly incorporated her magic with her combat, creating a deadly combination that would be an advantage on the battlefield. Natasha marveled at how effortlessly Wanda manipulated the mystical energies around her, weaving them into her strikes with precision and finesse.

The air crackled with the remnants of Wanda's magic, wisps of energy trailing behind her every movement before dissipating into the open space. With each strike, a renewed surge of power emanated from her slender hands, a testament to her growing mastery over her abilities. She moved with a confidence and grace that spoke of countless hours spent honing her ability.

As Steve countered Wanda's attacks with practised ease, a look of admiration crossed his features. "Impressive, Maximoff," he remarked between exchanges, his voice carrying a hint of genuine respect. "Your control over your magic has grown since then. You seem to be in control and confident of your magic. Well done to you!"

A gentle smile graced Wanda's lips as she soaked in Steve's words of praise for her physical progress. "Thanks, Steve," she murmured shyly, her gratitude evident in her tone. "I wouldn't have done it without Natasha."

It was undeniable. From the moment Wanda arrived at the compound, Natasha took her under her wing, guiding her not only in combat training but also in navigating through her grief. Natasha's empathetic nature and gentle encouragement helped Wanda with her raging emotions and find solace within Natasha's presence.

Natasha's support extended beyond the training room, she was a constant source of reassurance, nudging Wanda towards embracing her new life, and her potential to become an Avenger.

With Natasha's steady guidance, Wanda found the strength to confront her fears and insecurities, eventually blossoming into a confident and capable member of the Avengers family.

As their relationship deepened, Natasha and Wanda's mentor and mentee dynamic blossomed into something more. Over the following months, they discovered themselves enveloped in a cozy cocoon of warmth and affection, occupying their thoughts and dreams alike.

Lost in thoughts, Natasha found herself in deep contemplation until Wanda's approach broke her reverie. Wanda, with a sheen of sweat on her forehead, her heart still racing from the intense training session, and her muscles aching from exertion, stood before her.

"Hey there," Natasha greeted, her fingers reaching out to gently brush away stray hairs from Wanda's face, tucking them behind her ears. "You've truly outdone yourself today. I'm proud of you."

Blushing at Natasha's compliment, Wanda couldn't help but feel a surge of warmth spread through her cheeks. She ducked her face, trying to conceal her reddening cheeks, and bit her lip to contain the smile threatening to bloom across her lips. "You saw all that, huh."

"Of course," Natasha affirmed, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I enjoy watching you train." With a gentle tug, she pulled Wanda closer and urged her to walk towards their shared room. "Your fighting style is impressive. I can't help but wonder where you learned it from."

"Oh. I learned all this from a super spy. You must know her." She gave a playful smile to Natasha. "She's this tall, redhead, with thick lips, and this cute nose that I like very much."

"Is that right? She must be pretty good then." Natasha played along since she will never tire of having playful conversations with her girlfriend.

Once they reached their room, while Wanda started shedding her work out clothes, Natasha seized the opportunity to share what she's been up to all morning while Wanda was training.

"I've done some research about your lineage." Natasha said as she slumped herself on their spacious king size bed.

"My lineage?" Wanda inquired, puzzled.

"Yes, your people. Witches," Natasha clarified while wiggling her fingers.

"And what have you discovered, pray tell?"

Wanda asked with genuine curiosity, unsure if Natasha was serious or just joking around.

"I've learned that many women accused of witchcraft were burned at the stake, which is barbaric," Natasha began. "What criteria did they use to determine if someone was truly a witch?"

"That's terrible," Wanda responded sympathetically. "Imagine, someone hated the way you behave then decided to gossip about you being a witch."

"I know, right? And some witches supposedly make potions out of herbs," Natasha said, giving Wanda a stinky eye. "You haven't concocted a love potion on me, have you? Made me fall for you?"

Wanda couldn't help but laugh at Natasha's absurdity and was surprised that the formidable assassin would say such a thing, but decided to play along. "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. Who's to say?"

Natasha simply hummed before delving further into her findings. "I've also discovered that some witches used a cauldron to cast spells and recited incantations from a book with weird languages to curse someone," she explained earnestly, her passion evident in her words. "Honestly, I wouldn't want to provoke or cross a witch from centuries ago. Who knows, they might turn me into a frog or ugly duckling."

"Natasha!" she chuckled at her girlfriend. "I'm not sure what to tell you," she paused to stifle her laughter. "I'm not that kind of witch. I don't cast spells, or read incantations, nobody ever taught me that kind of witchcraft."

A sudden thought struck Natasha. "Perhaps we should seek out a coven for you. You could learn from them and discover yourself in the world of witches."

Wanda shook her head at Natasha's enthusiasm for the witchcraft idea, finding it both amusing and endearing. "I'm going to hop in the shower," she said, "then you can tell me more about your discoveries, alright?"

As Wanda scrubbed the dried sweat from her body, her mind wandered back to Natasha's words about witches. She pondered whether there were others like her, freely roaming and living mundane lives without the constant fear of being burned alive. Should she seek them out, learn from them, and discover the potential and extent of her magical abilities? Yet, her powers derived from the mind stone, raising questions about her identity beyond just being a mystical being.

These thoughts swirled around her mind, leaving her feeling frustrated and alone. She had nobody to turn to for answers, no one in her circle who understood the intricacies of magic like she did. With a deep sigh, she finished showering so she could hang out with her girlfriend and learn more about her discoveries from the internet, even if they are only myths. It is still nice to know some things to help her learn about her kind.

As she emerged from the bathroom, a gentle melody enveloped her, coaxing a smile onto her lips. The strains emanated from a wireless speaker, while Natasha, with her eyes closed, bobbing her head lightly to the rhythm.

Intrigued by the unfamiliar tune, Wanda inquired, "What music is that? I don't recognize it." She couldn't deny the infectiousness of the beat.

"You haven't heard this before? It's 'Rhiannon' by Fleetwood Mac," Natasha replied, her voice tinged with amusement. "You should give them a listen. Stevie Nicks, the lead singer, is often associated with mystical imagery and is dubbed a 'witch' by many."

Wanda took note of the band and will make sure to listen to their songs. Maybe she should also do her own research about her history, just like what Natasha did, as it might give her some insights with her abilities as well.

Both women settled in for their afternoon cuddle, Natasha teasingly remarked, "You're not planning to join those witches who dance naked under the full moon, are you?" She playfully motioned for Wanda to join her in bed. "Although it's a bit eerie, I must admit, I wouldn't mind witnessing you perform under the moonlight."

Wanda giggled at Natasha's remark. "Oh, Nat, you're so silly ," she replied affectionately. "But don't worry, my love, you're the only one who gets to see me naked. No moonlit parades for me."

Natasha grinned mischievously in response. "Good to know, princess," she said, pulling Wanda closer.

****

For the past week, Wanda has been fully engrossed in delving into every detail about her other witches and their capabilities. Since she's not very knowledgeable about technology, she sought help from FRIDAY for her research. However, during this time, she's been experiencing strange occurrences. She keeps hearing voices in her head, echoing in her mind, unsure if they're just her own thoughts or something more.

Sometimes, she even feels a faint whisper calling her name. Interestingly, these voices seem to intensify whenever she's near Vision, leaving her puzzled and unable to comprehend their meaning. Maybe the mind stone was trying to send her a valuable message or a foreboding warning.

However, the witch made a conscious decision not to dwell too deeply on these strange voices and instead carried on with her usual daily activities. Yet, despite her efforts to push them aside, it appeared that the more she tried to ignore them, the more persistently they haunted her. It was as if they were incessantly urging her to acknowledge them, to allow them entry into her conscious mind, and perhaps even to seize control of her thoughts. Each day, their presence seemed to grow stronger, their whispers becoming more insistent, leaving her increasingly unsettled and uncertain about how to confront this mysterious intrusion into her psyche.

It was during one particular night, where the lunar orb shines at its fullness, Wanda finds herself submerged in the depths of her dreams. It's not the typical terror-inducing nightmare, with frantic grasps at bed linens or anguished cries echoing into the void. Rather than the frantic thrashings and wails of a nightmare, she drifts through a surreal landscape where her own magic holds sway. Crimson tendrils of mystical energy swirl around her, painting the air with an otherworldly hue. Yet amidst this ethereal display, there's an unsettling intensity to the voices that resonate within her mind, louder, clearer, and more insistent than ever before.

Take her.

Mark her.

Claim her.

Make her mine.

Wanda surveyed the seemingly boundless space before her, she couldn't shake the oppressive darkness that hangs in the air. Her gaze fell upon a peculiar sight, a circle of candles meticulously arranged on the floor, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows. At the center of this arrangement lay a star, its lines seemingly etched into the ground with an unsettling crimson hue that resembled dried blood.

Intrigued yet apprehensive, Wanda couldn't ignore the magnetic pull drawing her towards the pentagon nestled within the star's core. A faint, almost imperceptible shadow hovered above it, its presence both mesmerizing and foreboding. Driven by an inexplicable instinct, Wanda found herself stepping closer, her heart pounding in her chest with each deliberate movement.

As she knelt within the circle, a sense of unease washed over her, intensifying with each passing moment. Suddenly, as if propelled by unseen forces, her clothing was violently ripped from her body, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. Panic surged through her veins, her mind reeling with fear and confusion.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere jolted Natasha from her slumber. Startled, she instinctively reached out for the familiar figure beside her, only to find the space empty. Confusion knit her brow as she scanned the room bathed in an eerie yellow-to-red aura. Sitting up, she surveyed her surroundings, her gaze drawn to a haunting sight: Wanda, huddled on the floor, naked and trembling.

"Wanda!" Natasha's voice rang out, thick with fear and urgency, as she rushed to her side. "What's happening? Are you alright?" She knelt on the floor while searching for any injuries on Wanda's body

Wanda remained unresponsive, her long hair cascading over her chest as she sat in a trance-like state. Her eyes, aglow with a crimson hue and filled with tears, met Natasha's with an unsettling intensity.

"Natasha," Wanda's voice, though still recognizable, carried a different tone, thick with emotion and tinged with an accent more pronounced than usual. "I... I don't know what's happening to me."

The redhead's eyes widened as she took in the surreal scene before them – both she and Wanda ensnared within a large ring of flickering candles, their warm glow casting eerie shadows against the walls. At the heart of the circle, a pentagram etched into the floor seemed to pulse with a mystic energy that sent shivers down Natasha's spine.

Suppressing a surge of alarm, Natasha approached Wanda cautiously, her voice a gentle murmur.

"Sweetheart," she whispered, her tone tender yet laced with apprehension, not wishing to startle Wanda further. "Did you... do this?"

"Yes," Wanda's voice changed and gone was the initial shock in them. "I need you, Natasha."

There was a primal hunger in Wanda's eyes as she lunged at Natasha, her hands, chilled by the cold, cupped Natasha's face, and embraced her with a fervent and intense kiss. It was as though they both sensed the urgency of the moment, wanting to etch this memory into eternity, as if it could be their final time together.

Instinctively, Natasha responded to the kiss with a magnitude that matched Wanda's, her arms enveloping Wanda's waist with a fervent need, their bodies drawn and intertwined perfectly together. Every touch ignited a raging desire between them, elevating their connection to an electrifying sensation. Natasha held onto Wanda tightly, savoring the moment, unwilling to let it slip away.

A deep whimper escaped Wanda's throat from the passionate kiss, breaking away for a second to catch her breath. She can feel her skin heating up, slowly burning her senses but she wanted more. "Natalia," she uttered like a prayer and gently pushed the other woman and urged her to lay down on the floor.

With the use of her magic, Wanda removed Natasha's clothing without warning, wanting to have more skin to skin contact. Once Wanda positioned herself on top, Natasha shivered when she felt how wet Wanda was the moment her core made contact with her crotch. "Fuck, Wands. You're so wet already."

"I want you so bad, Natalia," Wanda breathed heavily as she continued kissing Natasha roughly. Her hands freely roaming on the redhead's exposed skin, groping her breasts, while simultaneously leaving a trail of hickeys on Natasha's chest. "I own you." Her mouth descended on each perky nipple, nipping, biting, and giving them the much needed attention then soothed them with her warm tongue after being roughly handled.

The spy closed her eyes, mouth slightly agape, upon hearing Wanda's possessive statement. She was rendered speechless with the level of power Wanda was proclaiming. Typically the one in control of their sex lives, she found herself surprised yet intrigued by Wanda's boldness, leaving her both aroused and alarmed at Wanda's sudden forwardness and aggression. In a feeble attempt to ground herself, she put her hands on each side of the witch's waist.

This only encouraged Wanda to take matters in her own hands as she started languidly rutting her lower half against the redhead's hips, effectively asserting her control on the pace. She then ripped her mouth and teeth from Natasha's abused nipples to grab her chin tightly, bringing their mouths inches apart. “Tell me who you belong to.” Her heavily accented voice resonated around them and into Natasha's mind.

Their breaths mingled as the redhead answered weakly, “You Wanda, no one else.” The witch grabbed her face even harder, her crescent nails digging into the skin, bringing them closer as their noses brushed together.

“Say it again.” Wanda prompted while grinding her hips harder, smearing her wetness on Natasha's warm skin.

A deep sound came out of the spy's throat, something between a growl and a whine while she tried to focus on forming a correct sentence rather than let herself be consumed by Wanda's presence and touch. “I'm yours Wanda, only yours.”

A raw hum of appreciation escaped the witch's lips as she attached them again to Natasha's neck, leaving purple marks on her smooth skin and never stopping her lower movements.

When Wanda leaned slightly back to admire her work, racking her eyes over the redhead's slightly glistening body. She grinned and performed a careless flick of her wrist, encasing their lower bodies in scarlet tendrils and conjured to reveal a blood-red cock securely harnessed to Natasha's hips.

The spy let out a gasp of surprise at the discovery which was muffled by Wanda's lips kissing her again fervently. Natasha tightened her hold on the witch’s hips which had stilled while she was gifted with her new acquisition.

The tight grip spurted Wanda to move again, lowering herself to rest her wet center on Natasha's thick shaft before starting a slow back and forth movement against it. As her folds gilded lazily up and down, Natasha saw stars appear behind her eyes as she was able to feel everything. She could sense the warm and wet feeling of Wanda's core sliding along her silicone dick.

She stuttered while trying stay conscious, “Ah–Fuck, детка! What did you do?” She shocked back a needy whimper as Wanda gave a harder thrust on the tip.

“Do you like it? I made it just for you, baby.” The witch answered in short breaths, concentrated on keeping her movements slow and not giving in to the urge to forcefully rut against Natasha.

“Oh, yes it feels amazing. Keep going.” The redhead struggled to keep her gaze focused on the ethereal sight displayed above her, her girlfriend wearing a pretty pink flush on her cheeks while her eyebrows were slightly frowned in pleasure.

Natasha used the leverage she had with her hands on Wanda's hips to buck her own up, matching the pace of their humping and increasing the pressure between them, changing the angle a little.

Wanda moaned lewdly when the base of the strap brushed her clit, making her skin burn and tingle from the added stimulation. She placed one hand on the spy's ribs and the other on her shoulder to steady herself, her nails digging into soft flesh.

Mere moments later, Wanda sensed she was already close so she stopped her movements. She didn't plan for them to finish so soon, not after waiting for so long to experience something like this. She reluctantly lifted her body up to position herself above the flushed and panting spy, putting all her weight on her arms and using the strong body under her for balance.

The witch looked down and bit her bottom lip as she lowered her hips to situate her dripping entrance above the tip of Natasha's cock. Once the end of the shaft was snuggled against her core, she lifted her head to stare directly into the redhead's tightly closed eyes, “Look at me while I fuck myself with your cock, Natalia.” Wanda demanded, half-growled in an effort to contain her need to just slam down and get herself off as rapidly as she could manage.

The redhead used all the discipline she possessed to reopen her eyes and bore them into Wanda's green ones. The exact moment their gaze met, the witch started sinking down slowly, forcing the strap to enter her inch by inch. A long moan ripped itself from Natasha's throat as she felt all the nerves of her body setting alight at the feeling of the hot embrace of Wanda's walls choking her enchanted strap.

Natasha buried her nails into the other woman's waist when Wanda's pussy swallowed the last of her shaft, bringing their hips flesh to flesh. The warm, wet and tight feeling of the witch's insides surrounding her whole cock was already too much and she couldn't prevent herself from closing her eyes in concentration to not cum right away.

“You feel so good inside of me, baby.” Wanda whispered, eyeing her girlfriend under her thick lashes, reveled in her evident struggle and pleasure. She stayed still for a moment to give herself a bit of time to adjust to the huge dick stretching her walls before starting to gyrate her hips slightly to test the waters.

Natasha's hips gave a jerky spasm in response as she felt herself getting squeezed from the base to the tip with the slight movement of the woman on top of her.

No longer able to contain herself, Wanda lifted herself up again all the way until only the tip of the cock remained inside of her before sinking down again. Natasha saw dark spots in her vision when the warm heat gripped her dick in a sucking motion as she travelled up. She moaned a series of you're mine you're you're mine while bouncing up in down on Natasha's dick.

As Wanda continued riding her, their chorus of moans and squelching wet sounds were the only noises surrounding them as their pleasure kept increasing and increasing as well as the pace of their thrusts.

“Wanda— I'm close, fuck!” Natasha panted through gritted teeth as her body was tensing more and more upon her impending release. She started giving short, hard lunges upward to drive her strap even deeper into Wanda's pussy.

“Mmmh, me too, come with me детка.” The witch almost whined, her eyes glowing even more darker, and her thrusts becoming messier and sloppier as she edged towards her own release.

Finally the coil in Natasha's stomach. enfolded as she cummed. She sensed her warm juices leaving the tip of her strap as she felt the primal urge to pump her dick harder and deeper into Wanda as she came. As she did so, she felt the witch's walls clenching sporadically around her, signalling she had triggered her own orgasm. The delicious squeezes prolonged Natasha's release until she stilled and flopped back, completely spent and head lulling backwards.

At the same time, Wanda came with a long moan when Natasha's juices warmed the inside of her womb. As she descended from her high, Wanda kept lazily riding Natasha in slow and short motions until she became too sensitive and finally unsheathed herself from the strap with a lewd and wet sound.

After regaining her breath, Wanda suddenly sat upright and found herself gasping for air, her body trembling with the effort to fill in her empty lungs. Then, a peculiar sensation washed over her—an intense detachment as though her very essence was being ripped apart from within, as if an invisible pair of hands were wrenching a fragment of her soul which was being torn away by an inexplicable force beyond comprehension.

An overwhelming tide of panic gripped her, fueled by the relentless force pulling at her. With each passing moment, she felt her very consciousness slipping away, aggressively and mercilessly tearing it from her body. Amidst it all, her eyes blazed with a furious crimson, reflecting the turmoil within and tendrils of her magic hung in the air.

"Wanda," Natasha's voice was fraught with urgency, "Baby! What's happening? Wanda!" she repeatedly called out her name, trying desperately to break through Wanda's trance and tether her back to the present moment. Finally, her persistent pleas got through Wanda's lucid state, her body slumped over hers, body pressing down like a dead weight.

"Hey, hey, look at me," Natasha said softly, gently cupping Wanda's face in her hands and drawing her closer. "Are you alright?"

Gasping for air, Wanda struggled to focus her gaze on Natasha, her heart racing with fear and confusion. "Natasha?" Her voice rasped with agitation. "What... what just happened?" Her mind reeled, wrestling with the disorienting aftermath of whatever had transpired.

"Good Lord, Wanda!" Natasha exclaimed, her relief palpable yet tinged with lingering anxiety. "You scared the life out of me. One moment you seemed fine, and then suddenly you were trembling, your magic flowing out all over the room." She decided to leave out the part where Wanda was clutching onto her shoulders, as if the witch was scared for her to slip away from her fingers.

Wanda's voice wavered with distress as she tried to make sense of the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. "I feel pain and at the same time feel empty," she confessed, her brow furrowed with confusion. "I can feel it within my heart but I don't know where it's coming."

Natasha enveloped the weeping witch in her arms offering a sense of security and solace. "Just let it all out, Wanda," she whispered soothingly. "I'm right here, baby."

"I'm so scared, Nat," Wanda hiccuped between sobs, her voice trembling with vulnerability. "It felt like my soul was ripped from my body. I don't ever want to experience that again."

"You're safe with, Wanda," Natasha murmured, her tone laced with unwavering determination. "I promise you, I won't let anything harm you. Whatever it takes, I'll protect you." Her words were a steadfast vow, a pledge of her love and devotion for Wanda.

In the vast emptiness of space, her anguished cries and screams echoed chaoticly through the stretches of the universe once the projection severed. A real testament to her desperation as she struggled to cling to the faint hope of an alternate reality where she could reclaim the life she once knew, knowing all too well it could never be hers again.

She finds herself in a vulnerable position, with nothing remaining but the ethereal burden of her own chaos magic intertwined with the relentless ache of agony, a haunting symphony echoing through the chambers of her soul.

Once again, thank you very much for sharing your great mind with me. @mikaila-m 💜🫶

[mcntsee]

cold

summary: Y/N faces hypothermia after a dangerous mission. Kaz helps her warm up by the fire, their bond growing stronger.

warnings: The story contains scenes of peril, violence, and life-threatening situations. Kaz is not fully ok with y/n’s touch, but he fights trough it. Ooc Kaz.

notes: Posting this again because it won’t show up in the #

On a moonlit night, the crew moved stealthily towards their next heist, anticipation electrifying the air. The target: the elusive Heart of Nebula, a gem said to hold secrets from the stars themselves, and worth even more, now resting within the hold of a formidable merchant ship. Kaz Brekker's mind hummed with strategies as he and his crew prepared to infiltrate the vessel, a symphony of darkness and cunning.

The assault began with a fierce volley of blows and flashing knives, the Crows expertly weaving through the chaos of the guards. Amidst the clash of metal and cries of alarm, Y/N's prowess shone bright as she fought with a grace that belied her strength. But in the midst of the turmoil, the situation took a turn.

One of the guards managed to corner Y/N, his arm snaking around her neck while a cold barrel pressed against her temple. The edge of the ship loomed dangerously close, its abyssal depths waiting hungrily. Kaz's icy eyes snapped toward the scene, his cane slicing through the guard before him with lethal precision. Without hesitation, he moved toward the guard who held Y/N captive.

The guard's voice rang out, its venomous tone laced with desperation. "Make them leave, Brekker, or the girl takes a plunge."

Kaz's gaze was as unforgiving as the sea's depths as he assessed the situation. A subtle nod towards his crew was met with hesitation, a collective tension palpable in the air. Yet, the Crows trusted their leader's decision and reluctantly retreated, fading into the shadows like wraiths.

With the other Crows gone, Kaz approached the edge of the ship, his voice a chilling breeze. "They're gone. Let her go now."

The guard's laughter was mirthless, his grip on Y/N relenting just enough for her to catch her breath. "You're quite the strategist, Brekker. But this time, you've lost." Kaz's eyes darkened, "You're the one holding the losing hand."

The guard's response was a cold, harsh warning. "One step closer, and I'll blow her brains out, Brekker."

In the deadly hush that followed, Y/N's eyes flickered to Kaz's, a subtle nod passing between them like a secret shared only between souls deeply connected. In the space of a heartbeat, Y/N's hidden blade flashed into her hand, finding purchase in the guard's leg. The gun wavered, and in that instant, Y/N twisted her body, pushing the gun skyward. The guard's grip slipped, and Y/N tumbled over the edge, disappearing into the inky depths below.

Kaz's gloved hand tightened on his cane as he stared at the fallen guard, fury simmering beneath his calm façade. With a swift, efficient motion, he rendered the guard unconscious, the cold weight of his cane delivering justice.

Breathless seconds ticked by, tension thick in the salty air. Kaz's sharp gaze scanned the dark waters, searching for any sign of Y/N. Relief flooded him as her head broke the surface, her voice piercing through the night. "I'm fine!" A sigh of relief escaped Kaz's lips. Y/N's determination was palpable as she called out, her voice carrying above the water's gentle lapping. "I'll swim to shore. Go ahead."

Kaz watched as she began to swim, her strokes strong and determined. With a final glance at the ship, he turned and walked away, his steps resolute and measured.

As Kaz reached the shore, he cast his gaze over the moonlit waters, waiting anxiously for Y/N’s return. His heart was a relentless drumbeat, matching the rhythm of the waves. The moment her form emerged from the darkness, shivering and weakened, he closed the distance between them. Urgency propelled his actions.

“Get rid of the clothes,” he instructed firmly, his voice laced with concern. “They’re wet and will make you colder.”

