A/N: This was supposed to go together with another chapter, but it was gonna get too long, and I still need to fix it so yeah.
Word Count: 3K
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Your steps are quick, and you have to slow yourself down. You’re far too giddy- your heart beating against your chest, making your ears burn hot at the shell. Demons and other hellion citizens already glance your way, some of them craning their head to watch where you go so eagerly- so willingly without an escort. It’s been far too long since you’ve been seen out. You need to relax. Your stomach twists itself into knots, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you walk down the street. It’s been a while since you had actual eyes looking at you, and you have to tell yourself that no one cares about you, that it’s their curiosity, but they have no real thoughts about you. You come to a slow pace, restrained to a painful degree, with energy threatening to burst at the seams and leave you a mess.
It should come to no surprise that others look at you- some of them follow your figure until the crowd hides you long enough for you to disappear. While dating Lucifer had come with its perks early on in the relationship- such as bodyguards wherever you’d go, or even stores being reserved just for you- all of that dwindled along with the relationship. You never needed anything more than what you can just order online, and you hid yourself in the castle along with him. You never dared to leave, always worried of what you might hear from the people. But even so, that doesn’t stop the tabloids from theorizing about your relationship, or whether you’re still around or hiding in another ring.
You’ve forgotten what it was like to walk down the street. The anxiety. The fear. The skip in your step. The excitement. Leaving the castle that night to go and drink was something that you don’t regret. You haven’t felt like this in a long time, and it’s almost painful, but the warmth in your chest makes it bearable.
Turning the corner, you spot Adam sitting down on a table outside a restaurant. He’s slouched in the chair, his drink in front of him, as he scrolls on his phone. Hell’s citizens make a very obvious attempt to not get near him. You, however, make your way towards him, unable to hide the bounce in your step, unable to stop the grin.
“Adam!” You call when you’re just close enough, raising your hand in a wave. He looks up, startled, eyes wide and mouth partially agape. When he realizes it’s you, he gives you a lazy grin, lifting his hand up in greeting.
The chair scrapes against the ground, and you sit across from him, your legs criss crossing under the table. It’s only when you’ve sat that you notice another drink, partially hidden by the other. “Took you long enough,” he tells you without any real annoyance in his words. He places his phone face down, and pushes an unopened drink towards you. “Didn’t know what you wanted, and the waiters were being annoying about having to order.”
You smile apologetically, grabbing the drink with your hands. The condensation wets your hands, cooling them down and hiding any bit of sweat that you may have had. “Sorry for taking a bit longer than expected,” you tell him. He gives you an expecting look and you tap the top of the drink with your nail. “Charlie needed me for a bit, but I had no idea how long it would actually take.”
“Couldn’t you just say no?’
Opening the drink, you watch as the fizz climbs up the neck of the bottle. “I could have. But I like helping Charlie. She’s a good kid.” Adam pushes the menu towards you- his nails sharpened, gleaming under the light.
“Fuck that,” he snarls, “damn cunt can throw a punch.”
“Adam,” you call in warning. “You’re cool and all, but I won’t let you disrespect Charlie,” your voice goes low and he’s aware of you for a moment, his eyes canning you, as if the realization that you are an actual demon and he is no longer in possession of angelic steel has clicked. “You came into her home and targeted her friends and family, and her people.” Your hand reaches over and you grasp his hand tightly, your nails sinking into the flesh of his hand. “You can bitch about whatever you want with me, but not about her. Understood?”
“Yes,” he says quickly. Compared to other hellions, you aren’t the most threatening, but a demon is a demon, and he’s learned that lesson.
You smile. “Great!” You let go of his hand, letting yours return to your side of the table. “I haven’t been here before. How did you even find this place?”
As the words leave your mouth, someone comes to your table and clears their throat. You look up to see a hellhound with their teeth bared, as they glower at Adam. It seems as though his reputation exceeded far past just the Sinner hate, but also to the other residents of Hell. You shouldn’t be surprised- Hellborn and Sinners were near the bottom of the food chain, many of them were probably friends, or more. You wouldn’t be surprised if Exorcists had even murdered Hellborn just for the hell of it.
The hound before you stands tall, their fur on its end as they speak to Adam. You wonder if Adam can feel the disdain and hatred. It isn’t as if others are masking it- if anything it’s apparent. He isn’t just a Sinner- no, he’s much lower than that. You’d be terrified in his position, you’d never leave your home if you knew without a doubt that others couldn’t stand you. You wonder why he even goes out at all. You wonder how long he was alone in Hell for until you two met and became friends. You couldn’t fathom being all alone in a new place- especially one where you’re so obviously hated.
“And for you?” Their tone is noticeably different towards you. You had missed what Adam ordered, and you skim over the menu, choosing one of the first things you see as to not keep the waiter at the table.
“Oh, um this.” You point at the menu item, crossing your ankle over the other, cringing internally as you hadn’t repeated the menu item out loud. “Please.” The hound nods, and with a bow, they leave the table. You look up at Adam, who is busy staring down at his nearly empty drink. “What did you get?”
“The service here sucks,” he says in disgust. His lips curl in anger, his hands flat against the table. He grumbles something under his breath, and you glance to your side.
“They’re probably just tired,” you attempt to reason. Perhaps it's to protect him, even if he knows the reason why service is less than subpar. You wonder how long it took him to find a bar that would have him, or even a place to rent. Adam gives you an angry sort of look, but it quickly softens when you cock your head to the side. “I um- Sorry again if you were waiting for long,” you say softly. You shouldn’t have taken long- Charlie could have waited, but you lived in a moment where Adam wasn’t the most hated in Pride Ring, where he could stomach waiting for a few moments alone in a street full of Hell’s citizens.
He stays quiet, and brings his drink closer to him. “You look freaked walking down the street,” he says after a moment, his words tense, and slow as if he isn’t sure that that is what he wanted to say.
You shrug, attempting to play cool, but your bouncing leg gives you away. “It’s um, it’s been a while since I left the castle. When I- When we met that night, I wasn’t thinking clearly- I was a bit melodramatic and I guess, I just wanted the attention that I had gone out alone.” You twist your hands with each other, and you let your worry show, unable to settle it.
“From?” You furrow your brows. “The attention you wanted.”
You bow your head and tap the tips of your shoes against the sidewalk. “Lucifer,” you whisper, his name heavy on your tongue, and shame resting like a weighted blanket over you.
“Did you get it?” You thin your lips and shake your head. Adam pulls a face, and leans back into his chair. “Sucks.”
“Yeah, well, I expected it. I mean, it still hurt, but ya know, what can you do.” You give a smile to Adam, and it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Before, when we were good, um, he would assign guards to me.”
Adam perks up at the mention. “Really?” He sounds shocked.
“As much as Hell is my home, it’s um, not exactly safe. Especially when you’re dating royalty. So, Lucifer thought it was best that if I was to leave on my own, I would have guards assigned to me. He said that it was too dangerous for me to leave on my own. I didn’t really believe him-” you wave your hand in the air- “I thought he was being controlling, until I almost got kidnapped.” You snort at the end, resting your cheek against your knuckles.
“Almost?” Adam leans closer, now intrigued.
“I’m guessing Heaven really was safe compared to here,” you say. He gives you a look as if to say “duh”. You smile at him. “Probably for ransom or some demon who really hates royalty. One of the hellhounds assigned to me found my scent and killed the demon.”
“Oh,” he almost sounds shocked.
“Yeah, she tore out his throat.”
“You still got them around?” He asks, excitement laced into his words. You wonder how much he misses the carnage and bloodshed. “You know, in case I gotta watch out or something,” he tries to cover up, but you can see the way that his body comes to an alert, wanting and waiting for a reason to fight.
With an apologetic smile, you shake your head. “No, they returned to Beelzebub.” He raises a brow. “She handles Hellhounds. She’s down in gluttony, and she throws these big parties most of the time. People go over and they gorge themselves there- feeds into her sin, ya know?” You end, with a wave of your hand, unsure if he really needed an explanation or not.
“Did you care that they left?”
You shrug. “At first I did. I- I have this bad habit of-” you stop yourself- you want to see the good in people, you want to believe that they liked you as much as you like them- “well, it’s not important. But um, we were close, but I think that’s only because they were meant to guard me. But once Lucifer and I hit our rough patch and well I stopped going out as much.” You glance up at him, and quickly look away, interlocking your hands together. “He hardly made public appearances unless it was to visit the embassy-” you gesture to Adam with your hand- “or to visit one of the sins. And we hardly went on dates, so there was no reason to keep the guards around.” You look up at Adam and he’s silent, his brows slightly furrowed, creating small wrinkles between the space. “I’m sorry,” you say, embarrassment hot on your cheeks, “I didn’t mean to bring up Lucifer.”
The waiter returns, your order served on porcelain plates. The hound only gives you a passing glance, their eyes returning to Adam, narrowing in resentment. A check is already placed in between the two of you, the hound standing tall, intimidatingly so.
“Why the fuck are we getting the check already?” Adam asks, his body tense and expression matching the hound’s.
“So you don’t run off.”
“Oh for fuck’s-”
“I got it!” You chirp quickly, reaching into your wallet to pull out a large bill. You gather it with the check, and hand it the hound. “Keep the change,” you tell them, adding a smile at the end of your words, hoping that that is enough to keep everything at bay.
The waiter glances between your hand and you, and takes it gently in their hand. They mumble a halfhearted thank-you under their breath and walk away.
“What the fuck was that?” Adam asks. You take a sip of your drink, trying to find the right words. “I have money to pay for shit.”
“I don’t like confrontation. And it seemed like the two of you were going to get into it.” You kick your legs out, and your shoe bumps against Adam’s. “It just seemed easier to make them happy and leave us alone. But um, you can pay next time if you’d like.”
He scoffs. “You know I used to get shit for free in Heaven.” You scoff out a short laugh, your smile tender compared to his. “You don’t even get shit for free here.”
You laugh at the statement, covering your smile with your hand. “No, unfortunately, you have to prove yourself down here. Between you and I, before your last extermination, not a lot of demons respected Charlie. She kinda had to prove herself and she did- that’s why she had cannibals on her side in the last extermination. Not a lot of people respect me- I never gave them a reason to care about me. I’m not famous or scary. I’m simply a demon who got lucky to be in Lucifer’s grace.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles. There’s silence for a moment as you bite into your pastry. “Where would you go with him?”
“With Lucifer?” You ask, and he nods, his eyes fixated on his own plate. He moves the food around with a fork, letting it tear and poke through the food. “We’d do the usual stuff like dinner. But he’d take me to the other rings, sometimes. We’d go to Ozzie’s and have dinner and Asmodeus would have some of his best dancers perform for us. Or we’d go to Loo Loo Land and watch Fizzorolli at the circus.”
“Loo Loo Land?” Adam pulls a face at the name of the amusement park.
“Oh, um Lucifer owns Lu Lu World, and Mammon- Greed- ripped it off, and made his own amusement park called Loo Loo Land. It’s nothing like Lu Lu World, but we would make fun of the rides, and it’s definitely not up to code.”
“Fucking asshole made an amusement park.”
You snort and take another bite off your plate. Covering your mouth with your hand, you swallow your food quickly. “I think you’d like it. The rides at least. But probably not all the Lucifer imagery.”
He scoffs and takes a bite of his meal. With a full mouth, he asks. “And now? What do ya’ll do?”
“Well now, I beg him to eat with me, but I stopped doing that a while ago. I hated feeling dumb when he wouldn’t show up. But, I never really learn my lesson.” You look at him through your lashes, giving him a small smile, the corners only lifting for a brief moment before they fall.
It’s silent for a moment, and you despise yourself for talking about Lucifer again. “I’m surprised you showed up today,” Adam says, his gaze turned the other way to watch hellions pass by. There’s a light tint that dusts over his cheeks, and he taps his nails on the table, the rhythm slow and controlled, jittering for just a second.
Your hands are over the table, and with something sweet in your chest, you reach out to him. For the briefest second, the shortest moment, your fingers are outstretched, reaching to grab his hand, and when you catch his eyes, you let your hand slowly curl into a fist. “Of course, I came.” This must be how it feels to have a crush, to get excited over someone. “You invited me.” You’re screwed. In every possible way, you’re fucked. Adam entertained you enough for you to come at his beck and call, and you’re sure that you’re wide eyes and flustered, all smiles and laughter with him. “We are friends after all.” You want to hold his hand again. You need to hold him again, to feel his warmth, the callousness on his palms and fingertips.
His eyes stare into your own, and you hold your breath. His lips part, and there’s uncertainty in the way that he holds himself, a speck of vulnerability that you had the grace of witnessing all those nights ago. And in the blink of an eye, it’s gone. His smile is sharp, and playful- too mischievous and out of sorts compared to before. “Friends with a fucking demon,” he scoffs, looking down at his plate, his smile stretched a bit too wide. “Who would have thought?”