Y/N’s nod was slow, her trembling fingers fumbling with the soaked fabric as she undressed. Kaz turned his head, a gesture both respectful and protective. In a deliberate and almost rehearsed motion, he removed his coat and held it out to her. She accepted it with a shaky “Thanks.” her voice barely above a whisper.

As Kaz’s sharp eyes examined her, a surge of worry pulsed through him. The sight of her pale, chilled skin and lips tinged with blue sent an unexpected pang through his chest, a haunting echo of memories long buried. But he shoved those ghosts aside, focusing on the task at hand. Y/N needed him now.

“Y/N,” he heard her voice, fragile and wavering like a whispered plea. “We have to get you somewhere warm.”

Nodding at her, he guided her towards the Slat, their steps slow and deliberate. But soon, it became apparent that her strength was waning, her movements faltering as her eyes fought to stay open. Kaz’s instincts kicked in, and he brought them to a nearby safe house. “Stay awake, Y/N,” he urged, his voice a lifeline.

With the gentlest touch, he grasped her sleeve, guiding her with utmost care. Inside the safe house, the dim glow of the fireplace greeted them. Kaz moved with practiced efficiency, gathering wood and coaxing flames to life. “Take the coat off,” he instructed softly. “I’ll get you blankets.”

Y/N’s trembling grew more pronounced. Her weakened state made even the simple act of unbuttoning her coat a struggle, her shivering fingers fumbling with each button. Kaz watched for a moment, concern etched on his face, before taking a step forward.

“May I?” he asked, his voice low and filled with a rare tenderness, pointing towards the buttons. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze meeting his as she nodded slightly. A barely audible “Please” slipped from her lips as he delicately unbuttoned her coat. His movements were careful, his touch a lifeline, as he worked the coat off her shoulders.

He noticed Y/N’s weakened posture, her struggle to remain upright, and her eyes that threatened to close for longer with each blink. A gentle tap to her cheek accompanied his soft words, urging her to stay awake. Once the coat was removed, he set it aside, then settled Y/N close to the warmth of the fireplace.

Debates waged within his mind as he assessed the situation. Should he fetch a blanket or offer his own warmth to stave off the cold? Y/N’s sudden cessation of shivering tilted the balance, a sign that he couldn’t ignore. He quickly discarded his clothes, his urgency matched only by his fear. Ghosts of his past slowly attacking his mind. But that fear was replaced with a resolute determination as he reminded himself that he had to help her. For fuck’s sake. She’s dying, do something!

“Y/N,” he called softly, his voice a lifeline in the quiet room. He moved swiftly to her side, his heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and purpose. He hesitated for a moment, the depth of his feelings surfacing before he banished them, replacing them with a driving need to save her.

“Y/N, look at me,” he whispered urgently, his hands cupping her face gently. The storm in his eyes met the battle in hers, a silent affirmation that they were in this together. “Stay awake, Y/N.”

With quick, precise movements, he guided her closer, his arms enfolding her delicate form. He drew her legs over his lap, holding her securely, a barrier against the cold that threatened to steal her away. His heart raced as he whispered her name, a litany of small pleas and encouragements, willing her to hold on.

His hands moved over her body, a desperate attempt to generate warmth. His touch was gentle yet purposeful, rubbing and caressing in a rhythm meant to bring life back to her numbing limbs. A sigh of relief escaped him as her body began to respond, her shivers returning.

“That’s good, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of relief and reassurance. “That’s good.”

Y/N’s voice trembled, her weariness evident as she spoke of her desire to rest, if only for a moment. Kaz’s response was a gentle yet unwavering plea. “Hold on a little longer, Y/N. You’re doing good.”

As the warmth of the fire seeped into the room, color began to return to Y/N’s face, a welcome transformation that Kaz couldn’t help but watch with a mixture of relief and gratitude. Her lips, once tinged with blue, regained their natural hue, easing the knot of worry in his chest. He assessed her carefully, the weight of his concern slowly lifting as she regained strength.

Gradually, he eased her down, his touch gentle as he ensured she was comfortable before he rose to his feet. “I’m going to get you some blankets, Y/N,” he announced, his voice soft. Y/N met his gaze and thanked him, her gratitude a quiet melody in the stillness of the room.

Kaz put his pants back on before he climbed the stairs, his steps measured, his mind focused on the task at hand. In the closet, he found a collection of blankets, each one a comforting refuge against the cold. When he returned to the room, he laid one blanket on the ground for Y/N to sit on, then carefully wrapped a second one around her, his movements deliberate yet tender.

Settling back down beside her, Kaz draped the third blanket around himself, creating a barrier of warmth between them. The room was filled with a palpable sense of quiet, an unspoken understanding that permeated the space. Moments stretched on, the fire’s crackle and pop providing a gentle rhythm to their thoughts.

Y/N, who looked remarkably better now, broke the silence with words that carried a depth of meaning. “Thank you, Kaz.” Her voice was soft yet sincere.

Kaz’s response was equally quiet, his tone carrying a hint of vulnerability. “No problem.”

Y/N glanced away briefly before turning her gaze back to him, her eyes holding a mixture of gratitude and something more. “I’m sorry you had to do that,” she said, her words holding a weight that was both apologetic and appreciative. “I know it must’ve been hard.”

Kaz’s mind churned, reflecting on the moments they had shared, the emotions that had surged through him. He hesitated, grappling with his own thoughts before the words emerged, honest and unfiltered. “For you, I would do it again,” he admitted, his voice a gentle affirmation of his feelings.

In response, Y/N’s smile was soft, her eyes reflecting a warmth that mirrored the fire’s glow. “I would do it for you too, Kaz. Anything.” Her words held an earnestness that touched him, a willingness to stand by him no matter the challenge.

[sukunaslilgurl]

Slate - A Sukuna Mafia Story

Chapter 9: Kings of the Underworld

The air inside Eden was thick with smoke and seduction, the dim red and violet lights casting sultry shadows across the lavish VIP section. The music pulsed through the walls like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, a hypnotic bassline underscoring the dangerous power that filled the room. This was no ordinary strip club—this was Toji Fushiguro’s empire, the meeting ground for the most ruthless men in Japan’s underworld. A sanctuary where bloodstained hands could sip whiskey in peace, where business and pleasure blended into one seamless, intoxicating haze.

In the center of it all, seated in the most exclusive booth, were the four kings of the underworld.

Sukuna Ryomen—the undisputed ruler of Japan’s black market—sat at the head of the table, his presence a storm waiting to strike. His red hair, illuminated under the club’s neon glow, gleamed like fresh blood, his sharp tattoos carving wicked paths down his pale skin. His gaze, a haunting mix of icy grey and smoldering violence, held a quiet authority that no one dared to challenge. If there was an empire of death and trade, Sukuna was its god—ruling over assassins, weapons, drugs, and the kind of power that thrived in the darkest corners of society.

To his right, Satoru Gojo lounged in effortless dominance, his sunglasses pushed low on his nose, revealing piercing cerulean eyes that danced with mischief. He was the face of power wrapped in charm, a man who could walk into any government office and leave with laws bent in his favor. His organization, Six Eyes Group, controlled vast amounts of real estate and had deep roots in Japan’s political scene. Ministers, police commissioners, and corporate giants—all of them bowed to Gojo in some way or another, whether they knew it or not. With a grin that could disarm even his deadliest enemy, Gojo lifted his drink and smirked.

To his left, Suguru Geto exuded a more calculated power—quiet, smooth, a man who owned not just businesses but loyalty. His influence stretched across Japan’s most elite restaurants, his network of underground dealings hidden behind the luxurious façades of his high-end establishments. The finest sake, the rarest delicacies—his businesses were the playgrounds of the wealthy and corrupt alike. But beyond that, Geto was the mind behind operations, the one who ensured every shipment, every deal, and every move played out like a carefully orchestrated symphony.

And beside him sat Choso—deadly, silent, and a constant reminder of the blood that stained their business. Where the others played with wealth and politics, Choso was the enforcer, the executioner who ensured that debts were paid, and enemies disappeared without a trace.

They weren’t just men—they were an empire.

And tonight, the empire was conducting business.

Sukuna leaned back against the plush leather of the booth, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as his gaze flickered between his closest associates. “The shipment leaves from Osaka in three days,” he said, his voice deep, rough—like a knife scraping against stone. “Fifty kilos. Straight from our suppliers in Colombia. The route is already secured, but we need to guarantee smooth passage through customs.”

Gojo chuckled, stretching his long legs out as he raised a brow. “You’re lucky I like you, Sukuna. I’ve already arranged security to make sure it gets through untouched. A few bribes here, a few convincing conversations there—nothing slips past me.” He tapped his temple, flashing a grin. “Besides, if things go south, I’ll just have the bastards erased from the system. No problem.”

Geto hummed in approval, setting his drink down with a measured grace. “I can handle distribution once it lands. I already have the networks in place. The restaurants, the high-end clubs—our usual clients will be expecting fresh supply.”

Sukuna nodded once, satisfied. “And the transport?”

Gojo smirked. “I’m offering my private jet. Fast, discrete, no paper trail.” He took a sip of his drink before tilting his head. “Unless you don’t trust me, of course.”

Sukuna exhaled sharply through his nose, a shadow of amusement ghosting over his lips. “Tch. You and your theatrics, Gojo. Fine. Use the jet. But this needs to be flawless.” His voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of something final. “I don’t tolerate mistakes.”

The tension in the air thickened, but Gojo merely grinned, unfazed. “Oh, Sukuna, you wound me. Since when have I ever made a mistake?”

Choso snorted, the closest thing to laughter he ever showed. Geto smirked but said nothing.

Before the conversation could continue, the music shifted.

The deep bass reverberated through the club as the lights dimmed, casting the entire room into a sultry darkness. Then, a spotlight illuminated the center stage, and the audience murmured in anticipation.

A new dancer.

Sukuna barely paid attention at first, his focus still on business. But then, the murmurs around him turned into something more.

“Shit, that’s the new one.”

“Look at her move.”

“Fuck, she’s hot.”

“She’s strong—how the hell is she holding that position?”

“Is she Latina? That body is insane.”

Curious despite himself, Sukuna lifted his gaze toward the stage.

And there she was.

A woman draped in black leather, her body a work of art—lean, strong, but curved in all the right places. Long, wild curls cascaded down her back, glistening under the lights like silk spun in shadows. Her striking face was framed by high cheekbones and full, black-painted lips, her mismatched eyes—a mesmerizing contrast of mint green and ice blue—cutting through the darkness like a blade. A collar with spikes adorned her throat, adding a dangerous allure to her presence.

But it was the way she moved that caught his full attention.

She wasn’t just dancing—she was hunting. A predator weaving through the pole like liquid fire, her body coiling and unraveling with effortless precision. Every movement was lethal, sensual, deliberate. When she climbed to the top of the pole, her muscles flexing with control, and slid down in a slow, teasing descent, the entire club was entranced.

And then—

A burst of flame.

She breathed fire, the flames licking the air, illuminating her silhouette in an otherworldly glow.

The room erupted.

Cash rained down on the stage like a storm. The men in the front leaned forward, mesmerized, hungry. Even the seasoned patrons—the ones who had seen everything this club had to offer—watched her with unguarded fascination.

Sukuna’s grip on his glass tightened slightly.

Interesting.

Beside him, Geto hummed, sipping his drink. “She’s… different.”

Gojo whistled lowly. “Shit, Toji really is insane for letting her work here.”

Sukuna said nothing. He merely watched, his sharp eyes following the deadly dancer on stage, curiosity flickering beneath the storm of his gaze.

The meeting could wait.

For now, he had found something far more intriguing.

The night inside Eden only grew darker, thicker with lust and power as the hours bled into each other. Cigarette smoke curled through the air like whispered secrets, the scent of expensive whiskey mixing with the lingering traces of fine cologne. The underworld kings remained seated at their booth, their empire’s future still being discussed over crystal glasses and hushed tones.

And yet, Sukuna’s attention kept slipping.

Not entirely—his mind was too sharp, too disciplined to lose focus—but enough to make him restless. Enough that, between talks of cocaine shipments and security measures, his gaze wandered back to the stage, drawn there like a beast tracking its prey.

She had changed.

Now she wore red.

A deep crimson corset, cinched tight to emphasize the sculpted curves of her waist. A matching tanga, the fabric cutting high on her hips, revealing long, toned legs wrapped in fishnet stockings. Knee-high boots, a shade as sinful as fresh blood, laced up the front with delicate precision. And her lips—painted in a perfect shade of red, like she had taken the color straight from a dying man’s last breath.

Under the stage lights, her caramel skin glowed warm, the contrast making her look even more untouchable. But what made her so mesmerizing wasn’t just her beauty—it was how she wore it.

Unapologetically.

She owned the stage.

She moved like liquid fire, slow yet deliberate, dangerous yet graceful. Every roll of her hips, every arch of her back was a silent challenge. Her mismatched eyes flickered over the crowd, distant yet sharp, like she was calculating her surroundings even as she entranced them.

And Sukuna was watching.

Not just in passing, not as another entertained guest—but watching.

“Damn,” Gojo muttered under his breath, sipping his whiskey lazily. “She really knows how to hold a crowd.”

Geto smirked, tilting his head slightly. “It’s rare, isn’t it?” he mused. “A woman who dances without submitting.”

Choso, ever silent, simply nodded.

Their conversation was interrupted when a figure approached their booth.

Toji Fushiguro.

Dressed in all black, his broad frame moved with effortless confidence as he walked over, his sharp green eyes flicking between the men before settling on Sukuna.

“Didn’t think I’d see you all here tonight,” Toji said in his usual rough drawl, hands slipping into his pockets. “Should’ve known better.”

Sukuna exhaled, finally dragging his gaze away from the stage to glance at Toji. “Your club is convenient,” he remarked coolly, voice low and rough. “Good drinks. Good meetings.” His eyes flickered back toward the stage for the briefest second. “Good entertainment.”

Toji’s lips twitched, almost into a smirk, before he leaned against the edge of the booth. “Enjoying the new girl?”

Sukuna didn’t answer immediately. He reached for his glass, swirling the remaining whiskey idly before lifting it to his lips. Only after taking a slow sip did he respond.

“Who is she?”

Toji raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Sukuna’s tongue clicked against his teeth in mild irritation. “Because I asked.”

Toji let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “She’s none of your business.”

Sukuna’s gaze darkened slightly. “Everything in this world is my business.”

Toji exhaled, glancing toward the stage where Irene was moving like a storm, her wild curls bouncing as she arched her spine against the pole, her strong thighs gripping it with ease. He watched the way men in the crowd threw money at her, their eyes filled with hunger.

“She’s just a girl making money,” Toji said, his voice almost dismissive. “That’s all you need to know.”

Sukuna knew bullshit when he heard it.

His gaze flickered back to her, the way her muscles flexed as she climbed the pole effortlessly, the raw power in her movements contradicting the soft seduction of her performance. No ordinary dancer moved like that. No ordinary woman carried that kind of presence.

“She’s not just a girl,” Sukuna murmured under his breath.

Toji’s jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

The other men in the booth remained quiet, observing. Gojo had a knowing smirk tugging at his lips, Geto watched with mild curiosity, and Choso—as always—simply absorbed the moment.

On stage, Irene flipped upside down, gripping the pole with nothing but her legs, her back arched like a feline stretching beneath the moonlight. The crowd erupted in cheers, cash raining down like confetti.

Sukuna exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly.

“Interesting.”

[seriously-siri]

I've been feeling so bleh and stuck in my own head and sort of like this so here's Meg's piece from the lost light fest way back in the day~

Symphony

Megatron

Silence is terrifying.

I’ve been so encapsulated by noise my entire life that now, when there is a moment of silent respite or quiet reflection I find myself wanting to scream. Scream the way I used to in the mines when I hefted my axe over my head and drove it into the rock. A solid yell between the clunk and chink of energy beams on metal walls and between the sounds of rusty carts being wheeled through echoey tunnels. Even at night as I wrote, the tapping of my fingers on the datapad was enough to satiate my need for a background ticking.

I want to shout like I used to in the pits of Kaon. An incomprehensible gurgle that would rise from my gut and send a shock of terror down my opponent’s spine. It would be the last noise they’d hear before I would listen to their body crunching and their spark sputter and go out with a high pitched hiss. The cheers of the onlookers and terrified gasps as they watched what raw power really looked like.

I long for the deafening din of constant war. The battles of unprecedented chaos: screams amongst gunfire and shouts being drowned out by the clash of weapons. Cheers for victory and the anguished cries of defeat. Even in the time between battles it was never quite. There was always strategy to talk about and prisoners to torture. I was rarely ever alone and even Soundwave, quiet stoic Soundwave, always had a reason to be talking when I was in the room. Shockwave wasn’t able to stand still without his hands tinkering at something and where there is tinkering, there is noise. Then there was Starscream… well Starscream never shut up and I only made him stop when there was a need for my own voice to raise above his or when the noise coming out of his mouth was intolerably idiotic; both happened more often than not. Even then, he’d mumble under his breath. Whispers of words that only I could hear as he hovered by my side close enough to hear the small gears in his wings chink as they moved or the tapping of his foot under the table.

When I was alone, my dreams were never without violent nightmares. I’d replay the noises that had taken up my life until that point and I’d dream of the future and the orchestral concert of chaos that I would be conducting with a wave of my hand.

If it ever got too quiet I’d find a reason to make noise because the only time I remember hearing silence, the one time the world went white and the shouts and screams around me faded from existence, I ended up with energon on my hands and a dead guard lying on the floor of the C-15 off world mine.

Silence is deadly.

It gives you time to think and the mind is a powerful thing. It has the ability to deceive others as well as yourself and the only thing in this universe that you cannot get away from is your own your memories and ideas and thoughts. It’s where you have revelations and wordless arguments with yourself. It’s where plans begin and it is where they plant their roots to bloom into a graspable reality.  It is where thoughts of rebellion filter into existence and how civil war is mapped out. It’s where delusions of grandeur start to form and where ego can take over your person.

Noise keeps me focused. Or maybe it distracts me; I suppose it depends on your point of view.

The Lost Light is never quiet and that is a blessing I take advantage of everyday. If it isn’t Tailgate boarding through the halls or Brainstorm causing mayhem with some new experiment, then it is a late night crowd at Swerve’s or Cyclonus’ singing. It is Nautica laughing somewhere off in the distance with Skids. It is Perceptor talking someone’s ear off about one of his passions in science or Whirl reenacting a Wrecker story, fight poses and all. It is Magnus typing up another memo and Ten scratching art down wherever he can.

It is Rodimus.

Rodimus talking more than Starscream ever could and still managing to make more sense. It is him going on about the mission and about himself even more often. He talks about the crew and what he likes about each person on board and what they’ll do when the knights are found. How the universe will change and how excited he is for it.

Noise is ramblings of hopes and dreams and laughter and forgetting what’s behind or in front of us and it grounds us to the here and now. It doesn’t let our mind drift off into delusions or fall back into fears. It reminds us that life is noise and clatter and silence is death and nothingness. It is the beat of our sparks and the rushing of energon through our lines. It’s our shouts when we hurt and our laughter when we’re happy. It’s our joints cracking as we move and our feet stomping the ground as we walk forward. It is the reminder that we don’t walk alone.

I’ll take crescendo-ed chaos for the rest of my existence. I never want to be in silence again.

Silent is terrifying.

[wishcamper]

Cassian Appreciation Week Day Two: Hair

Happy @cassianappreciationweek! Here is my first offering for Day Two: Hair. You can read it here or on ao3.

Enjoy!

My Sweetest Downfall

A Nessian re-telling of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah, set during the first war for human liberation.

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to sex trafficking

Art by Terry Strickland

Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one And the history books forgot about us And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once "Samson”, Regina Spektor

She was the most beautiful female Cassian had ever seen.

Woman, rather - the rounded edge of her ear had been what caught his eye, entranced by the freshness of her face, the self-possession of this human woman weaving through the sea of fae in the lower markets of Adriata. All visions of using his shore leave to drown himself in wine, blow all his wages at the tables, and bed as many females as possible vacated his mind the moment her blue-gray eyes met his over the heads of the crowd, the exact color of an Illyrian sunrise.

She belonged to one of the pleasure houses, as evidenced by the copper bands at her wrists and throat, likely one of the more expensive ones gives the fine silk of her gown, the glint of her golden brown hair braided about her head like a crown. He searched for days until he found the right one, coming across her at last at the Golden Thread. He wasn’t even really sure what he wanted, just to be near her, to feel the heat of her body, the thrum of mortality under her skin.

More than anything, he wanted to understand that tug in his chest, the pull that urged him to crash himself to the ground for her, even if it reduced him to rubble.

—

He was a force of nature, wild as a winter wind yet gentle as the crush of petals under bare feet, a mountain of a male whose waters ran deep and smooth.

And in spite of it all, she still had to break him.

She pushed down her guilt, her disgust at the task before her. They’d been all over each other for a week, stealing moments in hidden coves, remote beaches, even once behind a corner stall in the market when the vendor was away. Despite having paid for her, and handsomely, he seemed to want only what she gave freely of her time, her body. What he wanted lay beneath, he said, a chance to listen to the symphony of her human heart for however long she’d allow.

That same human heart condemned her, left her helpless to the forces of power and control that bound her tighter than any ropes ever could.

The stories of him in battle had spread across Prythian long before his arrival in the great Summer city, of the Illyrian foot soldier who razed armies with his deadly dance, blessed by the Mother herself. Enalius reborn, they called him, and the Lord of Spring wanted him eliminated in neutral territory if they were to have a chance at winning the war. Ten thousand gold marks they'd promised to her if she could find the source of his power.

She knew she condemned herself with this cursed bargain, much less her people, but there was no way around it. She’d never make enough with her body to free her family, to protect them from the ravages of the fae without the riches they dangled in front of her.

And so when he slipped through the lavender curtains of the Golden Thread, she hoped to hate him. Prayed he’d be despicable, possessive and brutish like the other males, head swollen large enough so just a single pinprick could deflate it. Instead, that first night he came to her plush, dark chambers she found a tenderness that stunned her and knew this would be so much more damning than she’d ever imagined.

He was willing to sacrifice everything for human freedom, he told her in the wake of their joining, dark curls clinging to his brow. The shame consumed her knowing he’d fulfill that promise, even if his martyrdom would come not on the daybright battlefield as he imagined, but rather with the breathless gasp of a knife in the night.

For the next week he worshiped her body in their beachside bungalow, ran his fingers over and under the copper cuffs as if he’d rip them off with his bare hands.

“And how would one shackle you, Lord of Bloodshed?”

“No bonds can hold me, sweetheart, save for those given by the Mother.”

He promised to smuggle her out between presses of his lips against her skin, or else to buy her freedom, to win the whole damn war by himself if that’s what it took. She only smiled and called them beautiful words, nothing less, nothing more. At night when he slept, she lay awake tracing the fresh scar cleaving his eyebrow, the lines of tattoos swirling over his chest and arms.

Make a bargain with me, he said, hazel eyes sparkling with something too painful to look at for more than a moment, like staring into the sun. Tell me what makes you so strong, she said, tell me what gives you the power of ten males, a hundred. She watched her warrior spar with his own heart, and though he denied her in the end she felt a relief in it, that they could have one more day, one more night with none to witness what bloomed save for the stars, the moonlit sea.

She’d ask him twice more, she told him, and he grinned in a way that broke something in her, something she could never repair.

In the cradle of seclusion, long-buried hurts began to emerge, the throes of pleasure giving way to tears that flowed like wine. He held her pain like a bird in his hand, stroking her jagged edges gently. Unafraid of what lay within her, the blink of her mortal life.

Why do you touch me so?, she asked, and he ran a hand up her thigh to the crook of her waist, following the path his mouth had blazed before they’d collapsed in satiety. 

She asked him the second time in the cove off the beach, the one he’d flown her to on those resplendent wings. The white sand floor glowed under turquoise water, casting his body in an unearthly light, their echoing moans giving way to laughter that ricocheted off the rock, through her chest. He told her of his days training, the foolish arrogance of his youth before it was shattered by the war. She shared a memory of stealing sweets from a shop when she was a child, the rush of her first taste of sugar, of the successful con.

“And is victory always sweet for you, siren?”

Mostly not, she told him, and a challenge sparkled in his eyes, one that made her blood go hot. She forgot for a moment why she was there, the trap at the center of the maze, and let him fly the long way home, skimming the waves with her fingertips as they chased a pod of dolphins playing in the surf.

When they returned, he disappeared for a short time while she bathed, stepping back through the leaning door frame as she was toweling off, arms laden with gifts from the market. That night she claimed her victory in all the ways she wanted to, the Lord of Bloodshed under command of his interim queen.