The acknowledgement of his perceiving you as a friend, has you perk up in your seat. It’s been far too long since you’ve had friends. And while you think you want more, having him as a friend is enough to make the warmth in your chest spread. Dating a king left you too out of touch, too removed to connect with others. And those at the castle don’t even respect you, they can only tolerate you- a false partner, one undeserving of any title unlike the Queen before you. You’re happy- ecstatic, overjoyed. You have someone who likes you, who- in such a childlike glee- wants to be your friend.
“Can you imagine that? An exorcist and a demon?” Your smile is wide, and you lean towards him, your body buzzing in excitement. “I’m sure that if you saw me out in the streets, you’d have attempted to kill me.”
“No attempts at anything, doll.” Adam points a finger at you, his smile proud and predatory. “I’d have spilled your guts all over the grimy ass floor.” His eyes gleam under the light, his smile scrunching up his eyes.
“Ha!” You snort. “You’re absolutely the worst.” Your laughter fills the air, and you light and bubbly. When you look at him again, he’s smiling gently at you, and it makes your laughter fade away. His hands are on the table, and you busy your hands with your food, hoping that the want to hold him will go away.
No name story part,,, 4? yeah, part 4. i really wanna get to the good part and i can't!! because i have to write the inbetween stuff.
As I mourn my first love, Shigaraki Tomura, I will put this out. I am going to grieve, because I wanted a happy ending where he's the king of the new world and instead I get pain. and on an anniversary day no less!! blasphemy
Word Count: 3K
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You wore a robe to your severance. You couldn't slip anything into it. Not a photo, not a single memory. All of your life remains above and out of reach.
A part of you wishes that you had the sense to take something with you, to slip between the folds of the fabric, folded and tucked neatly. But you doubt that it would have survived the fall. You can't remember much of it- only the way that your body crumpled to the ground, broken with gold pooling underneath you, seeping out of you, the warmth of it doing nothing to stop the chills from your body.
No. Nothing would have survived even if you had wished for it.
On nights when you’re unable to find sleep, you lay awake, empty and cold. You’re without a possession to your name, a name without any meaning here. The only one who you can speak to, has bid you goodnight long ago, and you have yet to find his room in the palace. You wish you had asked him to keep you company.
Outside of your room, you can hear the quick, fluttering steps of imps. You’ve only spoken to a few, nothing more than just pleasantries. You wonder if they would hear you cry at night, if they avoided your room and your gaze because they knew far too much.
Your back aches, and you can feel your wings- or at least the ghost of them tense and knotted in tension.
The thought passes by too quickly, whispered in the back of your mind that you doubt you had any real control over, you wonder about Heaven.
It was peaceful. You didn’t hold a title, you were simply an Angel. You were a being made of stars and kindness, molded by Father’s hands, each feather smoothed between his fingertips, each freckle and dimple pinched with love. You were an Angel, you were meant to be kind, meant to be good. You were never meant to be anything more or anything less.
Perhaps that’s why you’re here.
You allowed Adam to court you, allowed yourself to want the finer things in life. You questioned, and you wanted knowledge and reason behind Heaven. You wanted more, and now you’re no longer an angel.
Tears burn your eyes, and your hands scratch the blanket that lays above you. You have the urge to call for Lucifer, to have him comfort you again. To simply just have comfort and be told that you’ll be okay.
Your breathing is rushed, in and out, in and out, far too quick for you to control your emotions. You need to remember something else, anything else. You need to relax and think about- your mind comes to a blank. You need to think about Adam. Your hand clutches the shirt over your chest, twisting the fabric in your palm.
You close your eyes and think back to Heaven.
It was a peaceful day, one where Adam didn't have to attend a training for the Exorcists, where he could simply be with you. You both sit in a hidden part of Heaven, where the trees are lush and vines hang from the branches, flowers and petals covering the land. It was nice, a valley that Adam had claimed for himself, one where it looked like Earth before it was touched by man.
You lay on your back, your wings stretched to act as a cushion under you, fluttering and twitching under the breeze of the wind. Adam sits beside you, his guitar held in his hands, strumming along cords that are pleasant to your ears. Despite the vulgar lyrics that spill past his lips, you find his voice soothing. With the sun warm on your skin, you could almost fall asleep- you can find peace under the tree.
However, the lyrics are full of sin, lust filled and licentiousness. He hums the final words, slurring them together, ending in a curse when he can’t find a rhyme. But he turns to you expectantly, watching as you blink slowly at him. Your eyes are heavy, and your body equally so. With a smile, you muse outloud, “It’s terrible.”
“Yeah, well you don’t know good music,” he retorts, sticking his tongue out at you. You snort in response. His hand rests over your stomach, and you cover his hand with yours.
“I’ve heard bangers-”
“Don’t call them that,” he interrupts with a groan.
“And this is not a banger,” you end with a smile.
“Fuck you,” he murmurs, and you feel warmth beside you, his arm stretching over your midsection. You turn to face him, and he’s laying on his side, his other arm acting as a cushion under his head. “It’s a great fucking song.”
“It’s gross,” you tell him, closing your eyes once more.
“Tell me how.” He presses himself closer to you.
Smiling, you shift, and he follows your movements, your body entangling itself around his as he rests his head over your chest, his arm circling over your midsection. His clawed hand rests over you, the nail of it tracing delicate lines over you. His wings stretch out, one laying itself flat, and the other acting as a blanket over the both of you.
“It talks about people being together.” When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “Women and their bodies, men and theirs,” you let the last word hang awkwardly in the air.
“Go on,” he encourages.
“I’ve said far too much,” you add hastily, feathers fluttering in the air.
“On the contrary, little dove, you haven’t said enough.” You snort at the nickname, but even so, you can’t help the flutter of your feathers. “I’m only getting inspiration from you,” he adds, a hand cupping the underside of your chest. “I like writing about you.”
“You do?” You perk at the mention, warmth fluttering in your chest knowing that he does think of you.
“Mhm,” he nods. “I’m writing a new song about you,” he lilts at the end.
“What’s it about?” Curiosity is laced in your words, and you let the excitement pool in your stomach, eager to hear more.
“I’m thinking about your hands.”
You can’t help the laughter that rings around you. “How would that even go?”
“Softest hands I’ve ever felt.” Your eyes open, a smile stretching on your lips, as the clouds above you move to cover more of the sun. He hums for a second, his hand patting against your arm. “Love to feel them wrapped around my-” You call his name in a warning. “Softer than any cunt-”
“Adam!” You shriek with a laugh, covering his mouth with your hand. He licks at your palm immediately, and you pull away with a grimace. “Gross,” you mumble.
“You've had worse on your hand,” he tells you with a smile, his weight is a comfort above you.
With a huff, you wipe your hand over the sleeve of his robe. “You’re a dick.”
“Dickmaster, baby,” he tells you.
“I doubt that that name is going to catch on,” you muse.
“I already have some of the girls calling me that, ya know?” He says with pride, pushing himself closer onto you. You stay silent, and he presses a kiss against your body. “Jealous, huh?”
“Sort of,” you answer honestly. “I would rather be the only one to call you something like that.”
“Ha,” he breathes out. “I’ll reserve it just for you then.”
“No, you won’t,” you smile.
“Maybe I will,” he counters.
With a pleasant memory, and an emptiness in your chest, you turn on your side. The pillow is clutched in your hand, and you let out soft whines as tears warm your cheeks. You miss Heaven. You miss Adam. You miss your wings. All you have is memories, and even then, they’ll fade no matter how much you cling to them. You’ll be in Hell until you die, until Lucifer wishes to cast you out of his home. An angel without their wings, a fallen angel deemed too pathetic for the King of Hell. You bury your head into the pillow, and you wish you had run away to Earth.
-
Adam isn’t sure how much time has passed since your- since you left. Time has blurred, left messy and without structure. He attends to his duties, he does what is needed of him, and even if it isn't much, if it’s all purely just to give hope to others and have them bask in his glory, he’s there. He doesn’t give himself time to think about you, to linger on you longer for a minute. He pushes you out of his mind. He’s hidden your things, stuffed them into boxes and taped it shut.
Everything that made you, you; that made you different from others, is tucked away. He hates that everything of yours, could fit into just a few boxes, and your existence is gone along with everything else. No one speaks of you, no one dares to mention your name. Whether it's out of fear, or because you’re no longer here, he isn’t sure. But you're gone.
The first few days, weeks, months- whatever it was, was difficult. He was restless, snapping at anyone or anything that came near him, like a shark that’s been starved for too long. Even if he’s tried to push you out his mind, you don’t seem to let go. Your ghost haunts him, a chill down his spine whenever he closes his eyes, your scent clinging to the bed sheets that he refuses to wash. Your laughter rings in the shared home, echoing off the walls in the dead of night. He catches glimpses of you in the corner of his eyes. He’s being haunted by you, a poltergeist in heaven.
It’s laughable.
It’s pitiful.
The door to his office opens, and Lute steps in, her mask held in her hands, her face betraying no emotion. His eyes glance over to his drink, half filled with whiskey, ice melting and condensation creating a ring on the table.
“Sir,” Lute stands talls, her heels clicking at the floor. He can only offer a grunt of acknowledgement. “The exorcists are prepared for the upcoming extermination.”
He looks up at her. She’s devoted. Loyal to Heaven, and to him. She’s his right hand. She’s ruthless and efficient. He’s always held her in high regard- all of his girls.
You didn’t agree with the extermination, claiming that the murder of souls- innocent or not, was something unnecessary. While you never wanted to hear about the casualties, the death and the gore, the wretchedness and sin that covered him in crimson, you had accepted him as he was. His brutality, his ego- him. You accepted him, you wanted him.
Somewhere, he remembers Vaggie. One of his best. Brutal and steadfast in the beliefs of Heaven and cleansing Hell from the damned. Lute was her executioner- unofficially. How Lute ripped her eyes out, and she tore her wings from her back and tossed them to the side. How he and Lute had left Vaggie for dead, an angel without their wings, hobbling around Hell, missing an eye and only hoping that their suffering will end.
And now you’re in Hell.
“Sir.”
“What?” It comes out harsher than it’s meant to be. And he turns his head, grabbing at the glass, but unable to lift it to his lips. He sighs, the condensation cold against his palm. “What is it Lute?”
“I wanted to know if there was any plan you had for Extermination Day.” He looks up at her, and he can see her falter. The corners of her lips twitch, and she tightens her fists. It’s rare to see her like this.
“About?”
She says your name, and it sounds wrong. Your name shouldn’t be uttered, shouldn’t be whispered by anyone above. He has yet to say your name out loud. He’s thought it- wanted it, mouthed it, but he can’t voice it. He can’t give you a voice. And yet, she has no problem saying your name, even if you both shared affection for one another.
Adam looks at Lute now, as she waits for his response, and he sees your executioner. He remembers how her face contorted to pull your wings from your back. The snarl of her upper lip as she had to drag the skin, gold staining her hands as a piece of skin thinned down to your lower back. Logically, he shouldn’t be upset with Lute. It was her job- it was required of her. It was even told that she would be the best one suited for you and your fate. But still- he sees her, and he sees you on the floor, sobbing and reaching for your wings. And he sees your wings, gathered and taken elsewhere.
Lute continues, her hands fisted at her sides. It’s been some time since the two of them have been together alone. “If we see them, what are we meant to do?”
His eyes widen, and his hand tightens around the glass. “Excuse me?”
Her voice fades into noise, and he stares through her. The idea of meeting you in Hell is one that he never even touched upon. A part of him desperately wished that you were able to hide, to lick your wounds and stay hidden where those vile and filthy souls couldn’t touch you, where you could expand your power. However, wisps of thoughts, ghosts of you and who you were always lingered in the back of his mind. He’ll never admit it, he’ll never give it an actual, tangible thought, but he needed to face the ugly truth that some degenerate had found your mangled body, or that in pity and mercy, the fall was enough to- crack! His glass breaks, and amber and gold spills on the table.
“Adam!” Lute calls with worry laced into his name. She rarely does call him by his name, only in softer moments, where neither will be interrupted will she call his name. But now, there’s a flash of panic in her eyes, and he fists the injured hand.
“Shit-” he can feel the stickiness of the drink. “I’m fine, Lute.It’s just- Fuck-” a piece of glass is pushed deep into the flesh of his palm- “it’s whatever.” With a flex of his hand, he miracles away the injury, the only evidence for it is pooled on the table. “It’s a fucking cut. I’ve had worse.”
She pauses, and looking between his hand and him, she clears her throat. “Of course, my apologies. However, the Exorcists will need an answer on what will be the course of action should we run into-” the click of the first letter taints her tongue- “them,” she corrects herself.
“If we see them,” Adam muses, and the only thing that can come into mind is taking you away. Hiding you somewhere. Making sure you didn’t leave his side. He catches Lute’s eyes, and she waits expectantly, her fingers twitching in anticipation. “I’ll decide before we go down.” He sees her disappointment, the way she softens her shoulders, the soft exhale. She isn’t content with that answer, and neither is he. “Just leave me be, huh? I’ll see you later.” He waves her off, and gives his attention to the alcohol that creeps towards the paperwork on his desk. In a blink, the glass is repaired, and filled with the sweet amber.
In the solitude of his office, he stares at the wall. What would he do if he saw you? How do you even look now? Would you recognize him? Would he recognize you?
Yes. He would. Without a doubt. He’d pick you out in a crowd. He’d know it was you. He’d be so certain of it. He’d go to you in all of his glory, and he’d take you. He would take you away from it all. He’d apologize for not coming sooner, but even with his title, there are still rules that he has to answer to. He’d apologize for not doing something then, for not protecting you and doing more to prevent your punishment. But you’ve learned. You’d be better now. You’d stick by him, and you’d be safe with him.
His hands aren’t stained with your blood, and yet, he can never feel clean. Maybe he should have listened to you, maybe he should have stayed home. Let himself stay ignorant to your fate. Let himself think that you had a fighting chance. That you had fought and snarled your teeth at the others. Instead, you cowered, you looked hurt- betrayed that the ones that you held in such high regard watched you with cold eyes, unblinking and repulsed as you writhed on the floor. You were there, the only memory of you pooling on the floor, inching closer to the feet of others. Then your blood, golden and glittering, was washed; gold watered down and cleaned with a cloth, until the color changed.
Should he have sullied himself? Should he have sat on his knees, let his skin and clothes be forever stained by your blood. Have the ends of his robe forever touched by you. Let his knees mark themselves, raw and red, as he crouched to clean what was left of you. Should he have let himself touch the last bit of holiness that you had left, let it stain his nails. Should he have scrubbed at the floors until his hands were raw, until he could see his reflection in the floor, until you were no longer there. Had he sat there, and cleaned the floor, would it have been enough to bring you back, would they have taken pity on someone as great as him. Would they have seen his good deed, and let your misdeed be forgiven? Could Father have heard your cries, if you were just a bit louder? Should he have cried for you, begging and praying for mercy until you were saved.
He’ll see you. He’ll find you in hell. He’ll take you back home.
Omg hey!! Oh wow it's been a while, been here since the CIAYS days. Idk if you've seen the recent news on bnha but it made me nostalgic and I couldn't help but remember one of the main reasons I grew to love shigg's character. So uhh, thanks for writing that series four years ago. It still holds a very special place in my heart
4 years!! It's been four years!! oh my gosh, where does the time go
Okay, but like I saw the news and I was sick. I hated it sm, but like logically, what else could have been his ending. the death and destruction that he brought, the environment he was raised, his birth was a tragedy, he was never meant to have a happy ending, he was like a cow, raised for slaughter
but honestly, thank you sm!! like it kinda amazes me that people liked that fic, to the point that like people were excited for the weekly updates and im just never gonna stop being in awe of that
anytime anyone mentions ciays, i get all giddy
thanking you for being along for that ride, ily sm<33
no because kurogiri went to go save his son?? and im gonna throw up in class. this is honestly, the worst news i could have gotten in my entire life
I adored the Sinner Adam fic you posted! I was especially surprised by the lack of gender specific terms you used for the reader (at least none that I could find) which as a Non-Binary aligned person, it made me incredibly happy!! I would love to have a part 2 but don’t think of this as a request! I just wanted to pop in and say I adored your writing!!! Have a great rest of your day!!!!!
thank you, thank you!! i like to write my non explicit fics as gender neutral as i can since i want everyone to feel included, and becaue i also id as nonbinary, so when fics have like she/her, im like ah! im a girl now ig. which isn't bad!! people should write what they're most comfy with!!
Word Count: 4.9K
A/N: I had an idea about this, but I wanted to get it out. This was supposed to be headcanons, but it turned into a story!! woo(•_•)
This is also not done. Like I wanted it to be be headcanons so bad, but i need to establish a plot line because im like dumb. um, so yeah. if this does become anything more, i think max three chapter
Its written as if Adam is a sinner so yeah!!
-
Dating the King of Hell should be easy- nothing short of bliss and love. And it is easy being with the King of Hell, when he has to make appearances, and he has to put up a front. But being with Lucifer is much more difficult. You know he’s not over Lilith, and you aren’t even close to being a replacement for her. And yet, he keeps you around. You can trick yourself that he still wants you, that maybe he does enjoy being with you. But lying to yourself doesn't make anything easier. You walk out of the castle without a word to Lucifer, childishly hoping that he’d figure out that you weren’t there on his own. On your stroll to nowhere in particular, you check your phone constantly, hoping to see a missed message or call from him- some type of form that he still takes notice of you. You have to silence your phone when you feel tears prick your eyes at the empty screen.
You wind up in some sleazy bar, a bit too tipsy, and far too melancholic to do anything more than swirl a glass of alcohol with melting ice. You watch the condensation drip down the side of the glass, creating a ring over the coaster. Beside you, the chair scrapes, and your spirits are lifted. It’s Lucifer! He’s chased you down and now he’s going to apologize and proclaim his- your shoulders fall when you realize that it’s not Lucifer. The realization leaves you cold and far lonelier than you initially were. Instead, it’s Adam- the First Man. You wonder for a brief moment if he even still calls himself that.
“Mind your fuckin’ business,” he sneers, sitting beside you. He lifts his hand, and the bartender pushes a glass and a bottle towards him, muttering something about a tab under his breath before turning his attention elsewhere.
You heard he had become a Sinner- the very thing he sought to kill for entertainment not that long ago. However, you had yet to see him since he was stabbed by Niffty. You wonder if his new form has a hole in his back now.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he tells you, malice tinged at his words, but he makes no real motion to actively wave you off. You’re sure he would have if he was still divine.
A closer inspection reveals that he’s in far worse shape than you could have imagined. A beard that’s in the awkward phase of growing out, deep bags under his eyes, and gaunt cheeks. Hell has not been kind to him. But, what else could you have expected? He was an exorcist- the exorcist- and now, he’s stuck in Hell. Honestly, you should be surprised that his head isn’t mounted somewhere.
You turn back to your drink, and wipe a line of condensation off. “I’m surprised you’d even show your face around these parts,” you mumble, taking a swig of your drink. It burns going down, and you try to hide your displeased expression.
“Fuck you,” he hisses out, taking a long drink from the bottle.
“You know, as a former exorcist, I’d suggest being nice to demons around these parts.” You raise your hand at the bartender, and he walks over, and places the tab in front of you. “You never know who you’re gonna piss off next.” You leave a hefty amount, enough to cover your drinks and leave a pretty tip.
“What? You’re gonna sick Lucifer on me?” You turn to him, embarrassment hot on your cheeks, and he wears a crooked smile. “Your face and his are plastered everywhere I look.”
With a sigh, you push the check away from you. “Must suck for you,” you mumble. His response is to take a drink from the bottle. “I hated having my picture taken before,” you tell him, unsure if he’s even listening or not. “I felt that they never really got my good side.”
“I’d get photographed all the time in Heaven,” he says in a low tone after a moment of silence. “Bitches could never get enough of me.” You scrunch your nose at the word, and fold the straw wrapper into squares. “Fucking loved it.”
“Wish I loved the camera.” You cross your ankles together, tucking them under the seat of the stool. “I hated being looked at.”
There's a pause in the conversation, long enough that you believe the small talk has ended. You could go back to the castle but if Lucifer hadn't taken notice of your absence, you'd surely have a breakdown. Maybe you could go to the hotel. Charlie would understand. “You still get your picture taken?” Adam asks, his voice startling you.
You tilt your head to the side, underneath the seat, your legs twist around themselves. “Not as often as I used to. I think it was more like uh-” you wave your hand around and the folded wrapper unfurls itself- “shock value? I think. Like the King of Hell downgrading to some resident.” You smile bitterly. “Not even a Goetia or anything.”
“A Goetia?”
“These magical birds.” You look at him. “You’ve been in Hell for a bit, haven’t you? I’m surprised you haven’t heard or seen them.”
“I don’t get out a lot.”
“‘Cause you’re hated?” You ask, a wicked tone laced in your words. Adam responds by mocking your voice with the same question. You scoff with a smile on your face. “I wonder why, if you’re such a peach.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
It’s silent. And you watch as the bartender grabs your drink, leaving the coaster behind. A memory of drinking with Lucifer pops into your head- his honeyed smile as he pours you a glass of wine that you would have never been able to afford, to even be aware of such a delicacy that existed in Hell. Never would he have taken you to some dingy bar where less than savory individuals reside.
You’ve been taken care of. Pampered and adored for a considerable amount of time, before all the light had dimmed. You should have never allowed yourself to get used to such treasures. You glance over at Adam, and wonder if he can understand. “Do you come here often?” You ask him, crossing your arms over the bar. He chokes on his drink and slams the bottle down. He gives you a bewildered stare and you raise your shoulders defensively. “What? I’m just asking,” you say. “The bartender looks like he knows you.” You catch the bartender’s eyes and he quickly looks away. “Or at least enough to keep a tab open.”
“There’s not much to do around here,” he answers.
You fill your cheeks with air and let it slowly blow out through pursed lips. There's plenty to do- sort of. Minus the drugs and sex, most of Hell's greatest features are stuck in other rings. “There’s the Cannibal Sector,” you offer. “You gotta be careful but Rosie is nice and she sells pretty things. I have this hairpin in the shape of a human hand.” Adam gives you a look. “It might be a real hand, huh.”
“The fuck are you even doing out of your castle.”
You deflate. “Rough night,” you say with a sigh. “What about you?”
“Rough night,” he answers
You nod in solidarity. “I’m not usually a drinker,” you confess. “The taste is a bit too bitter for my liking. But being at the castle just wasn’t-” it’s not for you, the pampered life, acting as a placeholder, the King- “I didn’t want to be there.”
When Adam fails to say anything else, you feel embarrassed to even say something like that to the former angel beside you. He wouldn’t care. He shouldn’t care. Why would he ever worry himself over the likes of you, when your supposed partner couldn’t. He sniffs, and places the bottle down. It’s nearly empty.
“Where do you want to be then?” His eyes are still golden, unblinking as he stares.
Gold meets your own eyes, and you flicker to the horns over his head, curling overhead much like his former exorcist mask. You look back at his eyes, at the way he holds the bottle loosely. “I don’t know,” you confess.
There’s a moment of silence, and he finishes the last bit of alcohol. You wonder how many he usually drinks before he goes back home. “You wanna come over?” He asks, and there’s a shade darker that brushes against his cheeks, and he tries to ask nonchalantly, but he toys with the words, and he swallows too harshly for him to not be worried about your answer. As if he’s asking some forbidden question. But, you’re lonely, and you don’t want to be alone in a bar longer than you already have been.
You look at the exit, half-hoping that Lucifer would be there, ready to take you to his home, and a part of you is glad that he isn’t there. You look back at Adam, and nod your head. “Lead the way,” you tell him.
The sound of the bartender yelling behind you about a tab, has you smiling, feeling as if you’re dining and dashing despite you having paid for your portion. Adam doesn’t seem to care, walking without breaking a stride, just waving his hand without looking back.
It doesn’t take long before you’re climbing up steps that need to be looked at, rust falling off with each bounce. You’re sure that you can hear something unsavory going on in a room, but a whistle from Adam has you scurrying along. There’s no reason that you should know anything more than you already do.
You enter his apartment, and take a careful look around. It’s messy- clothes strewn across, dishes left out, and you feel pity for him. A single couch is close enough to the rather small television, a coffee table that has paint chipping and dents is one of the few pieces of furniture in the rooms. A sliding door is closed, a few broken blinds giving you just a glimpse into the outside. “You certainly,” you pause, trying to find something nice to say, “have a place,” you end defeatedly. You stand near the door, clicking the lock into place, as if that would protect you from any dangers out in the world. Perhaps you should be worried about Adam, about the angel who would bear his fangs and be drenched in blood, too excited about senseless murder. But you catch him kicking things under the couch, trying to spruce up the place even if just by a smidge.
“Fuck you,” he says without conviction. He grabs at a pile of clothes and tosses it on top of a chair, leaving the couch clear for you and him to sit. Smiling softly, you take a seat. He places himself close to the arm rest, and watches as you look around. “I uh, I clean- sometimes.” He sounds unsure of himself.
“I like cleaning,” you tell him, grabbing at a magazine on the worn out coffee table. It’s some tabloid, and you see a snippet of you and Lucifer in the corner. You turn to the page where you two are supposed to be. It’s titled as “Issues at Home?” You frown, and turn to another page. “I like organizing and stuff. Um, it helps uh, Lucifer. He does a lot of projects.”
“You don’t got any?”
“I have hobbies, but they come and go.” Your eyes skim the page, talking about Velvette’s new clothing line. You pull your lips into a thin line, a part of you wants to wear her outfits, but you aren’t sure you could pull them off. “It’s all just-” you flutter a hand in the air- “you know, stuff.” You place the magazine back on the table. “What about you?”
He smiles and leans back on the couch, the cushion creasing under his weight. “I like to play the guitar.” You perk at the mention, and watch as he rests his hands over his stomach. “I was in a band. Played the guitar, got all the chicks that I wanted.”