“Please,” she begged the Spring lord through the mirror he’d given her, the forget-me-nots in his golden hair either a cruel jest or devastating providence. “Please spare him. Take his power but do not take his life.”

The High Lord laughed in answer, and the guilt stretched her to the point of breaking, her skin a dull hide drying in the sun. “It seems the hearts of human sluts are as open as their legs.”

She knew he felt her sadness, her fear when he returned from a swim in the ocean, salt glittering on his wings like diamonds in the sunset glow. He lifted her into his arms and retreated to the bathing chamber, showed her where to touch them to bring him to his knees, to make him fall apart with her name on his lips.

Ask me, he said, ask me once more.

“No.”

“Why not? Have you given up on me, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t want everything that came with her, she told him, wouldn’t desire her if he knew the wickedness of her heart, the crumbling ruins of her soul.

“How can I prove it to you?”

Her fingers clutched at his shirtfront, begging him to stay, to run, to see the deception at her core.

“Tell me the source of your strength. Tell me what gives you the power of ten males, of a hundred. Show me your weakness and I shall show you mine.”

Her faithful lover brought his forehead down to hers, resting it lightly, drew her hand up to bury it in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“If my hair is cut, I lose my strength. I am as weak as any other until it grows long again.”

She grabbed a handful of it in her fist, pulling his head back sharply. But he only looked at her with that sun-bright devotion, the passages of his heart open to her to walk through as she pleased. She decided to leave a footprint there, the barest trace. Hoped it was enough for him to remember.

“I have a daughter to the south. She does not know what I am. All I do is for her.”

Something like understanding passed through him then, but she didn’t get the chance to question it for he captured her mouth with his own, sinking her down into the deep waters where only they lived, borne along by the current.

Moonlight glinted off the shears where she hovered over him hours later, praying for him to wake. To grab her wrists and throw her against the wall, or else to kiss her desperately and fly her as far as those wings could take them, past the edge of the world.

But he did not wake, and instead she cut each lock from his head, the thread in her chest ripping violently with each traitorous snip.

—

They paraded him through the temple in chains, the jeers and taunts hitting his back like a volley of arrows. The warrior god shackled like the slaves he so foolishly defended, reduced to the bastard-born nobody he feared lived at his core.

He found her at once among the crowd assembled, her beautiful face broken with agony, and even though he knew he should hate her the space where his anger lived felt hollow. The absence of her was more devastating than any of the whips that lashed at his back, the blunt blows to his chest, his legs.

His power gone, the feeble call of it sluggish in his veins, he could only watch as they brought the ropes forth. They lashed him to the great column at the center that held up the ceiling, painted with scenes of resplendent High Fae, their faces cold and cruel. He tried to tell her to go, to run, but he was too weak to speak, knew from the way she clutched the collar at her throat she’d never leave while he was still alive. He only hoped she’d be far enough away to miss the worst of it.

I’m sorry, he said as best he could, feeling the imprint of her body on his skin, in his bones. I’m sorry I couldn’t save us from this. I’m sorry I didn’t know until it was too late.

Hazel eyes lifted skyward, a prayer to the Mother on his dry, cracked lips. With a great heave he twisted, rammed his bound fists into the pillar he leaned against, ripping apart the world.

Stone rained down and there was screaming everywhere, thick dust pouring into his lungs and he waited for the crush, the flash of pain before it all went quiet and still. In the long tunnel of time he hoped to return as a tree somewhere in a quiet wood, to feel her sit in his shade, or else to be a clear pool she drank from, the splash of him over her face washing her clean.

And all at once he was shoved aside, a great boom echoing somewhere overhead, soft hair tickling his face, soothing his heated cheeks.

He opened his eyes to find her body splayed over him, taking the blow of the stone that would’ve been his death. A shimmer of gold disappeared into the dust engulfing the ruined temple, and he felt the pull in his chest begin to break, ever-reaching and grasping at the building darkness.

“Don’t go, sweetheart. I didn’t get enough. I want more. We should’ve had more.”

This brave human woman, his mate, her body broken and bleeding, reached a hand up and touched his face lightly, pain and love in her dawn-colored eyes.

“I’ll find you in the next world, the next life. I promise. And we will have time.”

A fierce, burning pain seared along his scalp. He heard someone shouting, felt a wave of night-dark power sweep over him before oblivion dragged him under, stealing the only thing he wanted, one last memory of her face.

But all he was left with were the spikes of an eight-pointed star on the crown of his head, the only remnant of her final words, his failures. Their future snatched away by the greed of death, the indifference of fate.

Five hundred years passed, and Cassian searched every face for hers, heart leaping at every flash of golden brown hair, every knowing grin in a crowded market. He’d almost given up the day he stepped into the Archeron manor when he saw her glaring across the room at him, when that thread in his chest yanked so violently he thought he’d been shot by an arrow, straight through. She didn’t remember him, of course, but he could’ve sworn a flicker of recognition passed through her, the past lingering in the core of their bones, woven into their skin.

And he knew in that moment, more than he’d ever known anything, that he’d rip every hair from his head for her. That no matter what war he had to win or building he had to shatter, he’d free her from the shackles of the world, from those in her heart, her mind. 

That they would have time.

---

Thank you if you got this far! I'm pretty proud of this one so I hope you enjoyed aka it didn't hurt too much. Shoutout to all the other awesome creators putting out amazing work this week. There is so much more to come!

[rainforestakiie]

AdamsApple Month Harvest!

Bonfire~

hello everyone! happy birthday @inubaki! i wanted to get this part up for you! i hope you like it!

for everyone else, i am sorry! please do not hate bonfire too much!

Part 01 - Part 02 - Part 03 - Part 04

@adamsappleweek

The bonfire crackled and popped behind him, a symphony of embers whispering into the night, mocking his retreat. Adam dragged himself further across the field, his legs trembling as though each step weighed a hundred pounds. His vision blurred, tears spilling freely from his red-rimmed, stinging eyes. His nose was stuffed, and his breaths came in shuddering gasps, as though the air itself had turned against him. Chills coursed down his twitching skin despite the lingering warmth of the firelight that seemed to cling to his back, a cruel reminder of what he was leaving behind.

His head felt bare, disconcertingly light without the familiar weight of his flower crown. The vibrant blend of carnations and apple blossoms, his pride and solace, now lay discarded somewhere behind him. It was the second time tonight he had thrown it aside, an act considered a grave insult to the gods. He had almost turned back to retrieve it, but his feet had refused to comply. Or perhaps his heart had refused. He couldn’t go back—not after this. Not after another rejection. Not after his chest had been cracked open and his soul laid bare for nothing.

He stumbled, his gait unsteady, nearly toppling over the gnarled roots that jutted from the field like skeletal fingers. The thin line of trees surrounding the bonfire stretched before him like a frail barrier, separating him from the rest of the world. Beyond those trees, the woods thickened into an impenetrable mass to the east and west, while the south gave way to the notorious lake.

The lake was a siren, beautiful but deadly. It shimmered deceptively under the moonlight, the surface calm, but beneath its serene facade lay a current strong enough to drag even the fiercest alpha under. The sharp rocks that lined its heart were merciless; many had met their end there. Alphas, betas, omegas—it didn’t discriminate. Countless lives had been claimed by its icy grip, their stories whispered through warnings etched onto signs and spoken in hushed tones around the village. And yet, Adam didn’t care. He pressed on blindly, his vision clouded further with each tear that spilled over.

His chest ached—a hollow, burning throb unlike anything he had ever endured. After Eve, he had thought himself impervious to heartbreak. He had vowed never to let anyone wield such power over him again. But here he was, shattered and gasping for air over someone he barely knew. Steve. A name that now tasted bitter on his tongue, one that clung to his mind like a burr, refusing to let go.

Why did it hurt so much? Why did the rejection of a stranger—a fleeting connection, barely an hour old—cut him so deeply? The pain surged through him, raw and relentless, twisting in his chest like a knife. His legs buckled, and he sank to his knees, the damp earth soaking into his trousers.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the distant laughter of those still gathered by the bonfire. Their voices felt like a lifetime away, and yet their joy was a dagger to Adam’s heart. He was alone in his anguish, lost in a sea of despair. His trembling fingers dug into the soil as he fought for a breath that didn’t ache, a thought that didn’t spiral.

But none came. Only the relentless pull of the lake, its waters beckoning him with promises of release, of quiet, of nothingness.

The sky was a tapestry of soft pink and orange, streaked with the last whispers of daylight as night crept closer. Adam stumbled to the edge of the lake, its waters glimmering faintly under the shifting hues above. The breeze off the surface was cool, brushing against his fevered skin, a cruel contrast to the fire raging in his chest. He stood there for a moment, his arms hanging limply by his sides, his head bowed as though the weight of the world had finally forced him to his knees.

“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered, the words trembling as they left his lips.

His voice cracked, and the silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the lapping of the water against the rocks. Adam clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache that consumed him. It spread from his chest, heavy and suffocating, until it felt as though it would swallow him whole.

“Why doesn’t anyone want me?” His voice grew louder, trembling with raw anguish. “Why does everyone always—always push me aside? What did I ever do? Is it me? Is it something I said, something I am?”

The memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden and merciless. Lilith, his first crush, her kind smile that had always been for someone else. She had stayed his friend, sure, but her polite words and careful kindness had always been laced with pity. She never saw him, not really. And Lute—he had thought they were perfect for each other. They had laughed at the same jokes, shared the same dreams. But the moment someone better came along, someone brighter, stronger, more, she had cut him off without a second thought. Not even a farewell, just the cold silence of messages left unanswered.

“At least Lilith cared enough to pretend,” Adam spat bitterly. “Lute didn’t even give me that much.”

And then there was Eve. Eve, who had been the closest he’d ever come to happiness. Eve, who had made him feel seen, wanted, cherished—until the moment she didn’t. Eve, who hadn’t just left him; she had betrayed him in the cruellest way imaginable. She hadn’t shattered his heart with regretful words or hollow excuses. No, Eve had ripped it apart when he found her wrapped around his best friend, their laughter and whispers a blade between his ribs.

And then there was Eve. Eve, who had been the closest he’d ever come to happiness. Eve, who had made him feel seen, wanted, cherished—until the moment she didn’t. Eve, who hadn’t just left him; she had betrayed him in the cruellest way imaginable. She hadn’t shattered his heart with regretful words or hollow excuses. No, Eve had ripped it apart when he found her wrapped around his best friend, their laughter and whispers a blade between his ribs.

His knees gave out, and he collapsed onto the jagged shore. The sharp rocks dug into his palms as he caught himself, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony coursing through him. Tears streamed down his face, hot and relentless, blurring his vision until all he could see was the shimmering lake before him, the ghost of Eve’s betrayal reflected in its mocking calm.

He let the pain pour out of him, his sobs shaking his entire body. His words became incoherent, a string of broken pleas and desperate questions hurled at the indifferent sky.

Why? Why him? Why is it always fucking Lucifer?  

The betrayal cut deeper because he had trusted them both. Eve, who had once been his light, his sanctuary. And Lucifer—the one person who was supposed to have his back. Together, they had destroyed him.

And then there was Steve. Steve, who had barely known him for an hour, who had smiled at him like he mattered, only to turn away just as quickly. It was almost laughable how easily hope had sparked and then died, like a flame snuffed out by a cruel wind. How foolish he was to think, even for a moment, that this time might be different. That he might be different.

“Why does no one stay?” Adam whispered, his voice trembling, shattered. “Why do I keep thinking… thinking someone will love me when it’s always the same? I’m never enough. Never.”

The lake shimmered before him, a mirror reflecting the colours of the dying light. The sky was ablaze with orange and purple, the first stars daring to peek through the veil of twilight. The beauty of it all mocked him, a cruel reminder that the world kept turning, uncaring of his pain. He stared at the water, his chest heaving, his breath hitching as fresh tears carved paths down his cheeks.

He was tired—soul-tired. The weight of rejection, of betrayal, of heartbreak, pressed down on him, threatening to drown him before the lake even had a chance. Every path seemed to lead him back here, to this hollow ache that consumed him.

Maybe the lake held the answer. Maybe it’s cool, silent depths could finally quiet the chaos in his head. The whispers of unworthiness, the relentless echo of betrayal, the crushing loneliness—they could all be silenced here. He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him as he stepped forward, the water licking at his shoes.

He looked up one last time, the fiery hues of the sky fading into deep purples and blues. It was beautiful, he thought distantly. A cruel kind of beauty, but beauty, nonetheless. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let out a scream—a guttural, anguished cry that tore through the stillness. It echoed through the woods, into the emptiness of the night, a primal release of everything he had been holding inside for too long. His pain, his anger, his heartbreak—it all poured out in that one desperate cry.

When the echoes faded, Adam sank back to his knees, the cold-water pooling around him. His scream had left him hollow, like a storm that had passed but left destruction in its wake. Yet the pain remained, gnawing and relentless, a reminder that he was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting a life that seemed intent on breaking him.

Adam closed his eyes as the cold water lapped around his knees. The chill seeped into his skin, a stark contrast to the burning ache inside him. It was soothing in a way, numbing the relentless pain that had consumed him for so long. He let his body relax, surrendering to the icy embrace of the lake. The current was patient, gentle at first, but he knew it would find him soon enough. It always did.

It was only a matter of time. He wanted his emotions to be drained away into the lake.

Without emotions, without feelings, he wouldn’t have to fight anymore—to be seen, to be chosen, to be enough. He wouldn’t have to keep praying for someone to stay, someone to look past all his flaws and imperfections and decide he was worthy. He wouldn’t have to feel the sharp sting of hope kindling in his chest, only to be extinguished when they left him for someone else. For Lucifer. Always Lucifer.

Why was it always him? Adam’s thoughts spiralled, carried by the water’s pull as his body began to drift. He had fallen for Lilith once, a quiet, yearning crush that he hadn’t dared to voice for fear of ruining their friendship. But it hadn’t mattered; Lilith had only ever had eyes for Lucifer. Adam had accepted it, or so he thought. Then there was Lute. Sweet, funny Lute, who had seemed so much like him—until she wasn’t. Until she had found Lucifer more interesting, more deserving, and cut Adam out of her life like he had never mattered at all.

And Eve. God, Eve. She had been different, or so Adam had let himself believe. She had been kind, attentive, and he had foolishly let himself hope she could love him the way he had loved her. But she had gone behind his back too, slipping into Lucifer’s arms with a practiced ease that made Adam wonder if he had ever truly known her.

Then came Steve, a fleeting chance, a moment of reckless hope. Steve had looked at him, smiled at him like he was worth something. But even that had crumbled when Steve turned to Lucifer, the two of them wrapped in an embrace that left Adam hollow and gasping for air.

Lucifer. The name echoed in Adam’s mind like a curse, a weight he couldn’t escape. Lucifer, who had been his best friend. The person Adam had trusted more than anyone, loved more than anything. Lucifer, who had shared his nest, worn his clothes, eaten at his table, and been part of his family. Adam had given so much of himself to Lucifer, but it was never enough. It had never been enough.

He slipped.

It was an accident.

Adam slipped into the lake. It was an accident, the kind born of distraction and misstep. One moment, he stood at the edge, lost in thought, and the next, the ground gave way beneath him. The icy water rushed up to meet him, cold fingers wrapping around his legs, his waist, his chest, as though the lake itself had been waiting for this moment.

For a second, Adam froze, his breath catching as the chill bit into him. He imagined the water climbing higher, enveloping him entirely, the cold snug around his neck like a quiet invitation. As the current gently coaxed him downward, he let himself believe his body was sinking, weightless, carried not by struggle but by surrender. The thought of drifting, of being pulled away from everything—the pain, the rejection, the betrayal—felt almost peaceful. Far away from Lucifer, far away from it all.

The heaviness in his chest began to lift. For the first time in what felt like years, the suffocating knot of anger and despair unravelled. The ache dulled as he gave in to the water's embrace. The world around him dimmed—the dying sun’s glow, the whispering wind in the trees. It all faded into a distant hum. Adam closed his eyes and waited.

He hadn’t meant for this. Not really. But maybe… maybe this was his place. To let go, to sink into the depths, where the lake could carry him far from the ache of trying to matter, to be loved. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to fight. His breath trembled as he slipped further beneath the surface, his thoughts quieting, the current cradling him like a lullaby.

The cold tightened its grip, and Adam felt himself pulled deeper. His limbs turned heavy, his heartbeat an erratic thrum in his ears. Darkness pressed against his vision, shrinking his world to the rippling glow of the moonlight far above. His lungs burned, screaming for air, but his body refused. He was sinking, surrendering, letting the current decide. Until—

Something yanked at him. Rough, burning hands wrapped around his wrist, piercing the cold. He jolted sluggishly, then violently, as he was pulled upward. The surface shattered around him in a burst of noise and icy spray. Air rushed into his lungs in choking, broken gasps as he was dragged onto the riverbank.

Adam sat, unmoving, his soaked clothes clinging to him, heavy as the silence around him. He stared at the lake’s dark, rippling surface, where the moonlight shimmered, untouched, indifferent. His breath hitched, his lashes dripping water as he blinked. His body trembled from the cold, but inside, a different kind of chill took root.

Oh.

Oh… he hadn’t meant for this.

He hadn’t meant to fall in, hadn’t meant to sink so far. He only wanted to escape for a moment, to lose himself in the water and leave his emotions behind—not to let go of everything. Not like that.

The bank beneath him was jagged and unkind, the stones biting through his drenched clothes. The night air cut into his skin, sharp and relentless. Adam coughed, his chest heaving as water spilled from his lungs, each breath raw and painful. Tears blurred his vision, and he couldn’t tell if they were from the lake or the sharp ache inside him.

Beside him, someone gasped, their breaths uneven and shallow. Adam turned his head sluggishly toward the sound, but his body refused to move, rooted in exhaustion and the weight of what just happened.

"Adam," the voice choked out, hoarse and trembling, "Addie..."

Lucifer collapsed onto his knees beside him, his slender frame trembling from the cold and exertion. His blonde hair was plastered to his pale face, rivulets of water trailing down his sharp features. His soaked clothes clung to his thin, bony frame, making him look even smaller, more fragile than usual.

But Adam didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at anything. His gaze was locked on the water, the dark, rippling surface that had nearly claimed him. The world around him was muted, distant, like he was watching it through frosted glass. He didn’t feel the stones cutting into his skin, didn’t register the frantic movement of the boy beside him. He just sat there, his hands limp in his lap, his body slack and unresponsive.

Lucifer, crouched beside him, coughed violently, his thin frame shuddering with each ragged breath. His golden hair clung to his pale face, drenched and tangled, but he didn’t care. His wide blue eyes were frantic, darting over Adam as if trying to make sure he was still there, still alive.

"Adam," Lucifer croaked, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Addie—Adam, please."

His hands trembled as they reached for Adam, fumbling over the wet fabric of his hoodie. The material was cold and unyielding under his touch, but Lucifer clung to it like it was a lifeline. He tugged weakly at the hood, trying to pull Adam closer, his voice breaking into incoherent hiccups.

"Don’t—don’t you dare do that again," Lucifer choked out, his words fragmented by the sobs clawing up his throat.

Tears blurred his vision as he leaned in, cupping Adam’s face with shaking hands. His palms felt the sharp chill of Adam’s skin, but Adam didn’t flinch, didn’t react. His green eyes remained fixed on the water, empty and hollow, as if his soul had been left behind beneath the surface.

Lucifer’s heart fractured further at the sight.

"Addie, please, look at me," he begged, his voice high and desperate. "Please, say something—anything! Just... just let me know you're still here."

But Adam didn’t say a word. His silence was deafening, louder than any scream could ever be.

A broken sob escaped Lucifer as he dropped his forehead against Adam’s shoulder, his body wracked with trembling cries. His arms slid around Adam’s-soaked form, clinging to him as if he could hold him together, as if his embrace alone could anchor him to the world. Lucifer buried his face in the crook of Adam’s neck, his tears mixing with the lake water that still dripped from Adam’s hair.

"This is all my fault," Lucifer whispered, his voice barely audible, muffled against Adam’s cold skin. "I—I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to push you away."

His fingers gripped Adam’s hoodie tighter, his knuckles white with the effort.

"I’m sorry," he gasped, his sobs spilling freely now. "I’m so sorry, Addie. I should’ve been better. I should’ve seen—"

His voice cracked, splintering into a cry that tore from his chest. "You’re all I have. You’re everything, and I almost—"

 He couldn’t finish the thought, the words dying in his throat. Lucifer pulled back slightly, just enough to look at Adam’s face, his blue eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw and pleading. "Please, don’t leave me. I—"

He faltered, his breath hitching. "I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to."

Adam remained motionless, his expression unreadable. The warmth that had always defined him, that radiated through every smile, every laugh, was gone. Lucifer shook his head, his tears falling harder.

"Say something, Addie," he begged again, his voice barely holding together. "Hate me, scream at me, anything—just don’t leave me like this. Please don’t leave me."

The silence stretched, suffocating and cruel. Lucifer’s chest heaved with the weight of his grief, his heart breaking further with every passing second that Adam didn’t respond. Finally, with a trembling breath, Lucifer rested his head against Adam’s shoulder again, his tears soaking into the fabric of his hoodie.

"I’m sorry," he whispered again, his voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the night. "I’m so, so sorry."

For what felt like an eternity, Adam sat like a statue, unyielding and silent. Lucifer clung to him, his sobs gradually fading into quiet, shaky breaths. The lake continued to ripple in the breeze, its surface glittering mockingly under the pale moonlight, while the world around them felt as if it had been carved into a graveyard of frozen moments.

And still, Adam said nothing.

Lucifer clung to Adam like a lifeline, his entire frame trembling with the weight of the words he could no longer keep inside. His fingers dug into Adam’s sodden hoodie, his face buried in the curve of Adam’s shoulder as the tears spilled freely, soaking into the already damp fabric. Each word that escaped him was a jagged edge, scraping raw against his throat.

"I—I didn’t like her, Addie," he stammered, the confession clawing its way out of him in a broken gasp. "Lilith—I never liked her. I wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to help you win her over, I didn’t want too. I didn’t want you to be with her, not because I had an interest in her. God, no. I hated her. I hated the way you looked at her, I hated that you thought you weren’t enough, like you needed to change to fit her stupid, shallow expectations. She wasn’t good enough for you, Addie! She wasn’t!"

His fingers tightened their grip, pulling Adam closer as if terrified he might slip away again.

"I—I made her focus on me," he choked, his voice rising in desperation. "Not because you weren’t good enough for her, but because she wasn’t good enough for you. I didn’t want her to take you away from me, Adam. It’s always been us—just us. And I was so scared. So scared that she’d ruin that."

Adam remained still, his head tilted slightly, his face unreadable. His silence only made Lucifer spiral further.

"I was selfish," Lucifer continued, his sobs hitching with every breath. "I thought if I could just make her leave, everything would go back to normal. But it didn’t. You started pulling away from me, Addie. You started... slipping through my fingers, and it killed me. I didn’t want that! I was so relieved when she stopped bothering us, but then—then you kept talking about her. You kept bringing her up, acting like I loved her, like I cared about her, and it wasn’t true! It wasn’t true!"

Lucifer pressed his face harder against Adam’s shoulder, his voice muffled and thick with tears. "I never loved her. I never even liked her. I just wanted to keep you with me. I wanted us to stay the way we were."

A sharp sob tore through him as he tried to catch his breath, but the words wouldn’t stop. They spilled out in a torrent, unstoppable now.

"And then there was Lute," he gasped, his voice cracking. "You told me about her, and it was like—I don’t know, Addie, it felt like she was threatening to take you away too. Another alpha, another someone trying to come between us. I—I couldn’t let that happen."

His grip faltered for a moment, his fingers trembling against Adam’s hoodie.

"I did the same thing with her," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I made her look at me. She wanted an omega to protect and take care of, so I became that. I played the part just to make her go away. And it worked, didn’t it? She left. She cut you off. She wasn’t good enough for you, Addie. She wasn’t. None of them are!"

Lucifer’s sobs grew louder, more frantic, as he clutched Adam tighter, as if he could pour all his anguish into that embrace.

"I’m sorry," he cried, over and over, his voice breaking with every word. "I’m so sorry, Addie. I was scared. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I hurt you, and I’m so—so sorry."

Adam’s silence loomed over him, oppressive and deafening. Lucifer’s chest heaved with the effort of trying to explain, to justify, to beg for forgiveness all at once.