“Were you good at the guitar?”
He nods his head. “Oh, you should’ve fucking seen me. I was like a fucking god on stage.” He holds his hands out and mimics a guitar. You huff out a laugh, and watch as he lets his hands fall. “I got to fuck whoever I wanted. And I mean, who wouldn’t want to fuck me? Look at me.” he tosses you a lazy look, matched with a sly smile, and you can see how people would be attracted to him. “I was the first dick– of course, everyone wanted me.”
“What songs would you perform?”
“Rock mostly.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Crowd went wild.”
“You’d perform in heaven?”
He shrugs. “Most of the time. If I felt bold, sometimes the band and I would do a show on Earth. I’m telling you humans would just throw themselves at you, begging to be fucked in some grimy ass restroom.”
You scrunch your nose. “Sounds gross.”
“It was,” he says with a faltering smile. He cocks his head to the side, and there’s a softness to his words. “Gross as shit, but the girls were hot.”
You cross your ankles together, and turn to face him. Your arm cushions itself between the couch and your head to watch him. “Do you not play anymore?” you ask hesitantly,
He sucks on his bottom lip, teething at the skin, before letting it go. “I haven’t tried to summon my harp- guitar- shit, thing, since I’ve been here.” He closes his hands into a loose fist and kicks his legs up on the beaten coffee table. “There’s this pawn shop a few streets down, and they have this guitar for sale.”
“Are you thinking about buying it?”
“I have other shit to worry about.” He gives you a look, a fleeting sense of exhaustion and acceptance that washes over him, that makes him feel a bit more real, a bit more like you. “It isn’t even that good.” He sounds like a child, trying to justify something to themselves. “It’s beat up, and the strings are probably worn-” he shakes his head- “it's not worth it.” You open your mouth to reassure him that it probably is worth it. That despite the condition that it’s in and the price for it, if he wants it, it's worth it. Even if he could never play it, even if it’ll never be restored to its original beauty, it would be his. You only manage to suck in a gulp of air, when a knocking at the balcony door grabs your attention. “Some fucking bird that keeps bothering me.” He looks over at you, and glances back to the door, and back at you. “I have a balcony. Wanna sit outside?”
You nod quickly, closing your mouth. “Yeah.”
He walks past the door, and leaves it open for you. Just like when you entered, you close the door behind you, half-heartedly hoping that it won’t lock behind you. His balcony holds two chairs- both different kinds and both equally as rough looking. A part of you wonders where exactly he got this furniture. There’s a dying plant shoved in the corner, the leaves brown and stem wilting under the weight of the dying leaves.
“Quit judging,” he snips.
You scoff, a smile teasing at the corner of your lips. The air of Hell is cool, wind breezing over your skin and you stare down into the streets, watching as Imps and Sinners live their lives, peacefully uninterrupted. Sitting down, your breath hitches when the chair dips under your weight. It’s quiet between the two of you, silence in each other’s company where you both just stare at the world in front of you.
You can see the holy light from the embassy, and you can see Heaven’s light- the rings that are protected by wings. It lights up the night sky far better than the pentagram ever has, and sitting under the light of it, makes you wonder if anything is different in Heaven since Adam’s death- or rather, reincarnation. “Do you miss Heaven?” You ask, before you can register the weight of the words that it holds. You turn to him, almost scared of any answer that he would give.
“That’s a stupid question,” he spits out. You don’t respond, and you stay looking at him. He turns his head to avoid your gaze, his legs stretching out in front of him. After a beat of silence, he looks ahead of him. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “I do.”
“What do you miss about it?”
“Full of fucking questions, aren’t ya?” He stays silent, and after a moment, he lets out a soft sigh. “Everything.”
“There’s not many stories about Heaven down here. You know, minus the ones that we all know. The golden gates-”
“Pearly gates,” he corrects. You look at him, and he has his eyes casted down. “They’re pearly.”
“The pearly gates,” you correct, “the clouds, the happiness and peace. I just- Other than that, there’s nothing else to go off of. But I guess, why would I know. Heaven seems so far away, like some mythical place.”
“Your boyfriend doesn’t talk about it?” Adam asks with a sneer.
“No,” you answer without hesitation. “He doesn’t like talking about Heaven. Sometimes-” you lick your lips- “Sometimes it feels like he hates everything and everyone down here. Like he can’t stand the idea that he’s stuck here.” You scratch your neck, and pinch your legs together. “It’s like the memories of Heaven are too painful.”
“That magazine said y’all were breaking up.”
“Maybe,” you answer.
“You can talk about it if you want. Would make this night a helluva lot more interesting.” You look at him. “I’m all ears.”
“And horns,” you tease.
“Fuck you,” he says with an impish tone.
You smile, and kick out your legs. Your phone buzzes, and with hope, you believe that it’ll be Lucifer. Your heart sinks when it’s only a notification from Sinstagram. With a frown, you silence your phone. “In the beginning, it was easy to forget that he was married. I mean, I always knew. He has her portraits hanging, and he talks about Charlie constantly.” You smile bitterly and scratch at your phone case. “I don’t blame him for that, but-” you shrug- “it hurts knowing that he still clings to her.” When Adam stays silent, you continue. “He can be kind- real attentive and sweet. But sometimes, when he’s had a uh-” you struggle to find a word- “a bad day, he gets real low. And I hate to admit it, but he gets clingy and it’s nice to know that I can still serve him in some way.” Your fingers pinch at the bridge of your nose, and you let your hand cover your mouth. “But then, there are moments, where it feels like he’s actually looking at me- where he’s just everything,” you say wistfully, your hand stretching out in front of you, clasping around the night air. You glance at Adam, who watches your hand as you pull it back to yourself. “Sorry, I uh, I didn’t mean to ramble.”
“So why’d you leave then?”
Perhaps you’d get a biased opinion- you’re aware of how Adam feels over Lucifer, and practically every other inhabitant of Hell. He thinks of himself above any other, his own pride being the very thing that made him unaware of Niffty running towards him. You chew on your lip, your hand scratching over your neck. You need to speak to someone. No one else at the hotel will ever give you a straight answer- or at least the answer that you want to hear.
With a sigh, you kick your legs out in front of you. “I like Lucifer.” You can feel his eyes on you. “But, sometimes,” you drag the word, and your body feels hot, “it’s like he’s not present in the relationship. He gives a lot, but he hardly ever asks for anything.”
There’s a pause. “What could you even give him?” he asks in sincerity.
There’s a pang in your chest, wrapping tightly, threatening to crush your bones, and leaving you a battered and broken mess on Adam’s balcony. You can’t give him anything that he doesn’t want. He has his daughter, he had his wife, he has his title for better or for worse. All you can offer is a moment of content, and even then it seems that you can no longer do that.
You shrug your shoulders at an attempt of a weak answer. “I know that he’s still not over his wife. Or ex-wife. I'm not too sure of the title and I hate to ask. He gets all mopey and deflective.” You kick at the ground, and insecurity hugs you tightly, and drips into your words. “He stares at portraits of her, and well, it’s hard to compete with the literal Queen of Hell, when I’m just-” your jaw stiffens, and you look at the ground through blurring eyes- “me.” You stand in her shadow without even having met her. “Even when I dress up, I feel like a child playing pretend. I don’t- I’m not like her.” You’ve stared at her portraits that still hang in the palace, and they consume you. Her smile, her delicate hands, and the elegance that is so evident in portraits. It feels childish to compare yourself to someone so regal and poised.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “My ex was pretty hot.” Your eyes widen, and you turn to him. “They both were.” He lets out a sigh, and keeps his eyes fixed in front of him.
“Adam,” you squeak out. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head, blood rushing to your face, making your body uncomfortably warm. “I hadn’t meant- I didn’t mean to talk about her with you. I’m so sorry.”
“The fuck are you apologizing for?” He asks, eyes narrowed and mouth twisting to an ugly sneer.
You cross your arms over your chest, bringing them to an ‘X’ where your hands curve over your biceps. “It’s just that I’m talking about Lucifer and your ex-wife.” You frown when he gives you an ugly look. “I just- I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He gives a shrug of his shoulders, his gaze still focused elsewhere. “Lucifer already talked shit about how he banged both of them. It's whatever.”
Your brows furrow, and you watch as Adam pats his pockets, fisting a hand into one of his pants pockets. He fishes out a pack of cigarettes, grabbing on and sticking the tan end of it into his mouth. He motions the carton at you, and you pull your mouth into a thin line.
“If you're gonna bitch about smoking, you're one lame sinner.”
“Eve? He slept with Eve, too?”
“Oh shit.” The cigarette hangs between his teeth, until pulls it back into his mouth. “You didn't know.” He almost sounds apologetic. He grabs at a lighter and it takes a few clicks to light the white of the stick.
“He doesn't really talk about his sex life before me.” You slump further into yourself, your nails scratching over your skin. “It's in the past. I know I shouldn't be hurt over what he's chosen to share with me, but-” you toss your head back, and in the red sky, the stars are dim. “I don’t know. It just feels like another kick on a shitty night, ya know?”
“I’m shitty?” He almost sounds offended.
“No, no” you shake your head. “If anything, you’re like the one good thing out of this night.”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t so bad yourself.” You turn to him, your head cocked to the side. “You got a nice body. If you weren’t stuck here, I would’ve bagged you already.” You stretch your lips thin, and Adam shrugs, blowing out a puff of smoke. “You’re easy on the eyes.”
“Thanks Adam,” you say hesitantly. He holds out the cigarette towards you and you wave your hand. “I’m good.”
“So what now? You gonna go back to him?”
“I don’t even think he knows that I’m gone,” you say honestly. The confession makes you feel lighter than you thought it would. “It’s comfortable with him. It’s easy- I don’t have to worry about things, but, I also don’t have to worry about anything. And sometimes, I want to worry. I want him and I to argue about dumb shit, and I want to worry if he’s coming to bed or not, and not being resigned to the fact that I know he won’t.”
The silence is broken by the scraping of the chair, and you watch as he rises, stretching his arms above him, the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “Eve tolerated me,” he says quietly, letting out a breath of smoke. You look at him, biting at the inside of your cheeks. “She loved me for a while. She was devoted to me. But I uh- I’m pretty sure that was because she was made from me.” A hand cups over his side. “Blind loyalty or whatever. But when she bit that apple, whatever she felt for me was gone.” He speaks quietly, and slowly, as if the words and the thoughts of it were slowly piecing themselves together, a puzzle that he had long put away in order for it to never make sense. “She didn’t care what I did as long as I left her and the-'' someone below lets out a scream, and Adam turns to you, his face flashing a moment of vulnerability before he looks away and puts out the cigarette under his boot. “Well, Eve was Eve.” His brows soften, and he looks tired. “I didn’t tolerate her.”
“Meaning?” You ask quietly.
He shrugs. “I did love her. She had a part of me after all.” He looks over at you, and his hand tightens over his side, pulling at the fabric. “But that’s not important anymore.” He turns away, and walks back inside. You scurry after him, making sure to lock the balcony door behind you.
You stand awkwardly in the room, unsure of what to do next. Truth be told, you had planned to spend the night in some dingy motel if Adam hadn’t sat beside you. But now you’re here, in his dingy apartment, truths and insecurities laid out for the two of you to bear witness. A part of you wants to bid him goodnight, and maybe when you’d see him out in the streets, you’d give him a cordial nod, and remember how he listened and talked about his ex-wife, and he’d remember you in positive light, despite you only being a mess of insecurities wrapped in sin.
But now, you don’t want to leave. At least a part of you wants to continue this conversation, to keep the comfort wrapped tight around you. You tap your foot against the ground and Adam looks at you, his eyes staring at yours, unwavering from yours. You hadn’t realized just how powerful he stood beforehand.
“You can stay if you want,” he says slowly, unsure of the words that he’s saying. “Take the couch or whatever,” he attempts to sound indifferent, but you can hear the sincerity in the words, uncomfortable, but sincere. “I got a spare blanket you can use.” His teeth are sharp, and they peek out to tease at his bottom lip.
“Really?” You ask, eyes wide and you take a step forward, and he looks away. “I can?”
His mouth thins into a grimace, and he gives a forced shrug. “Do whatever you want.”
You look at the couch. It wasn’t uncomfortable to sit on, but you’re sure you’ll wake up with a sore back. However, you don’t want to go back to Lucifer, and you don’t want to go to some dingy motel where you’re sure you’ll drink until you’re sick. Looking back at Adam, you nod, a smiling teasing at the corners of your lips, and he finally looks away from you.
“Yes!” You clear your throat. “Yes,” you say in a softer tone. “I’d like that. Thank you, Adam.”
“Whatever.” He walks into his bedroom, and you sit on the couch. He returns with a blanket, and he stands at the end of the couch, looking at you. “I’m not making you breakfast or anything. You gotta figure that shit out on your own.” You nod. The only real worry that you have is that your phone’s battery is at an uncomfortable percentage that you aren’t sure is going to last you.
“I hope Hell is nice for you.” He raises his brows at you. “It’s shitty and the smell of decay is always kinda there, but sometimes, it’s nice down here.”
“Hell is supposed to suck.”
“And it does,” you say with a shrug. “But not all the time, Ads.”
“Don’t call me that.” He tosses a blanket at you- it’s thin and threads have begun to unravel at the seams, but it’s soft. “I’m turning off the lights.”
“Goodnight,” you call out, holding the blanket close to you. You can only smile when the response is a closed door.
I know you write hazbin stuff now, so would you ever be willing to write for charlastor? it's my favorite hazbin ship and I think you could really do it justice :)
hi !! im the anon u just answered about the fic— do u still write for shigaraki or like do u have a list of who you will/wont write for? i dont wanna request a character u arent comfy with :]
Yes, I still do. As long as I've written for them before, I'm okay with writing for whoever
oh em gee could u pretty please do a fic like the filling you headcanons u posted?? id be like forever grateful u have no idea how hard it is to find fics with that kink !!!
Word Count: 3.5K
A/N: No name again!! Part Three this time. Woo! Um, I just miss writing. I have some request that I wanna do, and like honestly, i need to make time. And I'm slowly making time! So, one day.
I wanna write an Adam chapter, but like idk. Like I could. I'm the writer, but like also, I wanna do this other one, and like i thought it was gonna be super quick, but ya know me. I like words and sounding deep. So who knows. It gets like updated whenever its slow at work, so one day.
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You pace around the room that you occupy. It doesn’t feel like home. You’re afraid nothing will ever feel like home again. You look at yourself in the mirror, and trace your tongue over your sharpened teeth, and you can’t recall the change to them- whether they grew into fangs during your fall, or when you were in your unconscious state.
“‘S probably why my jaw hurt so much,” you mumble to yourself.
Despite not showing much interest in most things, Lucifer has brought it upon himself to make your room as comfortable as possible. He’s brought candles, and pillows to add color. He’s brought you different types of creams and perfumes for you to try, telling you to let him know what scent you like best. The shower adjacent to your room is kept clean, and stocked full of sweet smelling soaps. Your closet is full of clothes, so soft that you played with the fabric between your fingers until you feared you’d ruin them with your nails.
While your back no longer aches like it once did, you still avoid looking at it. The morbid curiosity to touch it grows every second, but you can only let your fingers ghost against the edges of the scars, feeling the pulled skin against yours, chills making your body rise. You feel bile in your throat when you touch a scar that runs thin and farther down your back- skin that stayed stuck and only released when it was far too thin and weak to hold on any longer.
It’s sensitive, and almost ticklish. The tags of shirts make you uncomfortable, and you gently pat yourself dry after showers. You stare at the fogged mirror after every shower, and you have yet to wipe it clean and turn around to see what you’ve lost.
Lucifer has assured you that it’s not nearly as rough as it once was. Perhaps he’s right about that. Yet, you hate that he knows what you’re going through. You hate that you can’t be angry at him, that you can’t throw a fit and tell him that he doesn’t understand. But he does. He’s one of the few that will understand what you’re feeling, and you can’t bring yourself to talk to him.
There’s a knock on your door, and you look away from the mirror. “Come in,” you say out loud, already knowing who is on the other side- speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You give a small smile as Lucifer walks in with a tray of food, taking careful steps to not let the drinks topple over.
“I brought dinner,” he says with a smile.
You sit on the bed, legs crossed and watch as he places the tray over your lap. “Thank you, Lucifer,” you say. There are two plates, two sets of cutlery, and two drinks. Once again, he’ll be having dinner with you in the confines of your room.
Lucifer takes his place in the chair beside you, and with a wave holds the plate in his hand, carefully balancing it as he holds the silvered fork in the other hand. Your fingers wrap over the silver, as you poke and prod at the food.
“I hope you like it,” he says. “It’s been a while since I cooked anything, so I’m hoping it’s good for you.”
You pierce the food with the prongs of the fork. “I didn’t know you cooked,” you mumble, before taking a bite of your meal. The taste is savory, melting on your tongue, and you cut another piece before even swallowing the first one.
“It’s been a while.” Silver clinks against porcelain in a melody, behind his words. “It’s been ages since I’ve had proper meals.” You catch his eye, and he clears his throat. “Running Hell is a bit of a task. Hardly ever lets me enjoy my peace,” he says quietly, nudging his food with the sharpened point of the fork.
“I can’t imagine the type of work it takes to run it all,” you reply, wrapping your lips around another forkful of food.
Lucifer hums in response, and you take a sip of your drink. He hardly ever talks about Hell in detail. He’ll focus the conversation on you, trying to pry out your interests and likes. At times, he’ll talk about his daughter, Charlie. He tells you how she’s off somewhere in the Pride Ring, about how she was when she was young, how he would have her sit on his lap and watch as he’d tinker in his office. The stories are always in past tense, and you never like hearing the sorrow that are entangled in his words. Not only that, there’s a lack of mention of his wife, despite the ring that he still wears.
The conversation comes to a still, and you frown.
Dinners in Heaven were hardly ever quiet. There’d always be some type of noise, some gentle hum of a song, laughter, talk about slaughter that made you queasy. You’d eat with Adam most nights. Some nights you were accompanied by Lute and you always welcomed those shared meals, where she’d sit beside you, her wings folded neatly behind her, compared to Adam’s prodigious wings which graced the floor. She’d remove her mask when dining, and would grace you with a gentle smile.
Home was the only place you’d ever see Adam without his mask. The horns curved and the bright lights a warning against others, looking down on others with heavenly light. He’d wear his mask in public, it was loud and showed who he was. Newer souls always looked at him with awe, and he hungered for the way that they would trip over themselves to speak to him. They may not have known his title, but they knew he was important, they felt the power that he held, the authority that he carried. He was someone to be admired. He was someone that you wanted to be around with.
Even though you were just an angel, you didn’t hold power that others didn’t already have. But Adam still chose you, and you chose him.
You should have chosen to run away when you had the chance.
The food tastes bitter, and you drop the fork, the clinking making your flinch and turn your head. Your name is whispered, and a hand places itself over your arm. Your eyes are shut tight, and you feel like a fool. “Are you all right?” Lucifer asks in a soft voice.
You suck in your lip, teasing it between your teeth. “No, I’m sorry, Lucifer.” You shake your head and blink back the tears that threaten to spill over. Turning to him, you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m fine, I’m sorry. I was-” your voice wavers, and you cover your eyes with your hand- “remembering Heaven. I remembered how my meals-” tears drip down, and you wave your hand. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.”
With a wave of his hand, the tray of food, and his own plate disappears from your sight. It’s quiet for a moment, and he pushes his seat closer to your bed before breaking the silence. “Do you think of Heaven often?” Shamefully, you nod. “What do you miss?”
Adam. You peek at him between your fingers, and when he hands you a tissue, you take it wordlessly. “The view,” you answer. The tissue dabs at your eyes, and you let your hands fall beside you. Fingertips nudge against your hand, a silent encouragement to continue to speak. Your fingers jump, and there’s a sudden urge to take his hand in comfort. Rather, you let your nails scrap against the bedsheets.
“When I was still-” Lucifer’s voice pauses to take a breath- “I would sneak off to this forest. I’d watch all of his creations frolic among the fields. I’d have a few of my own creations rest against me. It was serene.”
You stretch your legs, and pull the blanket over your lower half. “I was a lower rank angel,” you start. “No one hardly needed me unless they wanted me to fetch something. But there was-” you bit your bottom lip and flicker your eyes towards Lucifer who listens with his attention on you- “an angel who would take me to see the stars.” You smile softly, and rub the corner of the tissue between your index and thumb. “It was a vast space, where the sky was lit by the radiance of the stars. It was the first time anyone thought of doing something for me,” you say out loud.
“You were an angel, were you not?” Lucifer asks, his body leaning towards you, a hand wrapping around your wrist, and you let him take your wrist.
“Just an angel, nothing more. I don’t even know why he was so nice to me.” You smile at him, but you look away, smiling at the end of the bed. “I still don’t get it.” He was praised for so much, given everything and perhaps that’s what made his ego bigger than what it needed to be. “But he was kind to me.”
“Another angel?” He sounds surprised. You wonder what angels were like back in his days.
“A higher ranking than I,” you shrug with your answer. There’s a reason why he was able to get away with so much.
“For all that Heaven was, the views were ethereal.” You hum in response. It’s silent, and his shoes tap against the floor. “I’m sorry that Hell doesn’t have views like those.” His thumb arches over your wrist, and you dig your nails into your palm.
You stay silent beside him. Heaven’s land and warmth, nothing but a memory for you to return to. The room smells of rosemary and wine, and your blankets are thick in the stench of it. You turn to him. “Lucifer, why don’t we eat at the table?”
He stiffens at your voice, his mouth opening and closing without an answer. “I didn’t know you wanted to,” he replies.
“I’m stuck in this room all day, I want-” more is what you want, more than the four walls of your bedroom- “I want to see the other rooms. I’m not like I was before. I can move now.”
His eyes scan over your body, and with a nod, he clears his throat. “Okay,” he nods once more. “Breakfast will be in the dining room. I’ll be here to walk you at the usual time that I arrive.”
“Thank you, Lucifer,” you say kindly, a smile ghosting over your lips.
“You’re welcome,” he says your name softly, twisting meaning into the syllables and letting it fill the air.
-
Your room is shrouded in darkness, vast and consuming. Perhaps it’s because you’ve spent so much time awake in the night, that you can recognize what’s beside you, or maybe it’s your vision, heavenly eyes now able to see in the night, almost as if it were day. You aren’t sure which option brings you more comfort- that you’ve spent so long in a place that you should call home, or that parts of your angelic nature have contorted into something else.
Sleep has yet to take you into its arms. You lay awake, unable to do much else, hoping that if you’re still long enough then maybe you rest. However, you do nothing all day but read and draw in a book Lucifer had given you. The television remains in an opened box, pressed against a wall. He had attempted to attach it to the wall, but grew frustrated when he could not figure out the wiring. When you offered that he call someone who could, he just placed everything back in the box grumbling under his breath.
His pride is the reason you still rely on books and his company for entertainment.
The scars on your back are no longer tender as they once were. They’re soft, and ticklish. You squirm against the cotton of the bed and feel a chill pass when you think of them for too long. Your arms coil themselves around you, fingertips tracing over the scarring lines. You wipe your hands on the comforter, filth still etched into you.
Your legs kick the bed, and you find yourself unable to sleep. If it were Heaven, you’d have Adam beside you. It would be hours until he finally rested, staying up until dawn peeked through the blinds in gold. He’d keep you company. Even if he was tired, he’d grumble and whine, but would continue to hold a conversation with you until he could no longer.
Truth be told, it was rare for you to struggle to fall asleep. You had no trouble resting your weary head, but when you did, you at least had Adam with you.
As much as other angels complained about not being given bigger tasks, you hardly minded them. You had no real power over anyone, no real responsibilities. The only real duty that you were given, was to calm Adam when he became crass- at least more so than usual. Heaven was blissful, the only worry being whether Adam would call you a crass nickname in public.
He hardly listened to anyone. He might have quieted down when a Seraphim or even Lute would give him a look, but when it came to you, he would mumble under his breath, still simmering, but at least he'd hold your hand. A chill runs through your body. In quiet moments, you can feel the weight of his wings over you, the heaviness, the softness of his feathers, how they would cover you like a blanket.
Moments with him were plenty, never did you ever have to miss him unless he was called out. The few times you both were separated, he was bitter- snapping and complaining to anyone who was unfortunate to speak to him. and you felt pride at being the one that he wanted, being the one who could calm him. All these weeks- conscious and unconscious- is the first you’ve ever spent without him- without knowing that you would see him again. You wonder what he’s doing. The thought hurts, a sharp pain in your chest that makes it difficult to breathe.
You wonder if he’s upset with Lute. A part of you wants him to be, to know that he did care for you, enough to be upset at another for hurting you. And the other part, hopes that he isn’t. You hope that he understood that it was a task given to her, that he doesn’t hold it against her. You hope that she doesn’t hold it against herself. You close your eyes, and your hands scratch against the comforter.
You need to think of something else.
There has to be something else that you can think of. Something that doesn’t have to do with him. Anything at all would work.
Mornings.
How the sunlight would cast gold in the room, peeking between the blinds and making his wings shimmer. The warmth of the light would only encourage you to dig deeper into bed, pulling yourself closer to him. Your wings would brush under his, and they were never as grand as his were. Where yours were iridescent, and fit to your body perfectly, his shined in gold, carved by Father and molded to be fitting of the first soul to ascend to Heaven.
You cry, and a sob escapes, whimpering past your lips. You need another distraction.
Your wings.