"And Eve," he rasped, his voice raw. "God, Eve. She was poison, Addie. She kept saying—kept telling me I was born wrong, that I was broken, that I had to be fixed. She didn’t care about you. She didn’t care about us. She just wanted to tear me away from you and ruin everything. I had to get her away from you, Addie. I had to. She wasn’t right for you."

Lucifer pulled back slightly, his tear-streaked face a picture of devastation as he looked at Adam’s blank, dazed expression. His hands moved to cup Adam’s face, trembling as they cradled him gently, almost reverently.

"And Steve—" Lucifer let out a bitter, almost hysterical laugh through his tears. "I didn’t even know Steve. You didn’t even know him! But the way he moved on, the way he made out with someone else the moment you weren’t looking—it proved it, didn’t it? He wasn’t good enough either, Addie. He wasn’t. None of them are. None of them could ever love you like I do."

Lucifer’s voice cracked on the last word, and he swallowed hard, his chest tight with the weight of the final, unspoken truth.

"Because I do, Addie," he whispered, his thumb brushing against Adam’s clammy cheek. "I love you. I’ve loved you since we were kids. You’re the only person who’s ever accepted me, who’s ever looked at me like I wasn’t broken, like I wasn’t just an omega to be pitied or fixed. You’re everything to me, Addie. Everything. And I—I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you to someone else."

His tears fell faster now, hot and endless, as he leaned his forehead against Adam’s, his voice breaking with every syllable. "I love you so much, and I’ve hurt you so much, and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to make you see—I just—I’m so sorry, Addie. I’m so sorry."

Lucifer’s sobs wracked his body as he held Adam’s face, his blue eyes searching desperately for any sign of recognition, any flicker of response. But Adam remained still, his expression blank, his silence a void that threatened to swallow Lucifer whole.

Lucifer’s hands shook as they gripped Adam’s face, his fingers trembling against Adam’s skin as if his touch could somehow pull Adam back to him, make him see the truth. His chest ached, a suffocating, hollow pain that felt like it was ripping him apart from the inside. Every breath he took felt jagged, caught somewhere between regret and desperation, like he was suffocating on the words he’d never said before. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold them in, but now, with Adam so close, the dam had broken.

“I’m twisted, Addie,” Lucifer choked out, his voice hoarse with the weight of everything he had buried for so long. “I—I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of anybody else touching you. Anybody else being with you.”

His breath hitched, his hands tightening their grip on Adam’s shoulders, pulling him even closer as if he could absorb Adam’s warmth into his very being.

He winced, like the admission itself had left a wound. “When somebody else even gets near you, it’s like… it’s like I’m going to throw up. I—I can smell their pheromones, Addie. I can feel them, feel their presence on you, and it’s… it’s unbearable. Like they’re taking something that’s mine. You’ve always been mine. You’ve always been the one who mattered. But I was too afraid to ever tell you. I thought—I thought if you knew just how much I loved you, you’d hate me. That you’d see how twisted I am. How broken I am.”

His eyes searched Adam’s face, desperate for any sign, any hint of a reaction, but Adam’s expression remained unreadable, a blank slate that only made Lucifer feel more hopeless, more out of control.

“I didn’t know what to do, Addie. I didn’t know how to tell you,” Lucifer continued, his voice a mix of agony and shame. "So I... I played games. Every time someone showed interest in you, every time someone threatened to take you away, I—I played games. I was so scared, Addie. I thought if I could just make them go away, make them leave you alone, we could stay together, just the two of us. I thought you’d never see through it, never see how messed up I really am. But I was wrong. I was so, so wrong."

He pulled back slightly, his fingers trembling as he wiped his tears away, only to have them replaced by more, the flood of emotion too much to contain. His voice grew quieter, more fragile, like the very weight of his confession was too much for him to bear.

“You deserve more than this, Adam,” Lucifer whispered. “You deserve someone who doesn’t play these games, who doesn’t treat you like a prize to fight for. But I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t let anyone take you. And so I—Lilith, Lute, Eve, Steve—they were never real to me. None of them mattered. They were just people in the way, people I had to remove, because I love you too much. I couldn’t let them take you from me. I thought I could make you see that, if I just kept playing the part, you’d stay. But I was wrong.”

Lucifer’s breath shuddered as he leaned his forehead against Adam’s, his eyes searching desperately for some kind of understanding, for some glimmer of forgiveness that he didn’t think he deserved.

“I’m so sorry, Addie,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ve just been too much of a coward to say it.”

He swallowed hard, feeling his heart crack with each word. “You’re the only one who’s ever been on my mind. The only one I’ve ever cared about. And now… now I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”

Lucifer’s fingers slipped down Adam’s arms, his touch trembling, but he didn’t pull away. “I thought… I thought I could protect you from them. From anyone who would take you away from me. But all I did was push you further and further from me. I didn’t know how to stop. I just wanted you to stay, just wanted you to need me the way I need you.”

He let out a broken laugh, his eyes squeezing shut as he felt the weight of his own words. “I’m a coward, Addie. A selfish coward. And I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need you to know how much I love you. I need you to know the truth, even if it’s too late."

Lucifer’s breath was coming in sharp, uneven gasps now, the emotions swirling inside him too much to bear. “Please… please, say something. Please tell me you don’t hate me. I don’t know what I’ll do if you do.”

 His voice cracked, the rawness of his confession settling deep within him, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a way he had never allowed himself to be before. But even as the words spilled from him, he was terrified that Adam’s silence, his blank expression, meant that it was all too late.

“I love you, Adam,” Lucifer whispered one last time, his voice fragile. “I’ve always loved you. And I’ll keep loving you, even if you never forgive me. Even if you never look at me the same way again."

Adam’s head spun, each word sinking into him like a weight too heavy to bear. The world around him blurred, the air thick with the oppressive weight of Lucifer’s confession, like it was suffocating him. He couldn’t breathe. His vision swayed, and his stomach churned as the words rattled around in his skull, refusing to make sense. The dizziness spun faster, each thought, each memory twisting with the harsh sting of betrayal, of love, of something he wasn’t sure he could comprehend.

His heart raced, thudding in his chest as he struggled to make sense of what Lucifer had said. It was all too much. Too much too fast. His body felt like it was collapsing under the weight of it all. He felt like he might throw up, the bile rising in his throat as his ears rang with the frantic urgency in Lucifer’s voice.

“Please… please just say something…” The desperation in Lucifer’s tone cut through him, the rawness, the pleading, but Adam couldn’t respond.

Not yet. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked and sore. He didn’t know what to say. The world felt like it was slipping out of focus, and he was slipping with it.

"I..." Adam started; his voice rough, hoarse as it cracked under the weight of his confusion. The words felt like they were choking him, each syllable heavier than the last. The air was thick with tension, every breath seeming to get caught in his throat.

Lucifer’s breath hitched at the sound of Adam’s voice, a flicker of hope crossing his tear-streaked face. He crawled closer, moving desperately, frantically to Adam’s side. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as they cupped Adam’s face, leaning in, begging.

"Yes? Yes? What is it, Addie? Please—please, just tell me! I’ll do anything. Anything, just please don’t leave me." His voice cracked, raw with emotion, desperate to cling to whatever shred of connection he could.

Adam’s heart hammered in his chest, but his mind couldn’t follow. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. He wanted to say something. Anything. But his body felt like it was betraying him, and his voice wouldn’t come.

"I’m..." Adam paused, his words choking him, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

He tried to lick his lips, but they were too dry, stinging as the movement scraped painfully against his cracked skin. His whole body flinched, the reality of the situation crashing down on him. This was it, wasn’t it? This was the moment everything changed. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his vision fuzzy and out of focus.

"I’m going home," he finally mumbled, his voice little more than a whisper, but it felt like it echoed in the space between them. It hung in the air like a bitter truth that neither of them was ready to face.

Lucifer’s eyes, swollen and red from crying, widened in shock, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He blinked rapidly, like trying to dispel the words Adam had just said, as if they were some kind of cruel trick.

"What? No, Addie, please..." His voice broke, desperate, like a man clinging to the last thread of hope. "You’re... you’re leaving? You’re really going?"

His hands scrambled for Adam, reaching out, his fingers grazing the wet fabric of Adam’s hoodie. But it was like he couldn’t hold on. His fingers slipped uselessly down Adam’s arm, helpless, unable to stop him.

The panic hit him then—raw, unfiltered, and fierce. It was an acid-hot flare that shot through his chest, making his heart skip a beat, making his limbs feel numb.

"Addie!" Lucifer cried out, his voice a ragged sob. His hands reached out again, this time grabbing onto Adam’s arm, tugging at him with a desperation that bordered on madness. "Please! Please don’t leave me!"

He scrambled on his knees, his body trembling as he tried to pull Adam back. "I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Addie! Please don’t leave me! Don’t hate me! I love you, I love you so much!"

His voice was breaking, his chest heaving with each painful breath, as if the words themselves were choking him. "Hit me! Push me around! Scream at me, yell at me! Anything, Addie! Just—just don’t leave me again!"

Lucifer’s tears fell freely now, streaking down his face, his sobs wracking his fragile form as he clung to Adam’s arm, his fingers shaking as he begged. The guilt, the self-loathing, the fear of losing Adam—everything crashed down on him at once. And all he could do was beg. Beg for Adam to stay. Beg for another chance. Beg for forgiveness, though he knew deep down that he didn’t deserve it.

"Please… don’t leave me. I’ll do anything... anything you want. Just please—" Lucifer gasped for air, his words stuttering as the overwhelming weight of his own pain consumed him. He pressed his forehead to Adam’s arm, as if trying to ground himself, trying to hold onto whatever piece of Adam was still there, still with him.

 "I’m so sorry, Addie. Please, please don’t leave me…"

The plea hung in the air between them, trembling with the raw ache of a love that had been both a gift and a curse. Lucifer was drowning in his own regret, in his own twisted need, and Adam, standing there, seemed like the only thing keeping him from completely unravelling.

But Adam… Adam wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t even looking at Lucifer anymore. And in that silence, in that hollow emptiness, Lucifer realized he may have already lost him.

Lucifer's fingers slipped down Adam’s arm, cold and trembling. He felt himself losing his grip, but he curled his hands desperately around Adam’s, clinging to him like a lifeline, his fingers shaking as he held on with both of his, trying to keep Adam close. His hands were so cold, his skin almost numb, but the warmth of Adam’s hand was all he needed, all he could focus on. His breathing hitched, a soft whimper escaping his lips as he gazed up at Adam with wide, tear-blurred eyes.

"Please, Adam..." Lucifer begged, his voice cracking, the words tumbling out in a broken plea. "Please, Addie... I’ll do anything you want. I won’t complain. I won’t say a single word against whatever you demand. You can hit me, hurt me, use me. I don’t care. I don’t care what you do to do, I don’t care if you use my body or beat me. Just don’t leave me, please."

His words were desperate, pitiful, his whole body trembling as if it might shatter into a thousand pieces under the weight of his own guilt. He sniffled, his chest tight with emotion as he gazed up at Adam, his eyes frantically trying to meet his green ones.

But Adam didn’t look down at him. Adam’s face remained a distant blur, the cool night air surrounding them thick with silence, broken only by the occasional crack of thunder in the distance. Lucifer’s eyes burned, still searching, his fingers tightening on Adam’s hand, trying to force him to look, to see how badly he needed him, how badly he was crumbling without him.

The sky cracked with a thunderous roar as the last remnants of the sun disappeared behind the mountains. And then, the rain fell.

It came quickly, heavy and unforgiving, soaking them both in an instant. The first drops hit Lucifer’s skin, cold and stinging. He didn’t flinch. Neither of them did. Adam didn’t flinch, even as the rain washed away the dirt and grime, the remnants of their pasts, their history, their brokenness. The only thing that moved was Lucifer’s grip, tightening on Adam’s hand, curling around it like a desperate plea to stop the world from crumbling.

The bonfire flickered out behind them, the flames extinguished by the rain, leaving behind only the distant murmurs of disappointed voices, the sound of people leaving, the sound of them moving on. Nobody walked their way. Nobody came to save them.

"Adam..." Lucifer called again, his voice broken, rasping, barely audible over the storm.

His chest tightened with the weight of everything unsaid, everything that had been built between them. Adam finally blinked, turning his head, his gaze falling on the other omega.

Lucifer was still on his knees, his clothes soaked, the mud clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes, once so bright, now looked dim, dull with the pain of everything he had kept hidden. His red-rimmed eyes were framed by the red carnation and apple crown—still there, still a symbol of their bond, even as everything else unravelled. Lucifer’s breath hitched as he looked up at Adam, trying, so desperately, to meet his gaze.

“A-Addie…” Lucifer breathed, the words a shudder, a sob that caught in his throat. He looked at Adam, his heart thundering in his chest as the rain fell harder, drenching them both.

"Do you hate me, Addie?" The words slipped from his mouth in a soft, fragile whisper, but it felt like they cut through him like a blade. "Do you hate me?"

Adam’s lips parted slightly, and Lucifer’s chest constricted with fear, but Adam didn’t answer. Instead, Adam spoke the words that sent a jolt through Lucifer’s heart.

"I’m going home now."

Lucifer’s world shattered. He didn’t say that he didn’t hate him. He didn’t say anything to assure him. Lucifer’s chest tightened, a sick, burning pain spreading through him like a wildfire, searing his heart.

"Adam, please..." Lucifer sobbed, his voice ragged, his hand still clinging to Adam’s. "Please, don’t leave me… I’m so sorry, Addie... I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was selfish. Please don’t leave me alone."

Adam didn’t respond. He simply shifted, his hand pulling from Lucifer’s grip, the movement sharp and cold. Lucifer’s eyes widened in panic as Adam began to step away, his hand slipping from Lucifer’s grasp. Lucifer struggled to hold on, squirming on his knees, trying to keep his fingers wrapped around Adam’s, his nails digging into Adam’s skin as he tried to anchor himself.

"Please, Adam! Please! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!" Lucifer’s voice cracked with each frantic plea, his breath coming in sobs. "Please don’t leave me again. Please, please, Addie!"

But Adam pulled away, harder this time, his hand slipping free with a final, painful yank. Lucifer’s nails scraped across Adam’s skin, leaving shallow marks as his body trembled with the shock of it. Adam stumbled back, his foot slipping in the mud before he braced himself against a tree, but Lucifer didn’t stop. His eyes followed Adam’s every movement, his heart hammering in his chest.

The rain continued to fall, heavier now, soaking both of them to the bone.

Adam blinked down at Lucifer, his gaze hard, distant, unyielding. Neither spoke, their silence louder than any words could be. The thunder rolled again, louder this time, and the rain turned into sheets of water, pelting them both. Adam took a step back, his voice cold and hard, final.

"I’m going home. You should do the same."

And without another word, Adam turned, walking away from Lucifer, leaving him behind, alone in the rain.

Lucifer’s breath caught in his throat, the cold air stinging his lungs. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His body trembled, his hands shaking as he crawled forward, dragging himself through the mud. He moved inch by inch, desperate, pleading without a voice, hoping, praying that Adam would turn back. But Adam didn’t.

Adam didn’t look back.

Lucifer stopped, his hands shaking in the mud, his body crumpling into the ground as his sobs wracked his body. His chest burned with the weight of everything—his guilt, his love, his fear.

This wasn’t how it was meant to happen. This wasn’t how it was meant to end.

His sobs were broken, gasping, choking on his own tears.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered into the rain, his voice barely audible over the storm. "I’m so sorry, Addie… Please… don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone…"

But the only answer was the rain, the distant sound of footsteps fading away, and the cold, empty space between them that grew larger with each passing second. And Lucifer, broken and lost, sank deeper into the mud, crumbling under the weight of everything he had done, everything he had lost.

“Please come back.”

~#~

The following days felt like a blur to Adam, a fog of sickness and exhaustion that seemed to swallow him whole. Every step he took, every breath he drew, was heavy—each one a burden he couldn’t escape. He felt like he was moving in slow motion, like he was walking through a world where everything was muted, stripped of color, drained of meaning. It was as though the weight of the rain, of the words, of the pain, had followed him inside, seeping into his bones.

Of course, he was sick. He had always been fragile, always too soft, too weak for this world. Omegas were always the ones who couldn’t weather the storms. And the storm that had ravaged him, that had torn through his heart just hours earlier, had left its mark.

The moment Adam stepped inside his small, cramped flat, he collapsed onto his bed without so much as a thought. His body, drenched in cold rain, felt too heavy to move, too numb to care. His eyes were raw from crying, his throat sore, and his heart... His heart was empty, a hollow ache where love used to live. He didn’t bother to strip off his damp clothes or get under the covers; he didn’t care. He just lay there, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

He woke hours later, still fully clothed, lying atop the thick quilt he usually found comfort in. His head pounded with a ferocity that made him wish the world would just stop. The air was thick, suffocating, and he could feel the fever creeping over him. His body felt feverish, his skin flushed and sticky. He tried to push himself up, but everything was too much, too overwhelming. The slightest movement caused his stomach to churn, and he sank back down, the cold sting of the wet clothes against his skin only reminding him of how broken he truly felt.

And so, the next few days passed in a haze. He could barely lift his head from the pillow, too weak to even get up to go to the bathroom. He called in sick to work—his voice barely a whisper when he spoke, cracking under the weight of exhaustion and fever.

The days stretched on, blending into one another, marked only by the incessant ringing in his head, the sickening throb that pulsed behind his eyes. He couldn’t remember when it had started, but the pain felt like it would never end. It was like the rain, the loss, the betrayal, had all settled into his body, turning it against him, twisting his insides into something unrecognizable. He wanted to escape it, to make it stop, but there was no escape. Not from the sickness. Not from himself.

Finally, after what felt like days of lying in a fevered stupor, Adam forced himself to sit up. His body protested, every joint aching, every muscle weak, but he couldn’t lay there any longer. He had to get up, to find some kind of relief. His legs shook as he swung them off the bed, but his knees buckled beneath him, and he had to catch himself against the edge of the nightstand.

The room was spinning.

Adam’s breaths came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself upright, fighting to stay steady on his feet. The thumping in his skull intensified with each step he took, like a drumbeat in his mind. Every footfall echoed in his ears, reverberating through his body like a slow, painful torture. He stumbled, barely managing to catch himself against the bathroom doorframe.

His vision blurred as he reached for the door handle, but it was as if the world was playing tricks on him—spinning, distorting, twisting. He barely registered the bathroom as he stumbled forward, his legs threatening to give out again. He had to sit down, just for a moment, just to catch his breath, just to stop the world from spinning.

With a shaky hand, he lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid, too weak to make it to the bathroom counter. The ringing in his ears was unbearable now, the room swimming around him. He put his head in his hands, trying to steady himself. His heart pounded erratically, too fast, too loud. But the dizziness wouldn't subside.

He forced himself to open his eyes, blinking hard as he reached for the cupboard above the sink. His fingers were numb, trembling as they brushed against the cold bottles of flu medication. The world around him shifted again, everything sliding out of focus. He couldn’t tell if he was standing or sitting or if his body was still somewhere between the two. But eventually, after what felt like an eternity, his fingers found the bottle he needed.

He clutched the pill bottle in his hands, his grip weak, and brought it to his lips, swallowing the pills without a second thought. It didn’t matter that his throat burned, or that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something. The fever, the pain, the emptiness—it was all too much, and the only thing he could do was force something into his body, hope it helped, hope it numbed the ache that was consuming him.

But even as he swallowed the medication, it felt like nothing would ever help. It felt like there was no escape from the hollow pit inside his chest, the darkness that had taken root ever since he left Lucifer behind.

His whole body trembled as he finally lowered the bottle, the cold sinking deep into his bones. He leaned against the bathroom wall, his eyes heavy, the dizziness so intense it felt like he might fall over. The room seemed to close in on him, and he sank back against the tile, curling up on the floor as the world spun faster, faster, until he could no longer tell where the pain ended, and the exhaustion began.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He was alone, lost in his own sickness, too weak to fight, too broken to care. The world outside could keep turning, could keep spinning. But Adam couldn’t.

Not anymore.

The next day, Adam woke in his bed, his body still weak but no longer consumed by the fever. The fog in his head had begun to clear, though the thudding ache that had plagued him since the night of the bonfire lingered, a dull reminder of everything he had pushed to the back of his mind. He rubbed his face with a groan, the rough stubble catching against his palm. Shifting beneath the quilts, he sat up slowly, testing his balance, feeling the familiar ache in his muscles from having been bedridden for so long. He wasn’t dizzy anymore. The thundering pulse in his head had softened to a dull throb, like distant thunder that still rumbled but didn’t seem to threaten a storm.

A deep sigh escaped him as he tilted his head toward the bedroom window. His green eyes—once so full of light—were dim now, their spark having dulled. The rain still pattered down, soft but steady, against the glass. The sky was a heavy grey, and the air felt colder, a clear sign that summer had finally given in to autumn.

Ah. Summer was officially over now.

Adam’s mind replayed the memory of the bonfire—the way it had felt like a farewell, a final chapter in something he had never fully understood. The bonfire had always been the closing of summer, the marking of a transition. And yet, it felt more like an end than just a season changing.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and grimaced, the tangling strands only adding to the discomfort. He needed a shower, a clean start, something to wash away the sickly weight of everything that had happened. He needed to do something, anything, to feel like himself again. Go back to work, face the world—just move.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut for five long minutes, hoping to push the thoughts of Lucifer from his mind. But they were persistent. They kept returning, over and over again, until he couldn’t ignore them anymore. So, with a strained sigh, he slipped out of bed, stumbling slightly as his legs wobbled beneath him. He felt weak, exhausted, like he was dragging himself through a haze. He hadn’t been up for more than a few minutes when his knees threatened to buckle. His body felt like it had been drained of life.

He wandered aimlessly through his small flat, the familiar space feeling foreign, as if it wasn’t even his anymore. The routine actions felt automatic—he showered, brushed his teeth, dressed. He didn’t really pay attention to what he was doing, his mind too occupied with the tangled mess inside his chest.

But then, as he turned toward the chest of drawers to grab socks, something caught his eye. He froze.

There, atop the drawers, were the photo frames. His heart seemed to stop. His green eyes locked onto them, the familiar warmth of those images striking him like a cold wave. He felt something tight in his throat as he stepped closer, his fingers trembling. He knew what they were before he even looked.

It was the photographs. The ones he had kept. The ones he had never been able to throw away, even after everything.

Adam’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stood there, gazing at the collection of memories. The first photo was of him and Lucifer—two little boys, beaming at the camera. Adam’s smile was wide, almost too big for his face, his eyes sparkling with the thrill of being so grown-up on their first day of primary school. Lucifer was pressed against him, holding onto Adam’s school sweater with his tiny, trembling fingers. He looked so small, so shy compared to Adam’s excited expression.

Ah, Adam remembered. It was their first day at school. Neither of them had known anything about alphas, omegas, or betas then. It was just Adam and Lucifer. Two best friends, inseparable, happy. Just kids. There was a red carnation pinned to each of their sweaters—signaling that they were unpresented, still unaware of the world beyond their small, perfect little bubble.

He moved to the next photo. It was the same—Lucifer beside him. But this one was taken after Lucifer had presented as an omega. Adam’s heart clenched in his chest as he studied the image. He could see the sadness in Lucifer’s eyes that Adam hadn’t noticed at the time. Back then, he had promised to look after him, to take care of him. Lucifer’s family had turned their backs on him when he presented, but Adam hadn’t known how deep the hurt went. He only knew that Lucifer needed him. And so, Lucifer stayed with them, with Adam’s family, because his own had rejected him.

Adam swallowed hard, his throat tight as he stared at the next photo. This one was of him and Lucifer, holding sparklers on a summer night, fireworks lighting up the sky behind them. The moment was magical, the kind of simple happiness only childhood could offer. But there, in that photo, Adam had never noticed that Lucifer’s eyes weren’t looking at the fireworks. They were looking at him, his face tilted ever so slightly toward Adam, his eyes soft and full of something Adam hadn’t understood until now.

In the next photo, Adam could see the difference. He had presented as an omega, his arms around Lucifer in a tight, protective hug. Adam’s mom was between them, squeezing them both into a warm embrace. Lucifer’s cheeks were blushed, his fingers curled into the bottom of Adam’s oversized hoodie. The moment had been filled with so much joy—love, in its purest form. But looking at it now, Adam saw the way Lucifer’s gaze lingered on him. He was always looking at him. Always.

It hit him harder than he expected—the realization that Lucifer had been holding on to him all along. Every moment, every memory.

But then he picked up the last photo—the one taken before Eve and before Lute. It was of them sitting on a fallen log, wearing their familiar carnation and apple flower crowns. It had been taken at Adam’s grandpa’s birthday. And in that photo, Lucifer was pressed up against Adam’s side, his arms wrapped around Adam’s, his face beaming with happiness, his head leaning against Adam’s.