Think of how your wings were ripped from you. How Lute was the one to perform the severance and how Adam was adamant to watch. How he wanted to be there for you. You think of how you’ll never have your wings again. You’ll never fly again. There will always be a scar to serve as a reminder of what was taken. And despite not having them, you can still feel them. You feel their weight, and in the mornings, you can feel a ghost of an ache, as if you’d slept on them wrong.
You sob, crying like a child and you press yourself against a pillow, trying to dull the cries. You can’t recall ever being so teary-eyed, so sad and lonely. Even after your creation, you were greeted with love and open arms, and past the time when you were simply an angel, you at least had Adam and Lute to keep you company.
Crying seems like a foreign concept. You never cried much in Heaven. Not out of sadness, at least. You hadn’t realized how exhausting it was to cry. You heave, whimpering and clawing at the bed sheets. Your chest is tight, bones constricting themselves around everything delicate, gold burning inside of you. When you laid in bed with Adam and spoke of your fate, and even when your wings were removed, you hadn’t cried like this. You shed tears, and you begged for forgiveness under your breath, but you accepted it until you cast out. Some nights, you wake up and you think it’s all been some horrid dream, only to be reminded when you wake to a ceiling that is not yours.
Your door swings open, the back of it smacking against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” Lucifer asks, his voice tense. His presence serves as a reminder of where you are, and where you can never return to. “Are you okay?” He’s inside your room, and the door closes with a smack the further he goes.
You are unable to answer him through your cries, mumbling incoherently. A hand places itself over your arm, and flutters away when you flinch. He sighs your name, and the side of your bed dips under his weight. “Do you want to be alone?”
You hiccup, and after a pause, you shake your head.
“Is it okay to touch you?
You nod, and turn over. Your hands grasp and pull at his clothes, you make a note that he hasn't changed out of his daytime attire, and that his eyes sag with exhaustion. Despite it all, you need him here. You want him here. His hand cups overs, and he lets his thumb arch over the back of your hand. Lucifer shifts under your touch, unable to be comfortable in your bed. Your nails scratch against the fabric of his clothes, fisting the shirt in your hand, and you need him to stay.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, another one of his hands cupping over the corner of your head, gently stroking you. “Just cry it out,” he whispers.
You cry beside him, the touch of his clothes barely enough to keep you satisfied. Your face is barely hidden between the pillow and the mattress. You weep, unable to catch a breath, unable to think of anything more than just missing home.
“I hate crying,” you mumble, hiccupping and hiding your face.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, tracing shapes over your forearm, “you get used to it.” Your body still shakes, whimpers and other pathetic sounds filling the room. “I- Um, I remember that angels were rather touchy- always together in flocks, and never really alone, so I-” he clears his throat, and you peek up at him through teary eyes. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but do you want a-” His face deepens in color, and he squeezes your arm, unable to manage the word out loud. “Or I can get you a pillow or something?”
Your hands let go of him, and the push against the mattress. “Lucifer?” You say softly, picking yourself up. He hums in response, his eyes wide and focused on you. “Can you hold me?” You gasp, your chest tight.
“Yes- Yeah,” he croaks. “Of course. Whatever you need- Oh!” He gasps, when you cling to him, your arms snaking around him, pulling at the fabric of his clothes. You hide yourself in the crook soft curve where his neck and shoulder meet, your dewy face kissing his exposed skin. “It’s-” you can feel his hands pat nervously at your back- “okay.” You pull him closer to you, desperate to not have him leave you. “You’re-” at the sound of another of your cries, his arms tightening around your shaking figure, hands pressed into the soft of your skin- “You’re okay. I got you, you’re safe,” he coos.
He’s warm, and he holds you close to him, his head knocking gently against yours. Your cries soften into whimpers, gasping breaths tickling over his skin. In a room where the glow of red peeks into the room, letting glass and skin flame under a dim hue, you find yourself reminded of home. You find comfort in someone holding you, you find yourself held together by sin, stitched and handled with care. Hands are gentle against your back, the pressure against the scars enough to make you crave for more, to have him touch more of you. You let your eyes close, and you tell yourself that you’ll ask him to leave, but you need a few minutes where you can feel safe, where you can feel wanted.
part two to the unnamed chapter from like a few days ago!!
honestly, im suprised people liked it. like i didnt think it would get good stuff. like i dindt think it was bad, but im like the hype has died down
anyways!! we meet the man, the myth, the devil himself!!
Word Count: 4.8K
You can hardly keep your eyes open. Even with the soft yellow glow of the light, it's far too bright for you. Shutting your eyes only brings you a bit of solace. You're somewhere soft, something light and feathery pulled over you, and you shift your shoulder blades to pull your wings closer to your body, and instead you sob, the pain sharp and unforgiving to your frail body.
Did you fall? No, maybe you slept on them wrong. You don’t have to think about stretching your wings, it was always second nature, as easy as blinking and as easy as moving your arm. You’d stretch your wings, and you’d ask Adam to help you preen your wings. You shift, and something feels empty, it feels light, lighter than air. You can’t remember your wings feeling so light, not unless you were flying. You’d hate to have messed up your wings over something as frivolous as falling.
Memories rush in, fragmented, only the beginning pieces clear enough for you to remember. Your eyes snap, and you’re met with harsh lighting. You see nothing but wood and stone, and a home that is not yours, and you groan into something soft under you. Moving your arm is painful, it feels bent and sore, and you reach for feathers, and find nothing. Your cries bury themselves into something plush, something that soaks your tears and drool and leaves only a patch behind. A hand pats softly against your arm, and you flinch.
A voice shushes out to calm you. “It's okay. You're safe. I'm not here to hurt you,” they whisper. “Just relax, and try not to move. You still haven't recovered.”
Even if they speak softly to you, it's far too loud. The words echo in your head, and attempting to think about where you are and who you're with is making you nauseous. Or perhaps it's the sickly honeyed scent that is thick in the air.
“‘S too sweet,” you slur, clawing at fabric beneath you. You regret speaking, the movement making your already sore jaw ache further, the joints pushing into your splitting skull. Your head pulses and your mouth is cotton filled, thick and impossible to speak. “Where?” You hope that someone will give you an answer to where you are. Or at least what you're on.
“Oh, thank you,” a voice chirps.
“Don't think it was a compliment Bee,” a thick accent says in a hushed voice.
“Well I'm taking it as one,” the voice huffs.
“You're at my home,” the gentle voice is back. “You're in a spare bed. Just try to relax.” You can’t relax with all the sound, and when you try to tell him that, you only murmur, slurring letters together. “I know, I know.” He doesn’t, but you can’t correct him. “Just try not to move so much.” It's quiet again, a silence that stretches and fills the void with nothingness. The smell and the shuffling of bodies is the only indication that you aren’t alone, that you haven’t been left yet.
“Luci, mate, you sure it's a good idea to have an angel laying around?” You hear the chime of bells, and you want everything to stop.
“They aren't an angel,” a voice retorts. A hand places itself over your bicep, and squeezes you softly.
“Yeah, but like, it’s still a bit dangerous, isn’t it?” The voice is much more feminine, and you can hear a buzz when they speak, a low hum that doesn’t stop. “Having one of them just on your bed.”
“A spare bed,” the voice corrects. The bed dips beside you, your fingers tap against the mattress. “It was dangerous when we were first here,” snapping at the other, before sighing. “It’s been a long time since another angel has fallen.”
“Lucifer, honey,” this voice is smoother than the others, and you wish they would all stop talking. “What’s the plan here?” Someone makes a noise of confusion. “They aren’t an angel anymore, if anything, they’re a walking target. We don’t even know if they’re an Exorcist.”
“Heaven hasn’t cast out an Angel in so long,” the voice says softly, a finger tracing shapes onto your arm. “And I highly doubt they’re an Exorcist. I can almost- I’m positive that they aren’t.”
An Exorcist. That’s what they think. Lute flashes in your mind, and Adam follows, weapons ready, and thinking hurts far too much. You groan, nuzzling into the pillow, trying to tune out the sounds. You need them to stop talking.
A hand pats at your arm, and soon you feel fingers tangle themselves into your hair. Fingertips ghost alongside the tender part of your scalp. The voice hushes you, lulling you back into a state of unconsciousness. “I’m sorry,” they whisper, “we must be too loud for you.”
“Lucifer, I know you’re still-” the person pauses- “upset-” they sound unsure of the word they’re using- “about the last few years, but you can’t take on a pity project.”
Lucifer. They keep saying- oh shit. You let out a whimper. You don’t know if you’re thankful for being found by him, or if it’s a curse to be found by him. He shushes you once more, massaging gently at your scalp.
“Yeah-” the buzzing is louder this time- “you know, if you were lonely, you could have just said something. I got some cute little hounds that need loving homes, ya know? And uh, they’re cute-” they hiss that word and you furrow your brows- “and practically housebroken.”
“Luci, it’s not like they’re worth much. I mean look at ‘em. I don’t even think I remember seein’ them back up when we were there, so they gotta be new or somethin’.”
The hands still, fingertips pressing into the tenderness of your head. You let out a low sound, and give a soft nudge of your head for the person- Lucifer you presume, to let go. He apologizes, soothing over the spot where he’s touched. “It’s not- They aren’t a pity project. This isn’t that. Don’t you remember how bad it was. How painful it was to fall. At least we had each other. We were stronger than most angels.” You wish they would all stop talking. Especially when they refer to falling, you can't stand to hear it. “They have no one. This is- I just want them to feel safe.” His words come to a slow stand, and if it didn’t hurt to cry, you’d sob at the reminder of your punishment. “Their wings were ripped from them, they weren’t even allowed to heal.”
“Well it ain’t like Heaven is known for their leniency.”
“Listen, Lucifer, we’re just saying that you’ve been having a lot of big emotions recently, and maybe nursing someone back to health isn’t what you need right now.” Lucifer- at least you’re assuming- makes a noise in protest at what the other voice is stating. “What’s the long-term plan, hm? You fix them and then what? Do they live here? Do you kick them out? Take them over to Charlie?”
The room is still, the buzzing has quieted down to a hum, and you feel sleep grasp onto you once more. “You should all go.” The group protests immediately, voices overlapping one another, the buzzing higher, and scent of sweets and leather grows and irritates you further. Your head pounds, banging against your skull. You shift, pulling at the wounds, and a cry muffles itself into your pillow. “It’s okay, you’re okay” the voice says in a hushed voice, palms pressed flat against you, cooling your feverish body. “I’ll give you something right now to help the pain.” He clears his throat away from you. “I have to think about things. I’ll make sure to give you updates as they come along, but for now, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He pauses. “You should return back to your rings.”
The buzzing quiets down, and footsteps shuffle out. It's a mess of steps, puttering and pattering along the floor, and the sound is [welcomed] by silence. A door clicks shut, and you hear no lock.
Thinking if you're a prisoner or not is too much of a task right now. The strength of the saccharine scent has left with its owner, and instead now gently wafts in the air. Somewhere on the other side of the room, you hear a sigh.
“I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have been having that conversation with you in the room.” You let out a short huff in response. “It won’t happen again, okay? We must have been loud for you, huh?” With all the strength that you can muster, you give a short nod. “Let me go get you something for the pain, okay?” You feel a soft hand over your bicep, giving you a soft squeeze. The hand lingers with fingertips that kiss over your skin in feather light touches as they pull away.
You drift between consciousness and unconsciousness, unable to fully sleep, but you don’t register anything that happens. All that you’re aware of is that someone is back in the room with you. He’s beside you, something plastic touching against your lips and the thick taste of medicine is bitter on your tongue.
“I’m going to light some incense, okay?” You’d rather he give you water or anything else to wash the taste off. “You just let me know if it’s too much.” The scent is much calmer compared to the sickly sweet one from earlier. “I had Belphegor send me some sleeping aids. I believe it’s the only reason you’re able to get some actual rest.” Your lips mouth the words “thank you”. Something soft and warm covers you, and you feel yourself sink further into the mattress. “I don’t know how much of your power was stripped, or how much you even had to begin with. Mammon was right about that, you are a newer angel, you might not even be able to do much other than heal.” His voice is growing harder to understand, it’s fading into the back, and sleep pulls you further in. “However, I wouldn’t ask you to even attempt to heal yourself- not in this state,” he whispers.
“Taste bad,” is all that you can mutter. Your head pounds, and it feels like it’s swelling. Each word that you speak is laid thick and slurred together. Every syllable only brings you sickness and an ache in your skull.
“I know,” he sighs. “The medicine here doesn’t taste good, but there’s not much that I can do about it.” A cloth dabs at your mouth. “Hell is supposed to be a punishment after all,” he says with a humorless laugh. “I’m- I’m sure that Heaven’s medicine is still divine as ever,” they mumble with a heavy weight on the words.
“Like nectar,” you speak softly, the memory of it faint on your tongue.
Something brushes along your face, and you feel the pull of sleep. “Yeah,” he breathes out, “like nectar.”
-
Knocking on the door disrupts your sleep. Something gargles sounds on the other side of the door. In your mind, it’s too faint to make anything out. You hear the squeak of the door open, and through bleary eyes, you make out two tall figures. Again, they speak to you, and you nod back to sleep.
You feel the latex of gloves touch your body, knuckles the brush against the nape of your neck and hands that grab your arms, ready to still you as you tense. “We’re just changing your bandages.” You shake your head. “It’ll be quick, just stay still.” You’d rather deal with an infection than with how the doctors treat you. You recall a voice making an argument that you’re not welcomed here, that you're an angel in a land of sin.
“No, no,” you mutter, tears staining your face and wetting the pillow. You feel the cold breeze on your back, whispering over your wounds. The stickiness of the gauze peels away from you, and you can smell the stench of it- metallic, rich and earthy. Something so sweet, and it disgusts you and the doctors.
Their hands grip tighter onto you, holding you down and you yelp. “Stay still.” You recall many moons ago how Lute told you something similar. How her words were laced with sorrow and false bravado. These doctors, these demons, spit the words at you, and hold you down.
Your hands claw at the mattress, your screams echoing against the wall, bouncing and ringing in your ears. Light blinds you immediately as your eyes flash open, and your head is head, pushed down onto the mattress, as curses are spit onto you. You’re in Hell. Your teeth find themselves tearing into the pillow, drool pooling into a puddle and tears slipping down.
“Just,” they grunt, and press firmly down on your back, “stay still.” You gasp for breath, kicking and digging your knees into the bed. “Please,” they beg, and you fall, your body limp and heavy on the bed.
As quick as it started, it ends just as quick. You’re left sobbing, gasping for breath, and despite the pain, and tearing open the wound, you hug yourself, your nails scratching against the cloth. They’ve placed it far too tight for you.
-
Only a few weeks pass when you’re finally cognitive. When your head isn’t splitting at every noise, and you can move somewhat without risking any pain or even your fear of opening the wounds back open. You stay as still as possible, and try not to do any sudden movement that would stretch your back. Lucifer has attempted to reassure you that you’re fine now, that combined with Hell’s magic and his own blessing, you should be fit to move around. Of course, you will be sore, that can only go away with time.
“You’ll be left with scars. That can’t be helped,” he told you, his eyes focused on how your hands fist the blanket, “but you’ll be okay.” He gives you a tender smile, and you cling to it in the night.
Once you were in a proper headspace, you knew you shouldn’t have been surprised to know that it was him taking care of you. From what you can faintly recall in one of the many conversations that he’s had in the room as you recovered, he knows what it’s like to be cast out.
However, you are surprised at how caring and patient he is. That despite you being able to do most things on your own without stumbling, he is still beside you, keeping you company and comforting you when he has to change the bandages. He hardly lets anyone else do it after you complained about doctors accidentally wrapping the bandages too tight. His gentleness is a mask for his pity, and he can never meet your eyes without looking away.
-
You’re laid on your stomach, and your only entertainment is wondering what could be inside the bedside drawers. While moving does not cause as much discomfort as it once did, you don’t risk stretching. You sit straight, and you look at the wall, and dare not to stretch your arms. Pillows have been fluffed and placed to create a soft barrier between you and the headboard of the bed. Knuckles rap against the door in a rhythm, and you stare at the wall in front of you. You wait for a second, and with a breath, you allow for the person to enter.
“Hello,” Lucifer calls. “I’ve brought you some fruit. I’m sure that you must have been feeling peckish.” You give no reply. “I uh- I also brought some books.” The bowl of fruit is balanced above the small stack of books. “I was thinking that I’ll get you a television or something soon. But maybe some literature would be good for you.” He rests the tower on the dresser, and grabs the bowl between his hands.
You should reply to him. You should tell him thank you- not just for the books and the bowl of fruit, but for housing you, for caring for you. But you cannot. Not when he’s a constant reminder of where you are.
“I was wondering if there was any type of genre that you might like.” He sounds hopeful, wanting to continue a conversation with the husk in front of him. “It would be no trouble to get them to you.”
His smile is stretched thin, and it looks painful. All of this is painful. Your eyes flitter over to the fruit bowl, and you wonder how you’d feed yourself when stretching your arms still pulls at the scars.
“Would you like some?” He leans towards you, and you have the mental image of being some hurt bird being nursed back to health. “I had some demons go over to Earth and get some for you. I thought you’d prefer this over the food that we have here. Since you aren’t accustomed to Hell’s food, yet.” You stay silent, and after a moment he sighs. His heels click against the floor, and the bowl is placed on your lap. “You know,” he starts, “it would help if you talked. I know what you’re going through, and you can’t- you shouldn’t isolate yourself.” When you refuse to answer, he sighs. “Well, if you need something, just let me know.”
Despite not wanting to be here, of not having any need to want to continue your existence, you have grown a strong dislike of being alone in this room. You have no idea if he’s isolating for your own safety, or for some other nefarious reason. He clasps the door knob around his hand, and twists it. You wet your lips, and you need someone to talk to.
“Lucifer?” You croak out, and you surprise yourself with your voice. You hadn’t heard it in so long, past the screaming and the tears. He turns to you, taking a step closer, and his hand returns the door knob to its closed position. “Can you stay?” You feel sick looking at the fruit. “Please?”
With a gentle smile, he nods his head. “Of course.” He grabs a chain from the corner of the room and carries it to sit beside you. It’s a deep wooden color, intricate designs carved into the legs of the chair, and a deep red cushion that is stitched into the seat and the back.
The silence between the two of you is broken by the crunch of the fruit. You pierce a grape with the silver tines of the fork, and your body aches with the movement to bring it up to your mouth. The sweet juice does nothing to aide in your brooding and the awkward silence.
He’s right, and you know that. You have to try. He’s the only contact that you have. Adam always hated how you’d hide your emotions, how you rather shut the world off, and at least that hasn’t changed since your falling. You need to talk to him. You can see the attempt that Lucifer has been making in order to keep you happy, to make your time here just a bit more bearable. You suck in your lower lip, and let your tongue brush over where your teeth have grazed.
“I was promised a trial,” you start. His eyes are on you, and you see him fiddle with his tie. “They promised it would have been fair.” You frown, and shake your head, an ache heavy in your chest. “I was so hopeful that it would have been.” The fruit is bitter on your tongue and you force yourself to swallow it.
After a moment’s silence, he speaks. “Who would have been the judge?”
The apple is pierced between your teeth, the skin ripping from the flesh of the apple. It was cute with care, no hint of the core tarnishing the fruit, ripe and perfect, only to be mauled by your teeth. “Father.” You swallow the fruit. “Or perhaps one of the Virtues.” Oranges are peeled, torn apart from the other slices, the piths of white removed. “I was worried that I would have fallen, even before I was given my verdict. My-” you look at Lucifer, and you remember who he has stolen- “I feared that I would have fallen, because I didn't matter. No one questions Heaven’s beliefs, not since-” you glance at him, and he turns his head- “I was sure I would have met the same fate.” The sweetness of the strawberries make your jaw tingle and ache. “And I did.”
“I’m sorry.” You hold the fork tightly, the silver pressing into the flesh of your palms. “The fear you had must have been,” he pauses, “intense.”
There is no one better who understands, other than Lucifer himself. You nod, and let the fork ding against the glass of the bowl. “I was good. I did what was needed of me, I didn’t dare speak out of turn.” You think of how Adam would run his mouth, how every other word would be a curse, would be of anything lewd. “Perhaps I wasn’t as good as I thought I was. Not if a question were enough to have me expelled from Heaven.”
A gloved hand reaches, and falls just before your thigh. A gold band hugs at his finger, and you’re surprised to have yet seen his wife. Feeling your stare, he turns his hand, and lets the other fingers hide the symbol of matrimony.
“Sometimes, that’s all it takes,” he says quietly, his tone soft, and wistful. “But, if it makes you feel any better, Hell has some redeeming qualities. It’s not all pain and suffering.” You look at him, and he gives you a smile. “We have an amusement park. There’s a uh-” he scratches the back of his neck, his gaze pointed elsewhere and checks flushing- “ride modeled after me.”
The corners of your lips turn, and you narrow your eyes at him. “After you?” You ask, an elfish tinge laced into your words.
“Shaped like my head.” A finger makes a circle in front of his face.
You scoff out a laugh, and the sound surprises you. You attempt to hide the smile, but when the corners still turn upwards, you look at your lap. “You are the Avatar of Pride after all,” you tell him, the lilt faint on your words.
“It’s actually very impressive,” he points out. “A whole ride dedicated to my likeness.”
“The line for it must be awful.” The juice of the fruit is thin on your tongue. “Heaven has zoos. There’s an area where you get to feed the birds out of the palm of your hand.” You push the fork upwards with the knuckle of your index. “They hardly ever peck your palm, but when they do, we call them kisses from one of Father’s creations.”
He snorts, and shakes his head. His smile is soft, and there's a lingering sadness to it before it falls. “Down in the Wrath ring, there are livestock shows where you’ll find horse bucking and catching the flamed greased pig.” You give him a look, and he smiles. “It’s not as nice as the zoo, I’m sure, but it’s just as entertaining.” He leans back on his chair. “Sometimes I would take my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” You knew of his wife, but you hadn’t realized that they had a child. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
He winces, and nods sheepishly. “Charlie,” he tells you her name. “I think you’d like her- she’s peppy.” He gives you a tense smile, and looks away. “We don’t talk as much as we used to.”
You frown. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shakes his head, and lets out a sigh. He sits straighter, and pulls his shoulders back. “How are the bandages?” You roll your ankles, unsure what to make of the sudden shift in conversation. “They’re not too tight are they?” It’s not your place to pry, and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable when he’s the one caring for you.
“No, Lucifer,” you answer. “They’re fine. Thank you.”
He nods, and you can tell he’s grown uncomfortable now. You don’t blame him. “Of course. I wanted to make sure that you were comfortable. As much as possible.”
A silence befalls between the two of you. You bite into the fruit, and force yourself to swallow it. The nectar is sweet and makes your jaw ache. Beside you, Lucifer clears his throat, and you turn to him.He looks away, his eyes trained on the walls.
“If I may ask, I- Well you see, you know my name-” he looks at you again, and you tap your nails against the glass- “and I don’t know yours.” Your eyes widen, and you try to think back on when you might have whispered your name to him, but you can’t recall it. “I just- I was thinking since you’re here, and I’ve changed your bandages, I thought, that I should be calling you by your name.”
“My name?” You whisper, and you feel silly for keeping it close to you. For just a fraction of a second, for some far away thought to be held, that you didn’t want to share the last thing that ties you to Heaven.
“If only that’s okay. If not, we can come up with a nickname or something.”
You shake your head. You’ve kept your name to yourself, and you wonder if your pain-induced haze, if he’s ever asked you for it. You stretch your lips, and wet your tongue. “Did you ever ask for it,” you hold the words on your tongue, and they are heavy like wine, “when I was in and out?”
“Yes,” he confesses. “You wouldn’t answer.”
A name given by Heaven; whispered to you gently in the arms of Father, as sunlight shined down upon you and warmth surrounded you in your creation. It’s silly, and childish to cling to it, to hold onto it like a child holds onto their blanket, but it’s all that you have left. Everything else was stripped from you, taken and tossed aside, and you wonder if your name even holds any significance back home.
You turn to Lucifer, and your name is heavy on your tongue, bitter like wine, and it’s your name, fitting you like a glove that will fit no other.
Lucifer repeats your name, whispering it under his breath, tasting it between his canines and tongue, and you watch him. Chills run down your spine, and the feeling is not unpleasant. He catches your eyes, and his cheeks flush, the red spots darkening, under your gaze. He calls your name once more, louder and clearer, want held between the vowels, as if to savor your name, to savor what you’ve given to him.
You nod, your chest aflame, as if you’ve done something scandalous. You can’t trust your voice, not when he's looking at you. Your knuckles feel as if it’s on pins, tingling and having you scratch against the bowl.
He glances at your lap. “Are you done?”
“Yes,” you breathe out rather quickly.
He reaches for the bowl, grabbing it by the rim and stands from his chair. You watch in silence as he pushes the chair back, letting it block one of the drawers from the nightstand. The bowl clinks against the mahogany of the dresser, and he grabs the books, flush against his chest.
“I hadn’t meant to leave the books so far from you,” he says, placing them on the nightstand. “They’ll be closer within your reach.” You nod, and peek over, reading the title of the first book. “I’ll be back in a few hours, if you need anything, feel free to call out. I’ll make sure to hear it.”
He walks away, his heels clicking against the floor, and you don’t want to be alone anymore. “Lucifer,” you call out, fisting the blankets in your hand. He turns around, pressing the bowl against his body, his hand wrapped tight around the doorknob, already opening it and stepping into the rest of his domain. You swallow nothing, and try not to think of anything other than gratitude. “Thank you for everything,” you tell him, sending him a thinned smile.
“Of course,” he calls your name in a sweet tone. “Whatever you need, just let me know.”