The image was so full of warmth. So full of love.

Adam let out a breath, his fingers brushing over their faces. He had kept these photos all these years. Even after Eve and Lute, he had never thrown them away. They were all he had left. The only tangible pieces of the bond he and Lucifer had shared.

“Lucifer loves me?” Adam whispered, staring down at the photograph in his hand.

His eyes flickered between the other photos, the truth settling into his bones like a stone. He put the picture back down, his hands shaking as he stood up and pulled a box from beneath the chest of drawers. Inside, there was an album. A collection of photos of them—so many of Lucifer by himself, so many where Lucifer was looking at him, always touching him, always holding on to him, his fingers curled into Adam’s clothing. Always the same—Lucifer was smiling, but it was the way he looked at Adam that spoke louder than anything.

The realization hit him like a slap to the face.

“Holy shit.” Adam whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “How didn’t I see it?”

It was so obvious now. How had he missed it? Lucifer had been in love with him for so long, and Adam had been blind to it. Every sign was there in the photographs. All those times he had smiled at them, never noticing the tenderness in Lucifer’s gaze. The way Lucifer had always looked at him. Always reaching out to him. Always seeking contact with him.

Lucifer had been in love with him.

And Adam had never seen it.

Adam sat back heavily on the edge of his bed; the photo album still open in his hands. His fingers trembled as he stared down at the images, the weight of the truth finally crashing down on him. Lucifer had loved him. Had always loved him. How had he not seen it before? How had he been so blind to it?

His mind raced as the pieces began to fall into place, one after another. Suddenly, everything made sense—the way Lucifer always sought out his touch, always needed to be close to him. Adam’s stomach churned as the memories flooded in, sharp and painful, like a thousand cuts.

Lucifer had never used the bed his mama had set up for him when he stayed at Adam’s house. It was because Lucifer liked being with him. It was because Lucifer wanted to be close to him, wanted to be near him every single night. He had always shared Adam’s bed, even though he had a perfectly good one of his own.

The same way Lucifer had never built his own nest, always choosing to settle within Adam’s. They had shared a space for so long, but it had never clicked. Adam had thought it was just how things were between them—comfortable, natural. He had never questioned it. Why would he? It was just them.

But now... now it felt like a slap to the face. Lucifer had never wanted anything of his own. All the things Adam had taken for granted, all the small signs that had been so obvious in hindsight, came crashing down on him. The way Lucifer always wanted to hold his hand, the way he would slide closer during the nights they spent watching movies, the way his arms would wrap around Adam whenever they slept. Always so close. Always seeking the warmth of his touch.

Even when they’d gone to college, when they’d shared a dorm room, Lucifer had never used his own space. Adam’s heart twisted. He had always thought it was because they were best friends. It seemed natural that they would share a room. But Lucifer had his own room. He had his own bed. Yet, he had chosen to sleep in Adam’s. He had never even made an attempt to build a nest of his own.

And then there were the clothes. Adam had always thought it was endearing how Lucifer would borrow his things. His oversized hoodies, his shirts, even his underwear. It had never bothered him, not once. It was just the way they were. But now, it was so obvious. Lucifer hadn’t just borrowed his things because they were comfortable or because he didn’t have his own. No. He’d taken them because he wanted to have something of Adam’s, something that would tie him to Adam. in ways Adam hadn’t understood.

The underwear.

Adam's chest tightened as he recalled how, on more than one occasion, his underwear had gone missing. He’d chalked it up to losing them, forgetting where he had put them. But they would always turn up—clean and freshly folded, as if Lucifer had been taking care of them. It had never occurred to him, not once, that Lucifer had been using them.

Omegas.

Adam’s stomach lurched. Omegas were known for doing that. They would take the clothes, the underwear, of the one they loved, the one they wanted to mate with. They would wear them in secret, to be close to their scent, to feel their presence when their mate wasn’t there. Use them during their intimate moments alone. That’s what Lucifer had been doing all along. Taking Adam’s things, wearing them like a silent confession and using them to bring himself sweet relief.

Of course, Lucifer had been in love with him.

It wasn’t just the clothing. It wasn’t just the subtle touches or the constant closeness. It was everything. It was in the way Lucifer had always smelled—like apples. That sweetness, that warmth that clung to him, the pheromones that Adam had noticed but had never thought twice about. Lucifer always released it whenever they were together, mingling it with Adam’s own pheromones. They were there, every day. The scent that lingered in the air, the one that made Adam’s heartbeat faster, that made him feel at ease when Lucifer was nearby.

All of these were telltale signs of an Omega in love. Signs of an Omega that were presenting themselves to their chosen mate. Signs of an Omega that wanted to spread their legs for that certain person.

Adam felt dizzy, like the world had tilted on its axis. All this time, all these years, and he hadn’t seen it. The way Lucifer had loved him—always, so silently, so quietly. He had been right in front of him, all along. The signs had been there, just waiting for Adam to wake up. But he had been too blind to see.

He clutched the photo album to his chest, the weight of the photographs suddenly unbearable. The truth had settled deep inside him, making him feel like he was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. He had missed every single sign.

Lucifer had loved him for so long.

And Adam had never once realized.

"How... how could I have been so stupid?" he whispered to himself, his voice breaking.

He felt the sting of tears that threatened to spill, but he quickly wiped them away, anger bubbling up inside him. Anger at himself. Anger at everything.

Adam exhaled deeply, a shuddering breath that felt like it carried years of buried frustration and confusion. He set the photograph down with care, his fingertips lingering on the frame as if it held all the answers he so desperately sought. But no answers came. Only silence.

"Does it excuse everything?" Adam murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. The questions churned in his mind like a storm, chaotic and relentless.

Lucifer had gone after Lilith. Not because he liked her, not because he wanted her, but because Adam did. Adam had confessed his crush on Lilith, and Lucifer had turned it into a game—a cruel, heartless game. To break her heart, Adam guessed. Or was it more than that? Was it to ensure that Lilith couldn’t like Adam back? That she wouldn’t be a threat to Lucifer’s unspoken claim on him?

The thought made Adam’s stomach twist. It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

"Why?" he asked the empty room. "Why would you do that?"

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to untangle the mess of his thoughts. But the knots only tightened. Lucifer hadn’t stopped with Lilith. No, he’d kept playing, even after Adam had told him about Lute. Lucifer had twisted the game into something else entirely—something darker. He had gone after Lute too, spinning her into the web of manipulation, breaking her heart, just as he’d done with Lilith.

"To keep me for himself," Adam muttered bitterly, the words like ash in his mouth.

That had to be it. Lucifer had wanted Adam to stay unattached, to be his and his alone. But at what cost? At what fucking cost?

Adam’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs as he thought of Eve. His first girlfriend. She had known. She had seen what Adam had been too blind to see. Eve had claimed she could fix Lucifer, that she could help him. Eve was the same as Lucifer. Both were twisted and fucked up.

"Why do all this shit?" Adam asked aloud, his voice trembling with frustration. "Why play with so many people's emotions? Why play these fucked-up games, Luci? Why?"

He stared down at the photograph of them again, his eyes lingering on Lucifer's shy smile, the way his hands were always reaching for Adam in every picture. He traced a finger over Lucifer's face, his touch light and hesitant, as if the photograph could shatter under the weight of his emotions.

"When I told you about Lilith..." Adam began, his voice cracking. "Why didn’t you just tell me then? Why didn’t you say you had feelings for me? Why didn’t you tell me after Lilith? After Eve? After Lute? Why didn’t you just... say something?"

But the photograph, of course, gave no answer.

Adam groaned deeply, dropping his head into his hands again. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to think. The weight of everything—Lucifer’s love, his manipulations, his brokenness—was crushing him. It made him feel sick all over again.

Lucifer’s games had destroyed so much. They had ruined Adam’s self-worth, leaving him to question if he was the problem, if he was the reason no one wanted him. Adam had spiraled so deeply into that despair, into that darkness, that he had walked into the lake, ready to end it all. Ready to drown the pain, the doubt, the hopelessness, in the cold, black water.

Because of Lucifer.

Because of the person Adam had trusted more than anyone else in the world. His best friend. His partner in everything. The one person who was supposed to stand by him, to protect him, to love him without causing harm. And yet... Lucifer’s love had nearly destroyed him.

Adam rubbed his eyes, his fingers digging into his temples as if he could rub away the memories, the pain.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of his anguish.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic patter of rain against the window. It should have been soothing, but it wasn’t. Not now.

Lucifer was toxic. Unguided. Poisonous in ways Adam couldn’t ignore. But Adam knew him. He knew the boy who had clung to him as a child, who had sought comfort and safety in his arms. Lucifer wasn’t just toxic; he was broken, a mess of confusion and desperation.

Adam sighed again, his heart aching in his chest.

"You’re a mess, Luci," he whispered. "And you broke me too."

But the worst part was, even now, after everything, Adam wasn’t sure he could let him go.

…but one thing was for sure.

“I need fucking therapy.”

~#~

Adam didn’t want to return to work. The thought of stepping into the sterile monotony of his office after spending a day buried in the comforting haze of nostalgia filled him with a heavy sense of dread. But he had no choice. Duty called, and reality was relentless.

The previous day had been bittersweet hours lost flipping through yellowing pages of family albums, each photo tugging at a thread in his heart. The images stirred memories of laughter and warmth; a life far removed from the cold void he now felt. It helped, just a little. He felt lighter, though still clouded, like a man who had glimpsed sunlight after weeks of rain but couldn’t quite leave the storm behind.

Standing in his small, dimly lit flat, Adam adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag and meticulously checked his coat pockets. Wallet, keys, phone—it was all there, though his movements were slow, as if his body resisted the inevitability of the day ahead. With a sigh, he stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.

As he fumbled with the lock, a voice—small, trembling, and achingly familiar—broke the silence.

“A-Adam?”

His heart froze. The muscles in his shoulders tensed as if his body braced for a blow. Slowly, he turned his head.

Lucifer stood a few feet away, an awkward figure bathed in the pale overhead light of the corridor. He looked... wrong. His golden hair, usually neat and shining, was tangled and matted, clinging to his clammy skin. His eyes, a piercing blue that once sparkled with mischief and charm, now seemed hollow, ringed with dark shadows that told of sleepless nights. He wore a red-and-orange hoodie, the zipper slightly askew, paired with torn jeans. It was a far cry from the polished image Adam had always associated with him—the tailored coats, the crisp shirts, the air of effortless elegance.

Lucifer fidgeted under Adam’s gaze, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong. His fragile state stirred something deep and instinctive within Adam—a protective urge he thought he’d buried. He wanted to pull Lucifer into the warmth of his flat, wrap him in a blanket, and shield him from the world.

But he couldn’t.

He swallowed hard, forcing those feelings down like bitter medicine. The past was a battlefield littered with betrayal, and he wasn’t ready to wade into it again. Adjusting the strap of his bag, he began to walk toward Lucifer, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

“Adam, I…” Lucifer’s voice cracked, his gaze darting everywhere but at Adam.

Adam didn’t stop. He brushed past him, the cold space between them cutting sharper than a blade. Lucifer let out a strangled noise, his hand shooting out to grab Adam’s arm. But his grip faltered, his fingers sliding off the fabric of Adam’s jacket as if even touch betrayed him.

Adam clenched his jaw, refusing to look back. He felt the weight of Lucifer’s presence behind him, the silence heavy with words neither of them could say.

Lucifer’s head dropped, his blonde hair falling into his face as he stared at his scuffed sneakers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible.

Guilt churned in Adam’s stomach, sharp and unrelenting. He wanted to turn around, wanted to wrap his arms around Lucifer and tell him it was okay, that he forgave him. But it wasn’t okay. Not yet.

Not after everything.

The memories of their past were a tangled knot of love and resentment. Lucifer had been everything to him once—his best friend, his confidant, the one person he thought he could trust with his whole heart. But that trust had been shattered when he discovered the truth: Lucifer, with his silver tongue and easy smile, had betrayed him in the worst way imaginable. Eve.

For years, Adam had been drowning in those emotions—love and hate, devotion and bitterness—all blending together into a storm that refused to settle. And now, standing in this cold, narrow corridor, those feelings surged back with a vengeance.

He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag and kept walking. His pace quickened, each step feeling heavier than the last. He wasn’t ready to face the past, wasn’t ready to confront the raw, bleeding wound that was Lucifer.

Behind him, Lucifer’s soft voice carried through the air one last time, fragile and desperate.

“Please… don’t leave me again.”

Adam’s heart ached, the words striking a chord he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. He faltered for a moment, his steps slowing, but he didn’t stop.

Not today.

Adam’s walk to Abbey Road Studios was brisk and quiet, the chill of the morning air biting against his cheeks. The streets of London had a subdued hum at this hour, the soft rustle of leaves and occasional distant rumble of a bus breaking the silence. His mind raced, though he kept his head down, focusing on the rhythm of his footsteps instead of the chaos within him.

By the time the iconic red brick facade of Abbey Road Studios loomed into view, a faint pang of nostalgia rippled through him. It was a place steeped in history, its legacy felt in every brick, every shadow. Despite the turmoil of the morning, being here never failed to stir a quiet sense of pride in Adam.

He stopped just before the entrance, pulling out his lanyard from his bag. The ID card, marked with his photograph and the words Associate Creative Producer, swung lightly as he slipped it over his head. Adam wasn’t at the top of the ladder, not by a long shot, but he had carved out a solid place for himself in the hierarchy. His voice carried weight in meetings, his ideas often nudging projects into new and exciting directions. He wasn’t just another cog in the machine—he mattered.

The glass doors slid open with a soft hiss as Adam stepped inside, the warmth of the lobby enveloping him immediately. Behind the sleek reception desk sat a beta woman with dark hair neatly pinned into a bun. She looked up from her computer, her lips curving into a polite smile.

“Morning, Adam,” she said, her tone cheery.

“Morning, Sophie.” Adam returned her smile with a quick, practiced grin, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He tapped his lanyard against the scanner by the counter and continued deeper into the building.

The corridors of Abbey Road Studios were a marvel, an intricate blend of history and modernity. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee, an oddly comforting combination. Lining the walls were golden-framed posters of the bands and artists who had recorded here—icons immortalized in vibrant stills.

To his left, a photo of The Beatles captured their electric energy in the midst of a recording session, their eyes alight with determination. Beneath it, a plaque boasted details of their legendary record deal, signed within these very walls. Further down, another frame displayed a moody black-and-white image of Pink Floyd, the caption below marking the creation of The Dark Side of the Moon.

Each image seemed to whisper stories of triumphs and struggles, the magic that turned melodies into masterpieces. Adam’s eyes drifted over a more recent addition—a shot of a young, wild-eyed indie band holding their platinum record proudly. He had been part of that project, his suggestions helping to refine their raw sound into something that resonated with millions.

He allowed himself a flicker of pride before moving on.

The studios were a maze of recording rooms, editing bays, and conference spaces, the air humming faintly with the distant strains of instruments and voices. Adam passed by a sound engineer bent over a mixing console, their headphones askew as they worked. A group of session musicians laughed over steaming cups of tea near a vending machine, their camaraderie infectious.

He finally reached his destination—a mid-sized conference room tucked behind a frosted glass door. Pushing it open, Adam stepped inside, greeted by the familiar sight of the creative team already gathered around the long, sleek table. The walls here were bare except for an acoustic panel and a digital screen displaying the agenda for today’s meeting:

Project Rewind: Pre-Launch Strategy

“Adam! Just in time,” called James, the head producer, his voice warm but brisk. “We’re diving into the campaign rollout. Got a seat for you here.”

Adam slid into the chair offered, setting his bag down by his feet. As he pulled out his notepad and pen, he felt the eyes of his colleagues on him, some nodding in acknowledgment, others already lost in their tablets and documents.

He took a deep breath, forcing his personal turmoil to the back of his mind. Here, in this room, his thoughts mattered. His opinions shaped music that would someday line these golden-framed walls.

For now, that had to be enough.

The meeting was already in full swing when the door opened again, and someone entered. Adam didn’t notice at first, focused as he was on the agenda displayed on the screen. But then the room shifted—the air itself seemed to grow charged, and Adam’s head snapped up.

There she was.

Lilith.

Time slowed as she stepped into the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She was breathtaking, just as he remembered. Her thick, golden hair cascaded down her back in waves, catching the light like spun silk. Her piercing blue eyes, sharp and impossibly clear, swept over the room with practiced confidence, taking in the faces around the table as if she owned the very air they breathed. She was dressed impeccably in a tailored cream blazer and slacks, paired with delicate gold jewelry that glinted against her tan skin.

Adam felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

It had been years since he’d last seen her, and yet the sight of her sent an avalanche of emotions crashing through him—shock, confusion, a hint of anger, and an undeniable, unwelcome spark of admiration.

“Good morning,” Lilith said, her voice smooth and commanding as she strode to the front of the room. “Thank you all for being here. I’m Lilith Faulkner, head of partnerships at Horizon Entertainment.”

Horizon Entertainment. Of course. The name alone carried weight in the industry, their talent roster a who’s who of the most influential artists in the world. This was the partner Abbey Road had been courting for months, the collaboration that could redefine the studio’s place in the modern music landscape. And she—she—was their point of contact.

“Let’s make this a productive meeting,” Lilith continued, setting her leather-bound portfolio on the table and flashing a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I believe we’re all here for the same reason: to create something unforgettable.”

Adam swallowed hard, his throat dry. He barely registered the introductions and opening remarks, barely heard James laying out the studio’s goals for the partnership. His focus kept drifting back to Lilith. She was poised, professional, every inch the powerhouse executive she’d always aspired to be.

And she hadn’t looked at him once.

“Adam,” James said, jolting him out of his thoughts. “You’ve had a lot of input on the campaign strategy for Project Rewind. Why don’t you walk us through the highlights?”

Adam blinked, forcing himself to sit straighter.

“Of course,” he said, his voice steady despite the whirlwind inside him. He leaned forward, pulling up the files on his tablet and launching into a detailed breakdown of the marketing approach. He felt Lilith’s eyes on him now, sharp and assessing, but he didn’t falter.

he discussion carried on with brisk efficiency, both sides exchanging ideas and ironing out details. Adam spoke when needed, keeping his tone measured and his demeanor calm, though his pulse raced every time Lilith addressed him directly. She was polite, her questions thoughtful, her praise sparse but genuine. They were professionals—nothing more, nothing less.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Adam didn’t linger.

The moment he had a chance, he slipped out of the room, his steps quick and purposeful. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to get away. Away from the conference room, away from Lilith, away from the unbearable knot tightening in his chest.

He found himself on the bottom floor of the studio, where the air was cooler and quieter. A private booth in the corner caught his eye, its small table and cushioned bench tucked away from prying eyes. Adam slid inside and collapsed onto the seat, his elbows hitting the table as he buried his head in his arms.

A groan escaped him, muffled by his sleeves.

Everything was a mess.

Seeing Lilith again had reopened wounds he hadn’t realized were still raw. Her presence alone had stirred up memories of a time when things were simpler, when their lives had been intertwined in ways that felt unbreakable. And yet, here they were—strangers in a professional setting, pretending the past didn’t exist.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. He was still reeling from the truth about Lucifer, from the lies and betrayals that had fractured everything he thought he knew. And now Lilith—beautiful, powerful, untouchable Lilith—had reappeared like a ghost from another life.

Adam clenched his fists, his knuckles pressing into the soft leather of the booth. He felt unmoored, as though the ground beneath him had shifted and he was scrambling to find his footing.

For a moment, he allowed himself to stay like that, head down, shoulders hunched, letting the weight of it all press down on him. He needed this—needed to feel the full extent of his frustration and confusion, to let it crash over him before he could even think about facing the world again.

And then, slowly, he exhaled.

Adam sat in the quiet booth, his head still resting on his crossed arms. His thoughts swirled like storm clouds, the weight of everything pressing down on him. The faint hum of the studio equipment in the background was soothing, but it wasn’t enough to untangle the mess inside his head.

A soft sound—a shuffle of footsteps—caught his attention. He didn’t look up, assuming it was someone passing by. But then a voice broke the silence.

“Adam,” Lilith said, her tone soft but tinged with amusement. “I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

Adam’s head shot up, his cheeks flushing slightly as he straightened in his seat.

“Lilith,” he stammered, glancing around as if to gather himself. “It wasn’t you. I mean—well, it was you, but not like that.”

He exhaled sharply, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I was just surprised to see you again after all this time.”

Lilith smiled faintly, her expression gentler than he remembered.

“It was nice to see you again,” she admitted, her blue eyes watching him carefully. “I’m not sure if you feel the same, but... I always saw you as a friend, Adam.”

Adam hesitated, his throat tightening at her honesty. He gave a small, crooked smile. “You were a friend, Lilith. I mean, we were... close, once.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. Her gaze flickered down for a moment before she slid into the booth across from him. “I wanted to say I’m sorry—for how things ended between us back then.”

Adam blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Lilith was quiet for a beat, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the table. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer now. “It was never my intention to lead you on. I was young and stupid. I didn’t realize how much you liked me. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I thought... if I ignored it, it would go away.”

 Her lips curled into a small, self-deprecating smile. “I guess I was right. It did go away. But so did our friendship, and that... that’s on me.”

Adam blinked again, surprised by her candour. He rubbed the back of his neck, offering a crooked smile. “Lilith, it wasn’t your fault. It was just... a little crush. I got over it pretty fast.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to gauge his sincerity. But then she let out a soft laugh. “I don’t know if I believe that, but thank you for saying it.”

The tension between them eased, their conversation flowing more naturally as they reminisced. They laughed about being lab partners in school, recalling the time they accidentally set a beaker on fire during an experiment.

“Honestly, you were the top student,” Adam said with a grin, leaning back in his seat. “I admired you so much. I wanted to be like you—smart, confident, always knowing exactly what you wanted.”

Lilith laughed, her voice bright and genuine. “And I wanted to be carefree like you. You didn’t care what people thought. You just... existed, completely comfortable in your own skin.”

They both laughed, but the sound petered out as Adam let out a soft sigh, his head lowering slightly.

Lilith tilted her head, her brow furrowing.

“How are things with you and Lucifer?” she asked carefully.

Adam’s face twisted into a grimace before he could stop himself. He glanced to the side, debating how much to say. Could he tell her? Did she already know?

“Is it that bad?” Lilith pressed gently.

Adam hesitated, then met her gaze. “Lilith, if you knew...” He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

She surprised him by giving a sad chuckle, her eyes distant. “I already know, Adam.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Lilith leaned back against the booth, exhaling deeply. Her confident veneer cracked, revealing something more vulnerable beneath. “I knew from the start that Lucifer wasn’t into me the way I was into him. I could tell.”

Adam stared at her, stunned. “Then why...?”

“Why did I stay?” Lilith gave him a small, rueful smile. “Because I was young and stupid. I thought I could change him, make him like me even a little. But he never did.”

Her voice was steady, but Adam could hear the ache beneath her words. “No matter what I did, he just seemed... distant. Bored. It hurt, but I couldn’t accept failure. It felt like an insult to my alpha nature, you know? To admit defeat. So, I kept trying, kept pushing.”

She paused, her gaze distant, as if looking into the past. “I think I knew it was a lost cause when I brought up the idea of spending his heat together. He looked at me like I’d suggested something disgusting.”

Adam winced, his heart twisting. “Lilith...”

She gave a sad chuckle, her fingers brushing a strand of golden hair from her face. “He was never cruel, never outright mean. He just tolerated me. And back then, that was enough. I wanted him, even if he didn’t want me.”

Lilith leaned back in her seat, her gaze dropping to the table as her fingers ran absently over the edge. Her expression softened, her confident exterior peeling away to reveal a deep vulnerability that Adam hadn’t seen before.

“I really wanted him to be the one,” she said, her voice low, as if the admission itself was painful. “Lucifer, I mean. I convinced myself that if I tried hard enough, if I pushed through the walls he put up, I could get him to see me. To really see me.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her blue eyes glistening. “But looking back, it’s so obvious. He was only ever ‘nice’ to me because of you.”

Adam’s brow furrowed, his heart twisting. “Lilith, I’m sure that’s not true,” he said gently. “Lucifer must have had some feelings for you. He had to.”

Lilith snorted, the sound bitter and filled with disbelief. “Adam, I know it’s not true. Trust me.”

The certainty in her voice sent a flicker of unease through Adam, and his confusion deepened. “Why do you say that?”

She breathed in deeply, her shoulders rising and falling before she leaned forward, her piercing gaze locking onto his. “Because of you, Adam. You and Lucifer… you were always connected at the hip. I could never find one of you without the other. Wherever you went, he followed. It was like you were his North Star.”

Adam blinked, his stomach knotting at the weight of her words. Lilith hesitated, searching his expression as if gauging his readiness to hear what she was about to say. Finally, she spoke softly, her voice almost apologetic.

“Lucifer was in love with you.”

The words hit Adam like a blow, leaving him stunned. He blinked furiously, his eyes widening as if he had misheard her. “What?”

Lilith smiled pitifully, her eyes filled with a strange mixture of understanding and sadness. “He was, Adam. From the moment I met him, it was obvious. He always looked at you. Always cared about you, your feelings, your opinions. And when you started pulling away from us… he blamed me for it. I could see it in the way he looked at me.”

Adam opened his mouth to protest, but Lilith held up a hand to stop him. “

Before you say anything, just listen,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “I saw what happened between the two of you a few years ago. With your ex. I saw how you fought, how angry you were. But Adam, I don’t think that’s the whole story. There has to be more to it.”

Adam’s jaw tightened, his mind instantly recalling Lucifer’s words about Eve “trying to fix him.” The memory made his chest ache, but he forced himself to remain silent as Lilith continued.

“I’m not saying what happened was okay,” she said carefully. “But what I saw… what I witnessed from Lucifer—how much he adored you, how much he loves you—there’s no way he would have done something like that without a reason. I don’t know what kind of person your ex was, but I do know Lucifer. He wouldn’t go out of his way to hurt you. He loves you, Adam. He still does.”

Adam’s lips twitched, his gaze dropping to the table. His chest felt tight, his emotions swirling in a chaotic storm. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to process everything she was telling him.

Lilith reached forward, her hand resting lightly on his. “Adam…You’ve never seen him the way I have. Every time I see him at the bonfires, he’s always looking for you. And when he finds you? He doesn’t look away. Not once.”

Adam puffed out his cheeks, trying to contain the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. “He… he made out with Steve,” he muttered weakly.

Lilith’s expression darkened, her voice sharpening. “Steve? Oh, Adam, please tell me you weren’t seriously considering that—that moron!”

Adam flinched at her raised voice, his cheeks flushing. “I—I mean… well…”

Lilith crossed her arms, her disapproving glare cutting through him like a knife. “Adam, Steve is nothing but a disgusting, vile jerk. He beds omegas at every bonfire with the promise of mating, only to toss them aside the next morning. Please tell me you aren’t in contact with him.”

Adam shook his head hastily, his voice rising in defence. “No, no, of course not! I was just… desperate, Lilith. I just wanted…”

His voice cracked slightly, and he looked down, his shoulders sagging. “I just wanted to be wanted. To be loved and cherished.”

Lilith’s gaze softened, the fire in her eyes dimming. She squeezed his hand gently. “

“Oh, Adam,” she murmured, her voice full of quiet affection. “But you already are.”

Adam looked up at her, startled by the sincerity in her words. For a moment, they simply sat there, the weight of unspoken emotions filling the space between them. Lilith’s touch was steady, grounding him, and in that moment, he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, squirming like a cornered animal. His arms crossed over his chest as if bracing himself against Lilith’s steady gaze.

“But…” he began hesitantly, his voice trailing off before he let out a soft sigh. “He is an omega. We’re omegas.”

Lilith blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “And is that a problem for you, Adam?”

He whined softly, the sound escaping unbidden as he closed his eyes briefly.

“No,” he said, shaking his head with a firmness that didn’t match the uncertainty flickering in his expression. “No, it’s not a problem. Being an omega doesn’t define me.”

Lilith’s lips quirked into a small smile, but she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I’ve never let it hold me back,” Adam continued, his voice growing more resolute. “Whenever I wanted something, I went for it. Grabbed it by the horns and climbed on board.”

He paused, his eyes dropping to the table. “Except with love, that is.”

Lilith made a face at that, her expression hovering between amusement and exasperation.

Adam quickly waved his hands as if to backtrack. “I mean… I didn’t know Lucifer was in love with me!”

Her laughter was light but teasing. “It was so obvious. How could you not?”

Adam huffed and sank back into the plush cushions, his arms tightening around himself defensively. “I don’t know. It just… wasn’t obvious to me.”

Lilith chuckled again, shaking her head. “You must be what people call dense.”

Adam pouted, his gaze sliding off to the side as he sank deeper into his thoughts. The room grew quiet save for the faint hum of distant studio chatter.

After a long moment, Adam whispered, almost to himself, “Everything was Lucifer’s fault.”

Lilith’s smile faded, her expression becoming patient as she leaned in slightly, waiting for him to elaborate.

Adam bit his bottom lip, his brows drawing together as if wrestling with his words. “He… he went after you because I told him I was developing a crush on you.”

His voice trembled slightly, but he pressed on. “Then he went after Lute because, again, I told him I liked her. And then with Eve…”

Lilith’s eyes flickered, a hint of understanding crossing her face. “It was a game to him.”

Adam gasped softly, his eyes snapping to hers in surprise. “

That’s right,” he said, his voice rising with realization. “He said he turned it into a game.”

Lilith nodded thoughtfully. “To keep people away from you.”

Adam’s shoulders sagged, a deep sigh falling from his lips. “Yes. He—he…”

He hesitated, his hands twisting in his lap. “Eve was different, though. Different from you and Lute. Eve was…”

Lilith interjected gently, her tone delicate and careful. “Eve made it to a place neither I nor Lute ever could. In Lucifer’s eyes, she did something he thought was impossible. She became your girlfriend. That made her a threat.”

Adam grimaced, her words cutting too close to the truth.

“That’s what he said,” he admitted reluctantly. “I mean… he hasn’t told me much outright. Most of it, I’ve had to figure out myself. But…”

“Lucifer must have been scared,” Lilith said softly. “Eve was your girlfriend. She had the potential to take you away from him. So, he did what he thought he had to do to keep you.”

Adam’s expression twisted, a mix of frustration and bitterness.

“I’m not a toy,” he grunted, the words carrying the weight of years of pent-up resentment.

Lilith reached out again, her hand brushing his lightly. “I know. I’m just trying to see it from Lucifer’s perspective. But Adam…”

She hesitated, her voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable tone. “If you really want to understand what he was thinking, you’ll have to talk to him.”

Adam frowned, his lips pulling down as his gaze dropped to the table.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, his voice breaking just slightly.

Lilith’s hand tightened over his, her expression full of warmth and encouragement. “Of course, you can. It was just the two of you for so long. You’re the only one who can make sense of this with him, Adam.”

Her words hung between them, heavy with truth, and for a moment, Adam couldn’t meet her eyes. Finally, he let out a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Lilith smiled gently, her hand still resting over his. “Start with the truth, Adam. It’s all you’ve ever needed with him.”

The sky roared as lightning forked across the dark expanse, illuminating the rain that fell in relentless sheets. Adam cursed under his breath, his teeth clenched against the chill seeping through his jacket. He should have grabbed an umbrella—he knew better. It was late summer, and the city’s winters always came early, bringing dreary storms that crept into every corner. His fingers tightened around his shoulder bag, pressing it protectively against his chest as he hurried along the slick pavement.

By the time he reached the building block, his lungs burned, and water dripped from his hair into his eyes. He shoved the door open, panting as the warmth of the lounge greeted him. He barely had time to savor the reprieve before he froze, his breath catching painfully in his throat.

Lucifer.

Adam blinked, sure for a moment that the storm or his exhaustion had conjured a phantom. But no—the blonde omega was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor outside Adam’s flat. Rain had plastered his hair to his pale, angular face, and his hoodie hung limply around him like a sodden, tattered shield. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees, as if trying to make himself smaller, less visible.

Adam’s heart clenched, an unwelcome ache blooming in his chest. Don’t. He swallowed hard, forcing his feet to move forward. His wet shoes squeaked against the polished floor as he approached the flat. Lucifer’s head tilted up, his blue eyes locking onto Adam’s with a raw, silent plea that hit like a punch to the gut.

Adam refused to falter. He clenched his jaw, focusing on the lock and twisting his key with deliberate precision.

Lucifer stirred behind him, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. Instead, he bit down, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his face crumpling into something too vulnerable, too desperate for Adam to bear.

Adam shoved the door open and stepped through, forcing himself to keep walking despite the way Lucifer’s gaze lingered on his back like a physical weight. The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against it, his breath coming out in a shaky groan.

“What the fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, running both hands over his face. His fingers dragged against the damp skin, the motion doing nothing to soothe the turmoil churning inside him.

He pressed his palms against the door as if it could shield him from the storm outside—and the one waiting just beyond the threshold. Lucifer. Sitting there, looking like the ghost of every regret Adam had tried to bury. Looking lost.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut, the ache in his chest deepening. He hated how his mind betrayed him, replaying every moment they’d shared—the laughter, the fights, the stolen glances. And now this... Whatever this was.

He paced the room, dripping water onto the worn carpet as his thoughts twisted into a tangled mess. What did Lucifer want? Why now? Why him? The questions buzzed in his skull like static, and no matter how hard he tried to ignore them, they only grew louder.

Adam glanced at the door, his hand instinctively lifting toward the handle before he stopped himself. No. He couldn’t open it. He couldn’t face Lucifer—not like this.

But the memory of those blue eyes refused to fade. Eyes that had once sparkled with mischief, that had warmed with affection. Now, they were hollowed out, ringed with shadows and begging for something Adam wasn’t sure he could give.

He let out a frustrated growl, raking his fingers through his hair.

“What the fuck are you doing, Lucifer?” he muttered, his voice low and pained.

The storm outside rumbled again, the sound rattling the windowpanes as if demanding an answer Adam didn’t have. He sank onto the edge of his couch, his head dropping into his hands. He didn’t know how to fix this—didn’t know if he wanted to fix this.

All he knew was that Lucifer was still out there. Waiting.

And Adam wasn’t sure how long he could leave him in the cold.

Adam pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the dull thrum of his heartbeat under his damp shirt.

“Maybe tomorrow will be better,” he muttered to himself, voice soft and uncertain. Surely, Lucifer wouldn’t stay out there much longer. Surely, he’d go home, find some semblance of sense, and leave Adam to his carefully constructed chaos.

With that fragile hope, Adam forced himself to undress, dry off, and collapse into bed. The storm raged outside, its relentless rhythm lulling him into a fitful sleep. But the morning brought no reprieve.

Lucifer was still there.

Every morning, Adam cracked his door open to find those familiar blue eyes staring at nothing, his figure huddled on the floor like a sentinel waiting for orders. Every evening, Adam returned home to see the same sight: Lucifer, sitting as though his entire world revolved around that cold, unyielding hallway. The routine became a knot in Adam’s stomach, tightening with every passing day.

He tried to focus on his life. Work, therapy, doctor’s visits, and medication became the cornerstones of his survival. But even as he poured his energy into moving forward, Lucifer’s presence loomed in the back of his mind. The omega didn’t speak, didn’t plead, didn’t move. He was just there, an echo of something Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. And yet, every glance at him chipped away at Adam’s resolve.

Almost a month passed. Adam kept waiting for the moment Lucifer would finally give up and leave. He wanted it to happen. He needed it to happen. But when it didn’t, when Lucifer’s silent vigil stretched on, Adam found himself caught in an unbearable limbo.

Then one day, everything changed.

Adam jogged home, his bag slung over one shoulder and his breath fogging the chilly air. But when he reached his floor, he froze. The space outside his flat was empty.

No Lucifer.

His heart stuttered, a cold sweat prickling along his spine. His legs trembled beneath him as he scanned the hallway, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name. Panic? Guilt? Both?

Adam clutched his bag tightly, his fingers digging into the worn leather as his gaze darted down the corridor.

“Lucifer?” he called, his voice echoing off the silent walls. Nothing. No answer.

He fumbled for his phone, swiping it open with a shaking hand even though he knew it was pointless. Lucifer didn’t have his new number; Adam had made sure of that. Still, the empty screen staring back at him felt like a slap. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.

His shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes against the sting of disappointment. He shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t. But the emptiness outside his door felt heavier than Lucifer’s silent presence ever had.

“Maybe he didn’t care as much as he claimed,” Adam muttered bitterly, his voice low and wavering. He clicked his tongue, forcing his emotions down as he unlocked his flat and stepped inside. Slamming the door behind him, he grunted, “Good. Better this way.”

But the following week was anything but better.

The silence was unbearable. The emptiness gnawed at him, a strange, dull ache that he couldn’t shake. The hallway felt colder, the evenings quieter, and the walls of his flat pressed in closer with each passing day. Adam tried to convince himself that this was what he wanted. That Lucifer’s absence was a relief.

It wasn’t.

He missed him. It was absurd and maddening, but Adam couldn’t help it. He found himself lingering at his door in the mornings, half-expecting to see a familiar blond figure huddled on the floor. When he returned in the evenings, his steps slowed, his heart sinking with the realization that Lucifer wasn’t there.

Adam didn’t know how to explain the void Lucifer had left behind. Anger and sadness warred within him, tangled with something softer, something dangerously close to longing. And he hated himself for it.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in muted golds and greys, Adam stood in his kitchen, staring out the window. His dinner sat untouched on the counter behind him. He didn’t have the appetite. His mind was elsewhere, circling back to the same thought over and over again.

Where was Lucifer?

And why did it feel like a piece of Adam had vanished along with him?

The warm scent of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapped around Adam like a comforting blanket as he stepped into his family home. He barely had time to close the door before his mama appeared, her face lighting up in pure joy.

"Adam!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug. "Oh, my baby! You’re here! Look at you—are you eating well? You’re not too thin, are you? Oh, your cheeks look a little hollow. Are you getting enough sleep? How’s work? How’s therapy going? Oh, and the bonfire last month—how was that?"

“Mama—” Adam tried to interject, but she was already dragging him toward the cozy kitchen, her questions coming faster than he could keep up.

“Are you drinking enough water? You are drinking water, right? And those pills the doctor gave you—are they helping? Do they make you feel okay? Not too groggy? Oh, Adam, you’ve been working too hard, haven’t you? You’re always working. Do you have time for yourself? Are you—"

“Mama!” Adam laughed, finally managing to get a word in edgewise. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “One question at a time, please. And yes, I’m fine. I promise.”

She stepped back, narrowing her eyes at him like she didn’t quite believe him, but her smile never faltered. “Good. Now, sit down. You look tired, and I’ll make you some tea.”

Adam didn’t argue. He sank into one of the cushioned kitchen chairs, letting himself relax as his mama bustled about, her presence filling the room with warmth and energy. Moments like these reminded him of how much he missed her, of how easy it was to fall into the comforting rhythms of home.

As they sipped tea together, her questions slowed, turning softer. The conversation drifted naturally, and soon they were talking about his father.

“When did you know you loved him?” Adam asked quietly, his gaze fixed on the steaming mug in his hands.

His mama’s face softened, her eyes glistening with a mixture of joy and nostalgia. “Oh, I knew from the moment I met him. Your father… he was special. Not because he was a beta, but because of who he was. He had the gentlest soul, Adam. He was patient, kind, and always so thoughtful. When he looked at me, I felt seen. Truly seen.”

Adam smiled faintly, his chest aching with a bittersweet warmth.

“I barely remember him now,” he admitted, glancing at the photograph hanging on the wall. His father’s warm smile stared back at him, a man forever frozen in time.

His mama’s hand covered his, her touch firm yet tender.

“You were so young when we lost him,” she murmured. “It’s okay if the memories are fuzzy. But Adam, I want you to know this—your father loved you more than anything in this world. He would be so proud of you. No matter what.”

Adam’s throat tightened, and he nodded, unable to find the right words. He looked back at the photograph, his mind swirling with questions.

“Mama,” he began hesitantly, “was Dad being a beta ever… a problem for you?”

She blinked in surprise, then let out a soft laugh. “For me? Never. Not for a single moment.”

“Your father was the kindest man I’d ever met. He never pushed boundaries, never made me feel less than. But…” Her voice trailed off, her smile fading slightly.

“But?” Adam pressed, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

She sighed, her gaze drifting to the photograph as well. “Your grandparents on my side… they disapproved. Things were different back then, Adam. Anything out of the ordinary was seen as unacceptable. Unthinkable. They wanted me to marry an alpha, and when I refused, they disowned me. They cut off all contact when I married your father.”

Adam swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the edge of his mug.

“I didn’t know that,” he said softly.

“It wasn’t your burden to carry,” his mama said gently, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “But it was worth it. Every hardship, every struggle. Your father was worth it, and so are you.”

He stared at her for a moment, her unwavering love and strength making his chest ache.

“Mama,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “What if—”

He stopped, taking a deep breath. “What if the person you love… what if it feels impossible?”

Her brows furrowed in concern. “Adam, what’s this about?”

He hesitated, his lips parting and closing as he struggled to find the words. Finally, he blurted out, “Lucifer told me he loves me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. His mama’s expression shifted, her eyes widening briefly before softening with understanding.

“Lucifer,” she repeated, her tone careful.

Adam nodded, his voice quieter now. “He said… he’s been in love with me since we were kids.”

Her eyes searched his face, as if trying to piece together his thoughts.

“And how do you feel about that?” she asked gently.

Adam let out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I— I mean, it’s Lucifer. He’s…”

He paused, his throat tightening. “He’s always been there. Always. But this? I didn’t see it coming. Not like this.”

His mama reached out, cupping his face with both hands.

“Adam,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with warmth, “Sometimes love comes in ways we don’t expect. That doesn’t make it any less real. If you need time to figure out how you feel, take it. But don’t shut him out just because it’s scary.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “It’s not just scary, Mama. It’s everything. It’s him.”

“And maybe,” she said, her voice filled with quiet conviction, “That’s exactly why it’s worth it.”

Adam squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I don’t know what to think, Mama. I don’t know what to feel. Lucifer was—he is—everything to me. My best friend, my other half. We were always together, from the time we were kids. We shared a bloody nest, for goodness’ sake."

He let out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I never thought… I never thought he’d be interested in me. I always thought…"

His voice trailed off, the words caught somewhere between his heart and his throat. He stared at the table, his brows knitted together as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"I don’t even know what I thought anymore," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

His mama reached across the table and gently placed her hand on his arm, grounding him. "Take your time, sweetheart. I’m listening."

Adam nodded, biting his lip as he lowered his gaze. "Lucifer… Mama, he’s done some bad things. Some really bad things."

The weight of those words pressed down on him, and he felt the familiar ache in his chest as guilt and anger swirled together. He barely noticed the way his mama’s expression softened, her thumb brushing soothingly against his forearm.

"Are these bad things the reason you fell out?" she asked quietly, her voice as gentle as a whisper.

Adam winced, his heart twisting painfully. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and anxious, like a child caught in the storm of his own emotions.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession.

His mama’s lips curved into a pained smile, her eyes brimming with understanding and sorrow. "I knew something had happened between the two of you," she said, her tone steady and warm. "I just wish you’d told me earlier."

Adam made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

"But Mama," he said, his voice rising with desperation, "I barely knew the whole story myself. Lucifer’s only just started telling me… more. More of the story, I mean. Things I didn’t even know."

She nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving his face.

"You don’t have to tell me what Lucifer did," she said softly. "I can see in your eyes that you don’t want to. But… is it something unforgivable?"

Adam opened his mouth to answer but then closed it again, his expression crumpling under the weight of the question. His voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper.

"Yes," he said, his throat tight. "Yes, it’s unforgivable. But…"

He paused, his hands trembling slightly as he looked down at the table, unable to meet her eyes. "But it’s Lucifer at the same time. It’s Lucifer, Mama. He’s the one who did this, who hurt me. But he’s also…"

His voice cracked, and he dragged a hand down his face, trying to keep his composure. "He’s my Luci. He’s the one who’s always been there for me. The one who—who made me laugh when I didn’t want to. The one who stayed with me through everything. And now he’s done these terrible things, and I just—"

His voice broke completely, and he pressed a hand over his chest, as if trying to steady the storm brewing inside him. "I don’t know how to make sense of it. How to make sense of him."

His mama’s hand moved from his arm to his cheek, cupping it gently. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but her voice remained calm and steady.

"Oh, Adam," she said, her thumb brushing against his cheek. "Love is messy. People are messy. Sometimes, the people we love the most are the ones who hurt us the deepest."

Adam closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like he had when he was a child seeking comfort after a bad dream.

"What do I do, Mama?" he whispered. "How do I forgive him for something I don’t think I can ever forget?"

She was silent for a moment, her gaze searching his face as if looking for the right words. Finally, she spoke. "You take your time, Adam. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean excusing what he did. But if you decide you want him in your life, you’ll have to decide if you can move forward together, scars and all. And if you can’t…"

Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. "If you can’t, that’s okay too. You deserve love, my son. The kind that lifts you up, not one that tears you down."

Adam opened his eyes, staring at her as her words sank in. He nodded slowly, though the ache in his chest didn’t lessen.

"I don’t know if I can let him go," he admitted softly. "I don’t think I want to."

She smiled faintly, her thumb brushing away a tear he hadn’t realized had fallen.

"Then don’t," she said simply. "Not yet, at least. Let yourself figure it out. One step at a time."

Adam swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go away.

"One step at a time," he echoed, his voice trembling.

His mama pulled him into a warm hug, holding him close like she had when he was a little boy. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Adam let himself lean into her embrace, letting her strength and warmth carry him through the storm of his thoughts.

Adam meandered his way back home, his steps lighter, a faint smile lingering after his heart-to-heart with his mama. For the first time in weeks, the weight on his shoulders seemed to ease. He glanced up at the overcast sky, the faint hum of a tune escaping his lips. His expression soured when the sky answered him with a crackle of thunder. Of course. Rain again.

He rolled his green eyes and quickened his pace, muttering under his breath as the first drops splattered onto the pavement. By the time he reached the doors of his apartment building, the rain had turned into a full-fledged downpour. He barely managed to slip inside before getting completely drenched, shaking off the water clinging to his jacket as he climbed the stairs. His footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell, the sound comforting in its familiarity.

But when he reached his floor, he froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat.

Lucifer was there.

Adam’s green eyes widened as they took in the sight of him. The same spot, the same posture. But something was different—worse. Lucifer looked... thinner, frailer, as if the weight of the world had been crushing him. His hoodie, worn and stretched out, clung damply to his frame, and his ripped jeans looked even more threadbare than before. He was curled up against the wall, knees to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. His head was buried against his knees, his golden hair damp and sticking to his neck.

Adam’s brows furrowed deeply. He could feel the worry churning in his gut, a sick twist of guilt and frustration mingling as he approached. But Lucifer didn’t move. Not a twitch. Even as Adam passed within arm’s reach, Lucifer remained eerily still, his breathing shallow and uneven.

Adam stopped at his door, biting the inside of his cheek. His fingers fumbled with his keys, his eyes flicking back to the fragile figure huddled by the wall. He couldn’t ignore the gnawing sensation in his chest—worry, anger, pity—it all tangled together, making his hands shake as he unlocked the door. He pushed it open and stood on the threshold, staring into the comforting warmth of his flat.

For a long moment, he just stood there, his back to Lucifer, gripping the doorknob tightly enough to make his knuckles ache. He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes upward as if the heavens owed him an answer.

"Lucifer," he barked suddenly, his voice sharp and cutting through the quiet like a whip.

He heard the subtle hitch in Lucifer’s breathing behind him, saw the faint tremor ripple through the blonde's shoulders. Lucifer didn’t lift his head, but Adam could tell he was listening.

"Make sure to lock the door behind you," Adam said, his tone clipped as he stepped into his flat. He shrugged off his coat, letting it fall haphazardly onto a nearby chair.

Lucifer’s head snapped up, his blue eyes wide and startled as they flicked toward Adam’s back. He didn’t move at first, frozen in disbelief.

"Well?" Adam bit out, glaring over his shoulder at the empty doorway. "Are you coming in or not?"

That broke whatever hesitation Lucifer had. He scrambled to his feet, unsteady but quick, and shuffled inside. His movements were hesitant, almost timid, as if he feared Adam might change his mind and shut the door in his face. He lingered in the entryway, his fingers brushing nervously against the doorframe, eyes darting around the flat like a skittish animal.

"Take off your shoes!" Adam snapped, not bothering to look at him as he kicked his own sneakers toward the corner. "I don’t want you tracking dirt everywhere."

Lucifer jumped, immediately bending down to untie his worn sneakers. He placed them neatly beside Adam’s, his trembling hands carefully aligning them before he turned and locked the door. His fingers hovered over the locks for a moment, brushing them as if to make sure they were secured.

Adam sighed as the door clicked shut behind Lucifer, the sound echoing in the quiet of his flat. He hung his coat on the hook by the door and ran a hand through his damp hair, watching out of the corner of his eye as Lucifer lingered awkwardly near the entrance. The blonde omega looked so small, almost like a ghost of the person Adam had grown up with. His hoodie hung off his thin frame, the fabric frayed and damp from days of sitting out in the elements.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Adam snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He turned to face Lucifer fully, his green eyes narrowed. "If you're going to be here, you might as well make yourself useful. Go sit on the couch or something."

Lucifer flinched but nodded, his movements hesitant and sluggish as he shuffled toward the couch. His knees wobbled slightly, and Adam felt his stomach twist at how frail the other omega seemed. Lucifer perched on the edge of the sofa, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the floor like he didn’t belong.

Adam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked, his voice softer now. He was already moving toward the kitchen before Lucifer could answer, pulling out a kettle and filling it with water.

"I..." Lucifer’s voice was barely audible, trembling and small. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Adam nodded but didn’t look back. The sound of the kettle filling with water drowned out the nagging thoughts that swirled in his head. He busied himself with preparing the tea, pulling out two mismatched mugs and a box of chamomile. As he waited for the water to boil, he stole a glance over his shoulder.

Lucifer hadn’t moved. He was still sitting there, his shoulders hunched and his head down, as if trying to make himself invisible.

"Why are you back here, Lucifer?" Adam asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Lucifer tensed, his head lifting slightly but not enough to meet Adam’s gaze.

"I... I didn’t know where else to go," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I—I just needed to see you."

Adam’s hands clenched around the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening.

"You’ve been sitting outside my flat for weeks," he said coldly. "Weeks, Lucifer. Do you even know how insane that is? How messed up it looks?"

Lucifer flinched again, his hands trembling in his lap.

"I didn’t mean to make you angry," he said quietly. "I just... I didn’t know how else to... to make things right."

Adam let out a hollow laugh, turning his attention back to the tea. "Right. Because sitting outside like some lost puppy was definitely going to fix everything."

He poured the steaming water into the mugs, the faint scent of chamomile filling the air. He placed a mug in front of Lucifer, who looked at it like he didn’t deserve it.

"Thank you," Lucifer murmured again, his voice hoarse. He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

Adam sat down across from him, his green eyes sharp and probing.

"Talk," he said firmly. "If you’re going to be here, if you’re going to invade my space like this, you’d better have something to say."

Lucifer looked up at him then, his blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "For everything. For hurting you. For... for being selfish. I thought—I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was push you away."

Adam’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"You did more than push me away, Luci," he said, his voice laced with bitterness. "You broke me. You made me question everything—who I was, who you were. And now you’re here, sitting on my couch like... like you think an apology will fix it all."

"I don’t think that," Lucifer said quickly, his voice desperate. "I don’t. I just... I just wanted a chance to explain. To tell you the truth. And to tell you that I... I love you, Adam..."

The words hung heavy in the air between them, and Adam felt his chest tighten. He looked away, staring at the wall as a thousand memories flooded his mind—nights spent laughing, fights that left them both in tears, and the overwhelming pain of betrayal.

"I don’t know if I can forgive you," Adam said finally, his voice breaking. "I don’t know if I want to."

Lucifer nodded slowly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Adam’s words.

"I understand," he said softly. "I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just... I needed you to know. And if this is the last time, I see you, then at least I’ll know I tried."

Adam stared at him, his heart aching in ways he didn’t think were possible. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.

"Finish your tea," he said quietly. "Then we’ll talk."

Lucifer blinked down at the steaming cup of tea, his trembling fingers curling around it. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing the rising vapor as he inhaled the sweet, warm scent.

“Apple, cinnamon, and raisin?” he murmured, his voice carrying a thread of surprise.

He glanced toward Adam with wide, uncertain eyes. “You still drink black tea?”

Adam shifted on his feet, his shoulders tensing as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, well... I guess some things haven’t changed much.”

Lucifer’s lips twitched, and for the briefest moment, a faint, trembling smile graced his pale, blue-tinged lips. He nodded silently and took a tentative sip from the cup, the warmth of the liquid contrasting with his cold hands.

Adam exhaled sharply, his damp hair falling into his eyes as he ran a hand through it. He sighed heavily, his voice emerging soft but filled with weariness as he finally spoke. “You’d better start talking, Luci. If you’re going to sit outside my door for weeks, looking like death warmed over, and then barge into my home, the least you can do is explain yourself.”

Lucifer’s head dipped slightly, his fingers tightening around the tea as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered.

“Not really barging in if you invite me in,” he muttered under his breath, his tone defensive but quiet. When Adam didn’t waver, his sharp green eyes boring into him, Lucifer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I...” His voice cracked, breaking into a whisper. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Adam frowned, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. “What do you mean you had nowhere else to go? What about your house?”

Lucifer’s head snapped up at that, his wide, startled blue eyes locking onto Adam’s face. “You... you know I own a house?”

Adam flushed, shifting awkwardly. “I mean... I kept tabs on you. After everything. Just to... make sure you were okay.”

The admission hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, Lucifer’s expression flickered between hope, sorrow, and something unspoken. His shoulders tensed, but then they sagged as though a weight had settled there.

“I lost the house,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Adam blinked, his brows knitting together in disbelief. “How’d you lose your house?”

Lucifer pinched his lips together, his eyes narrowing in frustration. “It’s hard to keep a house when you’re behind on mortgage payments,” he muttered bitterly.

Adam’s frown deepened. “What about your job? Last I heard, you were doing well in your family’s company—”

Lucifer flinched visibly at the words, his hands tightening around the tea as his body curled inward.

“Things with my family...” His voice wavered, and he trailed off, staring down into the tea as if it held the answers he couldn’t find. “They’ve only gotten worse since... since...”

“Luci.” Adam’s voice was sharper now, a mixture of concern and frustration. “Are... are you homeless?”

Lucifer stiffened, his gaze darting away as his lips pressed into a thin line. When he didn’t answer, Adam’s stomach dropped, and he stepped closer, lowering himself onto the couch beside Lucifer.

“How bad is everything?” Adam asked gently, his tone softening. It was the same tone he’d used years ago, back when comforting Lucifer had been second nature.

The effect was immediate. A shiver ran through Lucifer’s body, and a heavy wave of omega pheromones filled the room, thick with despair. Adam’s throat tightened at the sheer intensity of it, but he didn’t back away.

“Why didn’t you go to...” He hesitated, his words faltering. Why didn’t you come to me? The question hung, unspoken but weighty. “Why didn’t you go to my mama? You know she would’ve helped you.”

Lucifer shook his head slowly, his voice breaking as he replied. “I... I didn’t want to impose. I’ve already caused enough damage. I didn’t want... didn’t want to bring more problems into your family.”

Adam let out a frustrated breath, his fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to snap.

“You could have come to me, Luci,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer pitch. “I would’ve helped you.”

Lucifer’s head shot up, his blue eyes blazing with a mix of disbelief and anger. “You hated me.”

“I do not hate you,” Adam said firmly, his tone exasperated. “I was angry—furious—but hate? I could never hate you. If you’d come to me, I wouldn’t have turned you away. I would’ve...”

“Really?” Lucifer’s voice cracked, his expression breaking apart like fragile glass. His lips trembled, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “You really would’ve helped me?”

Adam’s heart twisted painfully. He hadn’t seen Lucifer like this—so open, so raw—since they were teenagers. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course I would’ve. No matter what’s happened between us, I wouldn’t have let you suffer like this.”

The first tear slipped down Lucifer’s cheek, and he quickly scrubbed it away with the back of his hand. But the dam had broken, and he soon collapsed against Adam, shaking with quiet sobs.

“Addie, I’m so sorry. I—I really am,” he stammered, his voice muffled against Adam’s shoulder.

Adam hesitated, his body stiffening at first, but then he awkwardly wrapped an arm around Lucifer’s trembling form.

“Look, we’ll talk about everything later. But you have to promise me something.” He leaned back slightly, just enough to look Lucifer in the eyes. “You’re not lying about any of this. About your family, the house, all of it.”

Lucifer nodded fervently, his breath hitching as he wiped at his face. “I’m not lying. I swear, Addie. It’s all true. I—I can show you my phone. I have texts and calls from my family... proof...”

“Alright,” Adam murmured, his tone gentler now. “Alright, Luci. I believe you.”

But even as he said the words, a deep unease settled in his chest. Whatever had brought Lucifer to this point—it wasn’t going to be an easy road to fix it. And yet, as he held Lucifer close, Adam couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, they could figure it out together.

The next morning came slowly, the soft grey light of dawn spilling into the small studio flat, muted by thick rainclouds lingering from the storm. Adam stirred first, blinking groggily at the ceiling. His body felt heavy, weighed down not just by sleep but by the emotional strain of the night before. He glanced toward the couch, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the small, curled figure of Lucifer, still buried beneath a mound of blankets.

Lucifer was motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His face was partially hidden, but Adam could see faint streaks of dried tears on his cheeks. It made his stomach twist in ways he wasn’t ready to unpack.

With a sigh, Adam swung his legs over the edge of his bed and padded toward the kitchenette. His flat wasn’t much, but it was functional: a few cabinets, a stove, and enough counter space to make something simple. He set about preparing tea again, the ritual grounding him. The faint clink of the kettle seemed loud in the stillness, and Adam winced, glancing toward the couch. Lucifer didn’t stir.

Pouring the tea, Adam debated for a moment before grabbing a piece of toast from the breadbox. He smeared it lightly with jam, his movements slower than usual. His mind was elsewhere—on the weight of the air between them, on how they kept colliding like strangers last night when once they had moved seamlessly as one.

Adam approached the couch, placing the tea and toast on the small table nearby. He crouched slightly, his green eyes scanning Lucifer’s face.

"Luci," he said softly, his voice husky from sleep. "Wake up. You need to eat something."

Lucifer shifted beneath the blankets, a low whimper escaping his lips. Slowly, his blue eyes cracked open, unfocused and still rimmed red. He blinked up at Adam, confusion flickering across his face before he seemed to remember where he was.

"Morning," Adam said awkwardly, his hand twitching as though he wanted to reach out but stopped himself. "I made tea. And toast."

Lucifer nodded mutely, sitting up slowly. The blankets slipped from his shoulders, revealing the borrowed pyjamas that hung loosely on his too-thin frame. He accepted the tea, cradling it between his hands like it was the only source of warmth he had.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Adam watched him for a beat, his hands falling to his knees as he pushed himself upright. “I’ll make something more filling in a bit. Eggs or something. Just... eat that for now.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, turning toward the kitchen again. The space between them felt suffocating, each word like a small stone tossed into a vast, still lake.

As Adam fiddled with a frying pan, he couldn’t stop stealing glances over his shoulder. Lucifer sipped his tea but barely touched the toast, his movements sluggish and mechanical. It was maddening, this distance between them, when once they had been so attuned to each other.

The day dragged on like that. Small interactions, half-finished sentences, and lingering silences. Lucifer shuffled around the flat, bumping into Adam every time they crossed paths. Each time, he muttered a soft, barely audible “Sorry,” and each time, Adam waved it off with a tight-lipped nod, his frustration growing—not at Lucifer, but at how unnatural this all felt.

By the time evening came, Adam had managed to coax Lucifer into eating a proper meal, though it had taken more effort than he liked to admit. He set up the couch again, piling it high with the same blankets as the night before. But as he stood there, staring down at the makeshift bed, a sense of wrongness gnawed at him.

It wasn’t right. Lucifer didn’t belong on the couch. He belonged... Adam swallowed hard, turning away. He didn’t want to think about it. About how badly he wanted to pull Lucifer to his bed, to hold him close and whisper reassurances until the cracks in his heart began to mend. It wasn’t time for that. Not yet.

Instead, Adam climbed into his own bed, his body sinking into the familiar mattress. From where he lay, he could see Lucifer on the couch, his form barely visible beneath the pile of blankets. The proximity was a small comfort, enough to ease the tightness in his chest, but it wasn’t enough to stop the lingering ache.

“If... if you need me,” Adam began hesitantly, his voice cutting through the quiet. He trailed off, unsure of what to say, of how to reach out without tearing open old wounds.

Lucifer sniffled, curling tighter into the blankets. He didn’t reply. Adam pressed his lips together, his heart sinking as he realized that was answer enough. He turned onto his side, willing himself to relax, to sleep.

And then he heard it.

It was soft at first, muffled as if Lucifer was desperately trying to suppress it. But the sound grew, breaking through the silence: quiet, broken sobs. Adam froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sound was like a knife twisting in his chest, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Lucifer was crying. He was crying, and Adam hated it—hated how helpless it made him feel. His fingers curled into the sheets as he debated, his mind a whirlwind of indecision. But in the end, he stayed where he was, his back turned to the couch.

He told himself it was for the best. They both needed space, that it wasn’t the right time to push. But deep down, he knew the truth: he wasn’t ready either. Not to face the depth of Lucifer’s pain. Not to reopen the wounds he had spent years trying to close.

So, he lay there, his eyes burning as he stared at the wall, and listened as Lucifer cried himself to sleep.

Adam waited until Lucifer's breathing softened, a steady rhythm that signaled he was deep in sleep. The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale silver streaks across Lucifer's tear-streaked face. Adam's heart clenched at the sight. Lucifer had always been a fortress, stoic and unshakable. Yet tonight, that carefully constructed image had crumbled, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable man who wept silently into the shadows.

Sliding off the bed as quietly as he could, Adam crept toward the old red-and-orange hoodie tossed carelessly on the chair. His fingers brushed against the fraying fabric, a relic of better days, before digging into the pocket to retrieve Lucifer’s iPhone. Adam hesitated, his gaze darting to Lucifer. Even in sleep, his face was troubled, his brows slightly furrowed.

"I'm sorry," Adam whispered under his breath, clutching the phone tightly.

He tried the first passcode that came to mind—Lucifer's birthday. Incorrect. Christmas? No. The numbers Lucifer jokingly referred to as his "lucky ones"? Still no. Frustration bubbled as Adam rubbed his temple. He even tried his own birthday in a moment of desperation, but nothing worked. He was about to give up when, almost absentmindedly, he entered the date they had first officially met.

The screen unlocked with a soft click. Adam froze, his breath catching. He stared at the illuminated screen, blinking in disbelief. Of all the possible codes, Lucifer had chosen that day. A bittersweet pang echoed in Adam's chest as his gaze returned to the sleeping man.

"You sentimental fool," he muttered, but his words lacked bite.

His thumb hovered over the screen, unsure of where to start. Curiosity and concern warred within him, but something told Adam he needed to understand. He tapped on the messaging app, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

The first message was from Lucifer's father: "You are the greatest disappointment this family has ever endured. Not even fit to carry the Morningstar name."

Adam’s jaw tightened. He scrolled further.

"An omega who can’t even serve his purpose. What use are you to anyone?"

"You can’t provide. You can’t lead. You’re nothing but dead weight."

Message after message was a relentless barrage of cruelty. Words that stabbed like knives. Adam’s chest tightened painfully as he read them, his stomach twisting into knots.

Then came the emails. They were no better. His mother had written lengthy diatribes laced with venom, questioning Lucifer’s worth as a human being. She accused him of staining their lineage, called him poisonous, unworthy, a burden to be discarded.

Adam’s hands trembled as he read the final email, dated just days ago.

"You’ll never be loved, Lucifer. You are broken. Useless. A waste of space."

The screen blurred as Adam’s eyes burned with unshed tears. He lowered the phone to his lap, unable to read another word. His gaze fell to Lucifer, who lay curled up, his body tense even in sleep. How had he survived this? How had he carried the weight of such hatred, such rejection?

Adam’s legs gave way, and he sank to the floor, his knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud. He could barely breathe. This wasn’t just cruelty; it was a calculated effort to break Lucifer, to strip him of any semblance of dignity or hope.

His voice cracked as he whispered, "Luci... how have you endured this? How could you go through all of this and still... still do those things to me?"

Adam reached out with trembling fingers, brushing the golden strands of Lucifer’s hair away from his face. He tenderly wiped away the dried tear tracks on his cheeks, his heart shattering with each gentle caress.

"You deserved so much more," Adam murmured, his voice breaking. "You deserved love, respect... everything they denied you…but you also did bad things too..”

His anger simmered beneath the surface, directed at the Morningstars and their unyielding, heartless expectations. An omega in a family of alphas—Lucifer had never stood a chance against their prejudice. And the sheer audacity of them demanding he mate with an older alpha, as though his entire worth depended on whom he married—it made Adam’s blood boil.

He cradled Lucifer’s face gently, his thumb tracing small circles on his cheek. "You are not poisonous. You are not broken. You are not unworthy," Adam whispered fiercely. "You are loved. Maybe not by them, but by…Always by…."

Lucifer stirred slightly, a faint whimper escaping his lips. Adam leaned closer, pressing a feather-light kiss to his temple. He held him like he was made of glass, as though the sheer weight of his care could mend the shattered pieces of Lucifer's heart.

"I don’t know if I can forgive you for the things you’ve done but…but I’ll fight for you," Adam vowed softly, tears slipping down his own cheeks now. "Even if they won't, I will. Your family don’t deserve you.”

Lucifer sighed in his sleep, his body relaxing slightly as though he could feel Adam’s silent promise. Adam stayed there, his fingers tangled in golden hair, his heart beating with a fierce determination. He would protect Lucifer, no matter what.

[satoshi-mochida]

Lies of P DLC expansion ‘Overture’ announced - Gematsu

Publisher NEOWIZ and developer Round8 Studio have announced Lies of P downloadable content expansion “Overture,” which serves as a prequel to the events of the game. It will launch this summer.

Here is an overview of the downloadable content, via NEOWIZ:

About

Lies of P: Overture is the dramatic prequel to the acclaimed soulslike action RPG, Lies of P. It transports you to the city of Krat in its final days of haunting late-19th-century Belle Époque beauty. On the brink of the Puppet Frenzy massacre, you follow a Legendary Stalker—a mysterious guide—through untold stories and chilling secrets. As Geppetto’s deadly puppet, you’ll journey through Krat and its surroundings, uncover hidden backstories, and face epic battles that shape the past and future of Lies of P.

Setting and Story

As Geppetto’s Puppet, you encounter a mysterious artifact that transports you back to Krat in its final days of grandeur. In the shadow of an impending tragedy, your mission is to explore the past and uncover its dark secrets—haunted by surprises, loss, and vengeance. The choices you make ripple through the past and present in the world of Lies of P, revealing hidden truths and leaving lasting consequences. Embark on an unforgettable adventure where the symphony of steel clashes with the haunting melody of the unknown. Dare to unravel the mysteries of the past, for in the heart of darkness lies the key to unlocking the secrets of a timeless tale reborn. “Geppetto’s puppet… We need your help.”

Key Features

Return to the City of Krat – Discover its Unexplored Horror and Splendor. Venture into Krat back in time, when it straddled the line between Belle Époque elegance and impending ruin. Explore majestic, never-before-seen locations, from extravagant landmarks on its outskirts to opulent mansions and eerie, haunted ruins. Confront formidable new enemies and uncover secrets hidden within the city’s decaying grandeur.

Travel Back in Time. Meet the Legendary Stalker – Before the awakening, lies the truth. Join Lea, the Legendary Stalker, on her relentless path of vengeance. Return to Krat and its never-before-seen surroundings, where the veil is lifted to reveal the hidden past of this reimagined dark tale of Pinocchio. Discover untold stories behind both familiar and new characters as you explore the gripping drama and mysteries that shape the rich and haunting world.

Forge New Weapons, Master New Combat Style of Your Choice – Numerous cunning enemies lurk within unfamiliar labyrinths and treacherous terrain, waiting to challenge you. Ruthless, punishing and even majestic, these adversaries will test your skill and resolve. Only the most resourceful, doughty, and daring will prevail. As you delve deeper into the greatly expanded world, unlock powerful new armaments, including a brand-new arsenal of weapon combinations and Legion Arms, giving you unprecedented freedom to forge a combat style uniquely yours.

Against All Odds, Attain Supreme Satisfaction of Victory – Face intense, high-stakes encounters through Krat’s labyrinths and its surroundings. Confront powerful new bosses and enemies as you fight to uncover the mysteries of a world teetering on the edge of collapse.

Lies of P is available now for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, PC via Steam and Microsoft Store, and Mac via Mac App Store, as well as via Game Pass.

Watch a new trailer below. View a set of screenshots at the gallery.

DLC “Overture” Announce Trailer

[dark-rx]

Spiderwebs of Desire

I.

I see you standing in line at that quaint little café on the corner, the one that never quite knows if it wants to be Parisian or Brooklyn chic. You turn your head toward the window; a flicker of delicate confusion crosses your face. Is it the swirl of roasted beans that captivates you, or is it something else—perhaps someone else—just out of view? You scan the faces behind the glass, searching. The wind is a little sharp, your hair dancing against your collar. You smooth it away with quick, precise movements. Graceful, yes, but also guarded. Already, I can sense your tension, your hesitation. You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but you can feel it. Something is changing in the air, stirring. Maybe it’s me.

II.

The moment our eyes connect—though I don’t believe you’ve actually noticed me yet—I understand it. That spark of interest you can’t quite name. You want something thrilling, something that takes you out of the safe patterns and monotony of everyday life. I see how your fingers drum anxiously on the edge of your phone, your lips parted as though tasting the possibility of words you haven’t yet dared to speak. And I stand at a precise angle by the window, sipping a latte I barely taste, orchestrating this accidental glance. If I time it just right, if I align myself with your line of sight, you’ll feel my presence.

III.

But I must be careful. It’s important not to startle you too soon. You see, there’s an art to courting curiosity—an art I’ve cultivated meticulously. Some might call it obsession, others might label it something darker. You want a dominant figure; you crave the edge that leaves your heart pounding. But I must ask: Do you really understand what it means to invite that kind of attention? Because I’m not just a man with a commanding voice and a confident stride. There’s a depth in me, an undercurrent of intricacy you might find… dangerous. Maybe even deadly.

IV.

I watch as you step to the counter. You order something with elaborate instructions—extra foam, a dash of cinnamon, half the sugar. You’re particular. I admire that. You’re the sort of person who knows how you want to be pleased, and how you want to be served. Isn’t that the first taste of what you call “dominance?” Let me assure you, it goes far beyond coffee orders and polite flirtations. It’s about shaping your world to my taste, influencing every aspect of your experience until you can no longer see where your desires end and mine begin.

V.

I imagine you suspect something of the darkness you’re flirting with. Perhaps you’ve read a few stories, scrolled through feverish online confessions, or indulged in fantasies where a man’s gentle but firm hand finds your throat in the dim hush of candlelight. You think you understand the tension, the give-and-take of power, the seduction in letting someone else orchestrate the symphony of your senses. What you don’t see—and what will come in time—is the extent to which I relish the game itself, the meticulous planning, the subtle control that begins long before you feel my touch. I can be patient. I can wait.

VI.

When you sit down, I note the way you hold your cup, cradling it against your palms as if it could warm more than your skin—perhaps your soul. You glance around, eyes trailing from one corner to the next. You sense something, don’t you? An intangible presence, a gaze that appraises you beyond the surface. And that faint little shiver dancing down your spine? That’s me, love. That’s me, letting you know, in the subtlest way, that I see you. We haven’t spoken yet, but we will. Eventually, you’ll find yourself compelled to speak with me, to offer me a taste of who you are.

VII.

In these early moments, I recall how others have come to me craving the same thing. How they thought submission was just a playful whim, a fleeting thrill. With them, I was… kinder, perhaps. But with you, there’s a certain promise. You’re not naive, not exactly. There’s a glimmer in your eyes that betrays a curious intellect. Like some part of you has studied the art of letting go, or you’ve spent late nights reading erotic literature that danced on the edges of taboo. You might even believe you can maintain a sense of control while letting me lead. Such a delicate balance. But oh, how quickly the scales can tip.

VIII.

I stand, discreetly pay for another coffee, and stroll past your table just close enough to catch a whisper of your perfume. It’s floral with a hint of spice, something that speaks of your inner desires: the sweetness you present to the world, and the hidden burn beneath. As I pass, I murmur a soft “excuse me,” letting your gaze flicker over me. There it is—that micro-moment of connection, your pupils widening a fraction, your body tensing ever so slightly. You might chalk it up to a reflex, a polite reaction. But we both know it’s more.

IX.

You watch me take a seat a few tables away. Now I’m the one who feels your eyes on me. The roles shift every moment, don’t they? Dominant, submissive… who’s to say it’s not a dance we both perform in secret? For now, let me lead. Let me orchestrate each step. I stir my coffee, letting the spoon clang softly against the porcelain cup. Your ears perk up at the sound. You shift in your seat as if uneasy, yet intrigued. There’s something about me you can’t quite place, something refined yet unsettling. You’re right to feel that friction—it’s real. It’s me.

X.

I wonder if you know how thoroughly I’ve already mapped out our potential future. The meeting, the conversation, the elaborate courtship of your senses. One day, I’ll invite you to dinner. Perhaps I’ll cook for you. A lavish meal—delectable courses, an arrangement of flavors that seduce the palate. It’s important to me that you experience delight in every moment we share. That you taste my meticulous devotion, and feel how deeply I value aesthetics and pleasure. And if your eyes wander to the knives on the cutting board, or the glint of steel at the edge of my domain, well, a little apprehension can be such a sweet spice.

XI.

As I rise to leave, I catch your expression in the reflection of the café’s glass door. You look almost disappointed that the moment has passed so quickly. But let me assure you, I’m not gone. I’m just allowing the tension to build. In the world of culinary arts—yes, I have my passions—you must let flavors develop, let them simmer over low heat for the richness to truly bloom. That’s what this is: our slow simmer. And when it boils, oh, it will erupt in ways you can’t possibly anticipate.

XII.

Outside, the cold air stings my cheeks. I take a measured breath, letting the crispness of winter fill my lungs. Anticipation courses through my veins. I sense you’re still inside, your mind whirling with questions. Who is that man? Why did I feel a sudden flutter in my chest? There’s a part of you that might feel foolish for being so unsettled by a mere stranger. But you and I know better. This isn’t chance. This is a carefully curated intersection of two lives. Soon, you’ll understand that you were always going to find me. Or rather, that I would find you.

XIII.

I take a short walk, deliberately circling the block. Call it a predator’s orbit if you must. I prefer to think of it as a connoisseur’s inspection. You see, I want to know the environment surrounding you. The bookstore across the street, the little antique shop next door. Each establishment tells me something about you—about your tastes, your curiosities. Will you wander into the antique store on a whim, drawn by something vintage, something historically charged with hidden secrets? Possibly. And if I happen to be there too, standing by a worn oak table, we can strike up a conversation about craftsmanship and the patina of time.

XIV.

Yes, I study you carefully. Not just the curve of your hips or the subtle flutter of your lashes, but the intangible aspects: the cadence of your step, the way you hesitate before crossing a street, the tilt of your head when you consider a new idea. These small indicators speak volumes about your psyche, about where your walls are strongest, and where they might yield. Appetite is more than just hunger; it’s a reflection of the soul’s desires. And you, my dear, are developing quite the appetite for danger.

XV.

When I finally decide to leave the vicinity, I’m certain your thoughts linger on me. Let them. Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll be the one occupying your stray daydreams. Perhaps you’ll replay the moment I passed your table, remembering the warmth of my presence, the quiet authority in my step. You’ll wonder if you should have spoken up if you should have asked my name. Yet at the same time, a pulse of relief might color your cheeks, because some deeper part of you recognizes that once you begin this dance with me, there’s no turning back.

XVI.

Evening finds me at my apartment—minimalist, but with refined touches. A single rose in a crystal vase on the windowsill, an organized bookshelf with carefully selected volumes. There is Bach playing softly in the background, the gentle chords weaving their way into my thoughts. I put on a well-tailored apron and begin to prepare a small dish. Not a grand feast, just something for myself: perhaps an aromatic lamb stew, imbued with rosemary and thyme. As I slice through the meat, the rhythm of the knife is a comforting reminder of precision, of the sweet potential that lies in controlled force.

XVII.

I find myself reflecting on what I want from you. Dominance, submission—these words are too small to encapsulate the intimacy I crave. I want the full orchestration of your senses. I want to dismantle the carefully curated shields you present to the world. Each boundary you thought was so sturdy, so definitively yours, will be tested. Where some might hide behind modest illusions—attempting to appear harmless in a bookstore or a café—I know the value of open, cultivated elegance. An invitation to dinner, a glass of wine, a conversation about your deeper yearnings—this is where I excel.

XVIII.

And you, my dear, have yearnings you scarcely admit to yourself. I sensed it in the café, the way your lips trembled slightly when you pressed your phone to them. A longing for something beyond the mundane. Perhaps you dream of relinquishing control to someone who can handle it with both tenderness and cruelty in equal measure. Let me be that someone. Let me guide you through the labyrinth of your own mind, feeding you morsels of adrenaline and delight until you’re hooked on the very essence of me.

XIX.

Time passes, and the city hums with nocturnal life outside my window. Streetlights cast golden pools on the pavement, and distant laughter echoes through the alleyways. I think of you wandering home, sipping that coffee, your heart still thrumming with unexplained tension. Do you sense the hunt? It’s almost primal, isn’t it? An undercurrent of fascination that sends your thoughts spiraling in the hours before sleep. Maybe you’ll research the concept of submission tonight, scanning articles about safe words, boundaries, and the psychology of surrender. It all seems so measured, so neatly packaged. But I’m afraid that what I offer you is far more complex.

XX.

I will not simply be your dominant in the bedroom. I intend to be the orchestrator of your days, the conductor of your nights. You will notice subtle changes in your routine—sudden invitations that feel too enticing to resist, quiet phone calls that begin with polite conversation but end with your pulse roaring in your ears. I’ll taste your fear the way I taste a finely prepared dish—appreciating each subtle note, each nuance of flavor. But do not mistake my refinement for mercy. That’s a lesson you’ll learn soon enough.

XXI.

Come dawn, I prepare for another day. A crisp white shirt, dark trousers, and a well-fitted blazer. I take pride in my appearance, though I know that real power is in the way I carry myself. Confidence is an aphrodisiac, they say. And in that sense, I want to intoxicate you. Stepping out into the morning chill, I imagine the warmth of your breath when you exhale in surprise at our next meeting. Yes, it will be calculated. All great experiences require planning, after all. Like a carefully composed culinary masterpiece, each moment must be deliberate, balanced, and unforgettable.

XXII.

Sure enough, fate—or my intricate designs—brings us together again. This time, it’s not the café; it’s the bookstore across the street. I’m browsing a particularly rare edition of Dante’s Inferno when you enter, cheeks flushed from the cold. You pause at the door, scanning the shelves. You don’t notice me immediately, lost in your own world. But then, I shift the book slightly, letting the subtle rustle of pages draw your gaze. Our eyes lock for the second time, and I offer a small, courteous smile—a gesture that is equal parts invitation and ensnarement.

XXIII.

You nod in polite acknowledgment, perhaps remembering me from the café but unsure if it’s appropriate to say anything. I make the first move this time. “Cold out there, isn’t it?” My voice is gentle, but there’s a current beneath it that makes you lean in. “Yes,” you respond, stepping forward. “I didn’t expect the temperature to drop so fast.” Such a mundane exchange, yet the atmosphere buzzes with possibility. It’s like the hush before a storm, where every breath feels amplified, every detail razor-sharp.

XXIV.

We talk about books, about how you’re searching for something new to read. I can’t help but smile at the innocence of the moment. If only you knew how carefully this scene has been staged. Perhaps you sense the subtle contrivance, but you’re far too intrigued to resist. I recommend a novel—something dark, something that resonates with the quiet longing in your soul. You run your fingers along the spine, reading the back cover. For a moment, you glance up at me, curiosity glowing in your eyes. I hold your gaze, letting you see the warmth, the confidence, the faintest shadow of danger.

XXV.

From there, it’s so easy—so natural—to invite you for a walk. We stroll through the aisles, discussing authors and ideas that shaped our perspectives. You mention you have some free time before your next errand, and I suggest a short detour to a nearby gallery. It’s a pleasant place, filled with modern art that leaves plenty of room for interpretation. I watch your reactions to the vibrant colors, the abstract forms, your expressions shifting from amused to contemplative. I find it delightful, the way your mind operates—a playful mix of sensitivity and boldness.

XXVI.

At the gallery’s exit, I gently place a hand at the small of your back. You tense for an instant, then relax into the touch. A subtle gesture of control, but also of comfort. You look up at me, a faint question in your eyes, but I only smile. “There’s a new restaurant I’ve been meaning to try. Would you care to join me for lunch?” The invitation sounds perfectly casual, but in my mind, it’s the first move in a well-choreographed dance. You hesitate only briefly before nodding. And with that, you’re stepping further into my world.

XXVII.

The restaurant is chic, modern, with an open-kitchen concept that allows patrons to watch the chefs at work. I notice the flicker of fascination in your eyes as you see knives slicing through fresh produce, flames licking at the edges of a sauté pan. You’re drawn to the craft, the artistry of cooking—a trait we share, though you don’t fully grasp the depth of my culinary inclinations. We take our seats in a quiet corner, and I order for both of us, confident in my choices. I see the slight wideness in your eyes at my assertiveness, but you don’t protest.

XXVIII.

The conversation flows like wine—velvety and smooth. You tell me about your day-to-day life, your ambitions, your frustrations. Every now and then, I interject with a pointed question that nudges you to reveal more than you intended. You speak of longing, of wanting to break free from constraints you’ve never fully articulated. “I feel like there’s something more… something I haven’t experienced yet,” you confess, eyes lowering to your plate. My pulse quickens. Your vulnerability is as intoxicating as the meal. Your voice nearly trembles with desire—desire for an unknown that you can sense emanating from me.

XXIX.

I lean forward, letting my fingertips brush yours. “You have no idea how much I understand that feeling,” I murmur. And in my mind, I am already orchestrating the next steps. A private dinner, perhaps at my place, where I can demonstrate my cooking skills in an intimate setting. Where the lights can be dimmed to that perfect level of mystery. Where the boundaries between host and guest, dominant and submissive, can start to blur in the flicker of candlelight. You raise your gaze, meeting mine with a spark of courage, and I almost pity how unprepared you are for what you’re inviting.

XXX.

Over the next week, we meet twice more. Brief encounters that bloom from orchestrated chance. Each time, I tighten the invisible threads that bind us. A meaningful compliment here, a reassuring hand on your elbow there. You begin to text me—casual messages at first, then late-night confessions of insomnia and longing. I respond with calm, measured words that soothe and intrigue. Like a skilled chef layering flavors, I add the right amount of reassurance, a dash of flirtation, and an undercurrent of dominance that keeps you hungry for more. You’re starting to realize that what you crave might be found in me.

XXXI.

Finally, the invitation arrives: a private dinner at my place. You agree, heart pounding. I sense your excitement, your trepidation. You arrive dressed elegantly but not extravagantly—a subtle, form-fitting dress, heels that click softly on the hardwood. My apartment welcomes you with soft lighting, classical music, and the enticing aroma of a simmering sauce. I guide you to the kitchen, show you around. The space is immaculate: polished countertops, organized knives, fresh herbs in small vases. You look at the knives with a flicker of apprehension. A fleeting moment, but I catch it. You swallow, and I offer a reassuring smile. “Trust me. You’re in good hands.”

XXXII.

As we cook together, I guide your hands to the cutting board, demonstrating how to mince garlic properly. My fingers brush against yours, lingering in that boundary between casual assistance and intimate suggestion. You tremble, just a little, but attempt to hide it with a laugh. I savor that moment—your subtle surrender, your willingness to follow my lead. The dish we prepare, a braised short rib with a red wine reduction, becomes a symbol of our shared creation. Each movement is choreographed to bring you closer to me, to expose you to the synergy we can create when you submit to my direction.

XXXIII.

We dine slowly, savoring every bite. The conversation weaves between lighthearted anecdotes and profound reflections on art, literature, and the complexities of human nature. You find yourself enthralled, leaning forward in rapt attention. I watch you swirl the wine in your glass, gaze drifting to my hands as I speak. Your eyes betray you—you imagine what else those hands could do, how they might feel if they captured your wrists or tilted your chin just so. You lick your lips unconsciously. I note every detail. Soon, I will make my move.

XXXIV.

After dinner, I guide you to the living area. The music changes—something more haunting, more resonant with the tension building between us. You glance around, noticing the carefully curated decor: subtle paintings, a single sculpture, the faint aroma of incense. You sit on the couch, hands folded in your lap, and I take a seat beside you. Closer than before, close enough to feel the warmth of your body. When I lean in, your breath catches. “You’ve been craving something,” I say softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Do you want to tell me what it is?”

XXXV.

For a moment, you can’t speak. Then you force out a hesitant whisper: “I… I’ve never really done this before. But there’s a part of me that wants—” Your voice falters. I place a finger gently against your lips, silencing you. My eyes hold yours. “You want to surrender?” I ask, my tone both tender and authoritative. You nod, cheeks flushing. “Yes,” you breathe. “But I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know what I’m getting into.” I smile—kindly, I hope, though there is an edge to it. “I know,” I say. “I’m here to show you.”

XXXVI.

Gently, I guide you to stand. My touch is deliberate, my voice calm. I tilt your chin, forcing you to meet my gaze. Your pulse flutters beneath your skin; I can almost taste your anticipation. “When you ask for dominance,” I murmur, “you’re asking for more than just a fleeting thrill. You’re asking me to delve into your vulnerabilities, to shape your desires.” Your lips part as if to protest or question, but you’re silent. “Understand that once you invite me in,” I continue, “I won’t let you hide. I’ll illuminate every shadow, test every limit.” You inhale sharply, but you don’t pull away.

XXXVII.

I press a hand lightly against your lower back, guiding you into a slow, careful dance without music. Each step is a measured claim on your space, your body. “Shall we continue?” I ask, my breath warm against your ear. After a moment’s hesitation, you nod. You have questions, fears, but there’s something about my composure, my unwavering focus on you, that compels you to follow. In your eyes, I see the swirl of conflicting emotions—excitement, fear, and a trust you’re not sure you should grant. But you grant it anyway. And that’s the key.

XXXVIII.

Time seems to slow as we stand in the soft glow of the living room lamp. I guide your hands to my shoulders, letting you feel the tension coiled beneath the fabric of my shirt. You exhale shakily, and I thread my fingers through your hair. For a moment, I merely hold you, allowing the intimacy of silence to speak louder than any words. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, I say, “Your submission doesn’t make you weak. It’s an act of courage, a willingness to let someone else take you to places you’ve never been.” You shudder, nodding into my chest.

XXXIX.

We sit again, and I take your hand in mine. “Tonight, we won’t do anything more,” I promise. “There’s no rush. True dominance is a slow unveiling, like a many-layered dish that must be savored at each stage.” You look relieved, yet a little disappointed. I find it endearing. You realize, perhaps, that I’m not just some brute eager to exploit your longing. I’m a connoisseur of the human psyche, an epicure of experience. And you, my dear, are a delicacy I intend to relish in full measure.

XL.

As the evening winds down, I call you a car. I watch you gather your coat and purse, your expression a tapestry of gratitude, confusion, and a simmering need for more. At the door, you hesitate. “Thank you,” you say softly. “I didn’t quite know what to expect, but… I feel safe.” I touch your cheek, letting my thumb graze your skin. “Safety,” I murmur. “That’s essential, yes. But never forget that danger often hides behind politeness. I’ll keep you safe from the world, yet your greatest risk might just be me.” You swallow hard, but you do not flee.

XLI.

Days pass, each one filled with texts that grow bolder, phone calls that dip into confessions of what you really desire. You tell me about the dreams you’ve started having—dreams of losing yourself under someone else’s power, of being consumed by a force you can’t resist. My responses are measured, but laced with just enough darkness to make your heart skip. I ask probing questions. How do you feel about boundaries? About restraint? About the interplay of fear and trust in the bedroom, or in your very life? Each answer you give me is a key, unlocking new passages within your mind.

XLII.

Eventually, you come to me again. This time, you’re more certain of what you want. You step into my apartment, shoulders squared, eyes bright with determination. I see a new confidence in you—perhaps you’ve read more on the subject, or perhaps you’re simply determined to confront the hunger that’s been gnawing at you for so long. I guide you to the living room, but your gaze shifts to the closed doors down the hallway, as if searching for a secret space. I say nothing, only watch the flush creep up your neck. You’re ready to explore, ready to let me show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

XLIII.

I pour you a glass of wine, deep red and full-bodied. “It’s a robust vintage,” I explain, swirling the liquid in my own glass. “It pairs well with intense flavors.” You nod, sipping slowly, allowing the warmth to spread through you. A mirror of how you might let my influence seep into your life. With that first sip, you give yourself permission to let go. You set the glass down, meeting my eyes. There’s no need for words anymore. We both know why you’re here, what you’ve invited. And I am nothing if not obliging.

XLIV.

Leading you to a separate room, I let you enter first. Dimly lit, furnished with understated elegance. A chaise lounge, a small table with a single rose, a broad window draped in heavy curtains. The air feels heavier here, charged with unspoken promise. Your steps falter as you take in the atmosphere. “This is where I’d like us to begin,” I say softly, moving behind you. My hands rest gently on your shoulders. “Just the beginning,” I assure you. You tilt your head, trying to catch my expression. I see the question in your eyes, the trembling readiness in your lips.

XLV.

I ask you to kneel—just to see how it feels, how your body responds to a position of surrender. Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you’re at war with yourself. Then, slowly, you lower yourself to the plush rug. I circle around you, observing the delicate slope of your neck, the tension in your fingers as they rest on your thighs. You’re trying to appear calm, but your pulse is visible at the base of your throat. My hand drifts down to your cheek, tilting your face upward. “Do you still want this?” I ask, voice low. You nod. “Yes.”

XLVI.

As time unfolds in that room, I guide you through gentle exercises in trust—nothing overtly sexual just yet, more about establishing the balance of power. I ask you to close your eyes. I ask you to remain still, to focus on your breathing while I move around you. I offer words of reassurance, describing how the mind can wander, how fear can mix with excitement. Each instruction is a brushstroke on the canvas of your psyche. You learn the allure of letting someone else direct your body’s stillness, your mind’s focus. And I learn just how far you’re willing to follow me.

XLVII.

At some point, I press a single fingertip to the hollow of your throat, feeling the flutter of your pulse. You inhale sharply. The subtle tension that sparks beneath my touch is exquisite—a fleeting moment of vulnerability, of realization that you’re placing your life in my hands. My other hand cradles your jaw, lifting your face. I speak softly, each word chosen with care. “You see? It’s not simply about physical control. It’s about letting me occupy your thoughts, shape your responses. When I say ‘Hold still,’ your body obeys because it trusts me. Do you trust me?” Your only response is a slow, trembling exhalation.

XLVIII.

Finally, I draw you to your feet. Your knees are a bit shaky. I steady you, and you cling to my arm as though it’s the only solid thing in a world of swirling emotions. “That’s enough for now,” I say, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. “You’ve done well.” You blink, as though waking from a dream. There’s a softness in your eyes, a gratitude that borders on devotion. I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me. I’m aware of how your longing feeds my hunger for control. We’re a perfect pairing, like a rich sauce drizzled over the most succulent dish.

XLIX.

We retreat to the living room, and I let you curl up on the couch. I hand you the glass of wine you left behind, and you sip it in reflective silence. Eventually, you speak. “I didn’t realize it could feel like that,” you say, voice hushed. “I was… calm, but also terrified. It was exhilarating.” I take a seat beside you, close enough so our shoulders touch. “True dominance is about understanding your fears, your desires,” I explain. “It’s an intimate connection—more intimate than most realize. You’re allowing someone to see you entirely, unguarded, vulnerable. And that’s where true control—and true freedom—resides.”

L.

In the days that follow, you return to me willingly, each time surrendering a bit more. We explore the edges of your comfort, expanding them carefully. You find yourself craving my voice, the command in it, the quiet authority that tells you you’re safe even in the midst of your surrender. And I find that our dynamic feeds a deeper part of me, a place that resonates with the refined cruelty and absolute control I’ve always harbored. But in your presence, it becomes something else—something close to artistry. Each moment is a new flavor, a new note in the symphony of us.

LI.

You haven’t asked me yet about my past, or about the shadows you sometimes catch in my expression. Perhaps you sense that the answers would unsettle you. In truth, I’ve walked a path strewn with broken boundaries, with hearts left ravaged by my fervent need to possess and consume. If you knew how far I’ve gone in pursuit of ultimate control, you might recoil. Or perhaps that knowledge would only sharpen your craving. It’s a delicate question, and I suspect someday soon, you’ll find the courage to ask it. And when you do, we’ll both discover just how strong the bond between us truly is.

LII.

For now, you remain content to let me guide you. We practice small acts of surrender—your wrists loosely bound with silk, your eyes covered with a soft blindfold while I speak softly in your ear. You learn to distinguish the tone of my voice, to sense the shifts in my mood. And in your daily life, you find yourself carrying an undercurrent of excitement, a secret only we share. People notice a glow about you, an emboldened step. You smile more, though they can’t fathom the reason. They don’t know about the nights you spend on your knees, giving yourself over to my direction.

LIII.

Late one evening, after a particularly intense session, we lie together in the hush of my bedroom. The lamp casts warm, dim light across our bodies. Your head rests on my shoulder, and you trace idle patterns on my chest. “I never thought I could feel so… free,” you confess. I brush my hand through your hair, letting the softness soothe my own edge. “Freedom,” I repeat softly. “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? You find freedom in surrender, and I find a different kind of release in controlling you. We feed each other.” You nod, eyes fluttering with drowsy acceptance.

LIV.

As you drift to sleep, I remain awake, gazing at the ceiling. My mind churns with possibilities. How far can I take you? How deeply can I delve into your psyche before you realize the true scope of my darkness? Because there’s something I haven’t revealed—something that crosses the line from mere dominance into a realm that would terrify most. Sometimes hiding behind the veneer of an earnest lover, while other times hiding in plain sight as a refined gourmet. I embody both illusions, weaving them so seamlessly that you might never see the razor’s edge until it pricks your skin.

LV.

But perhaps that’s what you want, on some level. You claim you don’t know what you’re getting into, yet you keep stepping forward, willingly. You sense the risk, the potent danger that simmers beneath my carefully controlled demeanor. Part of you is drawn to it like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the allure of being completely overpowered. And I, in turn, am drawn to your willingness to walk that edge. It’s not a game for me, nor is it mere sport. It’s an exploration of the human condition, of the extremes we reach for in pursuit of transcendence.

LVI.

When I think about the future with you, I envision a series of small, orchestrated revelations. One day, I might show you my collection of rare cookbooks, each page annotated with meticulous notes on preparation techniques, plating, flavor pairings. You’ll marvel at my thoroughness, my devotion. Another day, you might notice a photograph tucked away—someone from my past, someone who disappeared from my life under… complicated circumstances. You’ll have questions, but you won’t dare ask them, not yet. Not until the bond between us is strong enough that you believe you can handle the truth.

LVII.

Because that’s the ultimate question, isn’t it? Can you handle the truth of what I am—of what you’ve invited into your life? You desire dominance, but do you understand the scale of my hunger for control? Once you step fully into my world, you’ll find your boundaries dissolving under the weight of my attention. You’ll live for my command, for my approval, for the rare moments of tenderness that I dole out like the finest dessert. And if you ever try to break free… well, let’s just say, once I’ve acquired a taste for someone, letting go doesn’t come easily.

LVIII.

Still, I won’t rush you. Each new step must be taken willingly—coaxed, but ultimately chosen. You might call it manipulation, but I prefer to call it cultivation. You’re like a rare, delicate flower that requires precise care to bloom. And in guiding your growth, I find a reflection of my own becoming. Perhaps that’s the real reason you interest me so deeply. You see, even the darkest souls crave connection. Even the most refined predators desire an accomplice to witness their artistry. And you, with your trembling curiosity and hidden courage, you might just be the perfect witness.

LIX.

So here we stand—on the precipice. You, the eager novice, awakened to the allure of surrender. Me, the refined orchestrator, ready to wield that power with meticulous care and, if necessary, merciless intent. The question lingers: Will you one day look back on this moment with regret, wishing you’d never locked eyes with me in that café? Or will you embrace the journey, accept the risk, and discover a kind of ecstasy you never imagined possible?

LX.

For now, you rest in my arms, lulled by the warmth of our shared secret. You crave my dominance, but you have yet to grasp the fullness of my nature. That’s all right. In time, you’ll learn. And when the moment comes that you finally realize how dangerous I truly am—well, by then, it will be far too late to turn back. You’ll be bound to me in ways you cannot fathom. But isn’t that, in the end, exactly what you wanted? A force you can’t escape, an obsession that becomes your world? Yes. I believe it is. And I will give it to you—every last shiver, every last thrill—until you’re consumed by me.

Dark-RX MasterPost