The door closes shut, and you let out a breath. Your hands fist at your shirt, grasping and you bite the inner corners of your lips, feeling the soft flesh of it be pierced by your teeth. It’s been far too long since you’ve had a gentle hand, since you’ve had someone be gentle with you. A hand reaches out and scratches along your bicep, pulling the skin and leaving soft arches across.
A/N: I can't come up with a title so,,,, yeah!! Anyways, I've had this saved in my drafts and I miss writing and even with spring break!! my professor still gives us homework. So, here I am.
this is just a thing where like reader is an angel and falls and like it was gonna be a short series, but like,,, i never finish my series (except for ciays)
Word Count: 3.1K
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You sit with a pit in your stomach. Your legs are causing the items on the table to shake, and you can't stop the dread that is looming over you, cold and heavy. There's a shift beside you, and a hand cups over your thigh, a feeble attempt to get you to stop moving. You can only flinch in response.
“Can you just- I don’t know, fucking chill or something?” His hand gives you a squeeze, before pulling back and crossing his arms. “They aren’t gonna do shit to you.”
“Lucifer fell because he asked too many questions,” you counter, gasping for breath. The room feels too tight, too full and empty all at once.
Beside you, he scoffs. “Love to break it to ya babe, but you aren’t him. You’ll be fine.”
“Exactly,” you hiss, hiding your face in your hands. “I’m not him. I’m- I’m a low ranking Angel. I- Oh Father, I don’t hold any type of status. I’m going to fall,” you voice breaks and tears are in your eyes, horror and fear making you pale.
“You’re not.” He’s harsher this time, and pulls you to look at him. His name is on your tongue, and he interrupts you. “I’m vouching for you. And so are the rest of my girls. You’ll be fine.” He loosens his grip on you, and smooths a hand down your hair. “Chillax, babe. I know you’re a little goody-two-shoes, but this is nothing. You’ll probably just get demoted or some shit.”
“Adam.” Your hands grasps onto his, and you want to believe that he’s right. “But what if-”
The door opens, and you both whip your head around, watching as Seraphim walks in, her head held high and face lack of expression. The pit in your stomach swallows more of you.
Your rise from your seat, and Adam begrudgingly follows. “Sera-” you clear your throat- “I uh- Seraphim. Good evening. I- I thought we were not allowed to meet before the trial,” you look around the room, and for a moment, you have hope. She wouldn’t go against orders, so perhaps she’s here with good news. You give her a tense smile, and she walks to the desk, her wings taut and folded behind her.
She sits at the chair with her arms folded over the desk. “I wanted to be the one to deliver the verdict.”
Your brows furrow, and sit back down, your ankles crossed over one another, and your body leaning towards Adam’s. His hands reach over the space between the chairs and you grasp onto him, nails digging into the clothed covered skin.
“The verdict?” You ask in a whisper. “But I hadn’t- What about my trial?”
“It was decided that you would not have a trial.” Her voice is like stone, unwavering, strong, and heavy.
“Decided by who?” A chill runs down your spine, and it’s as if you can feel a presence around you.
“If there’s no trial then how do fuck do you all even have a verdict?” Adam, as always, is crude, and it only furthers the sickness deep in you.
“Adam,” you say in a high pitched voice.
He turns to you, and squeezes your hands. “Well? What is it? Community service? A demotion in rank? Paperwork?”
“Sera,” your chest is tight, your bones pricing into the tender flesh, “why didn’t I have a trial?”
“Look, the demotion can’t be that bad, right? I’ll look after them. Make them my assistant or something. I got shitload to do anyways, they’ll keep me on it.”
“Sera,” you plead, “I was promised a trial. I was told that it would be fair.”
“No trial is good, right? Means it was easy to consider your fate.” You flinch. “You get to be my assistant. Don’t worry babe-” he tugs on your hands for your attention, but you’re fixated on Seraphim and that way that they look at you with somber eyes- “I won’t work you too hard.” The playful tinged words make you sick.
“Sera,” you croak, leaning away from Adam- “my trial. It was promised.”
She calls your name, it’s whispered like a prayer, uttered like a curse and laced in sorrow. You know your outcome, before she can even say it. “I’m terribly sorry.” Your body goes cold. “It has been decided that your punishment for questioning the beliefs and practices of Heaven will be the taking of your wings and The Fall to Hell.”
You can taste the bile. It burns, the acid fills your mouth, and it makes your eyes burn with hot tears.
“What the fuck!” Adam shouts, your hands are let go, and you stare into her eyes. You can hear the chair squeak as it’s pushed away and it nearly topples over. Adam goes to you, short strides to grasp his hands over your shoulders. “That isn’t fucking fair! They were promised a trial, so where the fuck is it?” He’s furious, and the hands around you bring you no comfort.
“I’m terribly sorry.” Seraphim looks at you as she speaks. “For the both of you.” Her eyes dart between you and Adam.
“I didn't mean to,” you whisper, your nails digging into your clothes. “I promise that I-”
“Come on Sera! I've done worse shit than them. Can't we just look the other way?”
“Adam, I need to speak to them alone.”
“Like fuck I’ll-”
“Adam,” you breathe out. He looks at you, moving to kneel in front of you and you look at the demonic mask, and you want to retch. “Let us speak in private, please. I’ll meet you outside.”
He looks at you, through the golden eyes of the mask. “Fine,” he huffs. He stands, and presses a kiss to the top of your temple. You wish that you could return the gesture- that you could look up and kiss him back without worry. “Yell if you need me,” he whispers to you. You nod, unable to mutter a word to him.
The door clicks behind him, and you’re left alone with Seraphim- something that you’ve never had the opportunity to experience. Perhaps if circumstances were different, you’d be more ecstatic.
They call your name, and she holds her hands out to you. Like a trained dog, you place your hands in hers, and you let the tears fall.
“Why am I falling?” You ask, gaining no comfort from her hands.
“Emily- one of the younger Seraphim- has begun to question certain aspects of Heaven. I fear that the questions won't settle.”
“So this is- I’m meant to scare her? To remind her of her place?”
Seraphim sighs, and she lifts a hand, tracing a delicate finger along the back of your hand. You hate the ways he says your name- like she still cares for you. Like your name is sweet as honey. As if she has the right to speak to you with care and love. “You must understand that Emily is still so young.”
“And a higher ranking than I am.” You turn away from her, but you can’t pry your hands away. You want comfort, even if it's given by your judge and even if the hands that hold yours are going to be stained in gold. They say nothing to your comment, and you hold their hand tighter. “When?” You croak out.You dig your nails into their skin- it’s cold, and as much as you want to hurt them, you cannot.
“By the end of the week.” Their words are spoken without wavering. “You’ll be confined in one of our holding rooms for incoming souls for the time being. You’ll still be allowed visitors. The spectacle will be watched by only those that you allow, and by the high-ranking angels.” You let out a sob, and bow your head. “It will be quick. With the ranking unbeknownst to the rest, it will be an Exterminator who will remove your wings. They’ll be wearing one of the ceremonial robes. After the removal of your wings, you’ll be-” she pauses and you can already feel the emptiness.
“I’ll be cast out.” You look up and she nods, her hands squeezing yours.
“Understand that if I could will it any other way, I would.”
You look at the hands holding onto yours, and you think about how someone will have to clean your blood. How they’ll get on their knees and wipe the ichor from the floor, how the rags will drip in riches and stain their hands in sin. Your wings flitter in response.
“You said an Exterminator?”
“Lute has been tasked with your severance.”
“Why not Adam?”
Seraphim looks shocked. “I- I would not wish for him to be the one to remove your wings. If it were any other, I believe he would do an excellent job, but since it’s you,” she trails off. “I do not believe he would be able to commit.”
“But Lute can,” you say.
“Yes. She is able to put her feelings aside, and do her job.” Seraphim pauses, their eyes are trained on you, and a few look at you in pity. “However, if you wish for it to be Adam-”
“No,” you interrupt. “No, you’re right. He wouldn’t be able to.” Your wings feel heavy. “Sera?” She hums in response. “How soon will I be cast out after my wings are removed?”
“Effective immediately.”
-
You lay in your new bed- the mattress new and solid underneath you. It’s nothing like the one back home. You can’t seem to get comfortable, all that you can do is lay there wrapped in Adam’s arms, pulled close to his body where your breath tickles at his skin. “You can run,” he says quietly into your ear. “I’ll leave the door unlocked, and you can run.” His act of defiance brings tears to your eyes.
“Adam,” your voice breaks.
“The Exterminators will be the ones tasked with chasing you down.” You feel the way his hands grip your skin, clawing and desperate to keep you beside him. “They won’t get you. They’re loyal to me. They’ll listen. You can live on Earth.”
When you close your eyes, tears trace down the curve of your face. “Lute is the one performing the severance of my wings,” you tell him a hoarse whisper, unable to keep the horror out of it. Even speaking about it is enough to send a pain down your spine and at the base of your wings. His nails pierce into your skin, pinching into the softness of your stomach. His wings flutter, and they are heavy above your body. “She’ll do a good job,” you comfort. “A clean cut that will make it easy to heal.” There’s bile burning in your throat. “Please don’t be upset with her after the event.” His arms wrap tighter around you, and his wings hide you from the outside, curving over your body, cupping you and holding you. Your hands hold onto him, at the nape of his neck, trying not to look at him, but commit his touch to memory. “I don’t think you should be there.”
“Like fuck I won’t,” he seethes, the venom in his words are unable to hide the tremor.
“Adam,” you murmur, “I’m serious. I- You shouldn’t see me like that. I- I know that I would look for you after it happened. I- I can’t ask for you to see me so broken.”
“I’m going,” he tells you in a tight voice, his breaths coming out in gasps.
You nod, and swallow the pit lodged in your throat. “Please don’t stop it.” He whispers your name, and lets you go, coming up to a sitting position. His wings still stretched, touching you so gently. You look up at him, tear stains glistening on your cheeks. “This is my fault. I’ve accepted it. I know I’m going to plead and cry for mercy, but ignore me, Adam.” Your hands find his, and you hold onto him desperately. “Don’t fight for me. Let it happen.”
“You should run away,” he tells you again. “We can run together.” Tears glisten in his eyes, and you don’t recall ever seeing him so upset.
You smile, but it trembles and falls, and tears spill out. “Where would we go?” You ask in a quiet voice.
“Earth.” His jaw tightens, and you don’t comment when his voice cracks. “We’d take a bunch of gems from here and sell them there. We’d be rich.” You try not to let the quaking in your chest show, the soft stuttering that threatens to release a storm. “We’d sing in some dingy ass club, and I’d use my blessing to make us famous.”
You laugh, and it’s clouded by tears. “I thought we were in hiding?”
“We’d be in disguise,” he counters, a hand prying away from your grip to wipe away the tears. “We’d settle after a few years, get a nice house in a big city. Gamble, drink, fuck. Maybe have a few kids in like a hundred years.” He smiles when you turn your head to kiss his palm, your other hand going to curve over his. “We’d have a nice life.” He lays over you, hiding his face into the crook of your neck, and presses his lips to the warmth of your skin when your hands tangle themselves into his hair. “It’s a nice plan, right?”
“Of course,” you say through tears. “You always come up with good plans.”
-
You stand in a stadium, dressed in white, your back exposed and your wings fluttering about no matter how much you will them to still. No one fears that you are going to run. Not when there are archers lined, and not when the Angels are watching you. You see Adam, and he wears his mask, standing with his arms held behind him.
You wish you told Seraphim that he wasn’t allowed.
Chains bind your ankles and wrists. The iron pinching your skin and irritating the flesh. You’d take this pain a thousand times over than what’s about to happen.
“For questioning Heaven’s beliefs and practices,” the voice echoes around, “we sentence you,” your name sounds empty, and you can’t breathe, “to have your wings removed and to be banished from Heaven.” You do a stupid thing and glance at Adam and he looks away at your glance. You feel a tinge of pain, but it’s better this way. “You will now have your wings removed.”
You turn your head, and see Lute. She’s shrouded in white robes with gold accents. Her hair is tied, and her wings are pinned behind her. She does not cast you on any type of look and you're grateful for that.
Her gaze is steeled. You know her. She knows you. She’s seen you at your worst, and you’ve seen her at her best. You’ve shared meals with her- broken bread and drank wine together. She’s been in your home. Her smile has always been sharp, and there are moments where it’s tender, vulnerable and saved for those closest to her.
She does not smile at you. She keeps her gaze focused on you, and you can’t help but tremble, the iron of the chains clinking together. You look away, and you’re grateful you had nothing to eat the morning of. You were grateful you were not given the choice of a last meal.
“On your knees,” Lute tells you in a strained voice.
You hope Adam won’t be mad at her. You hope that if he is, that she can take it.
You flinch at the chill touch of the sword. Your wings flutter, and you bite your tongue. You should make your case once more. You shouldn’t be here. You only asked a simple question. This shouldn’t be happening. You shouldn’t be here. There’s a point against your back. You look up and find Adam. You need him to save you. You can run away with him. You’ll live the life he wanted. You’d do anything. You’d be his. You yelp as something sharp cuts into you. You’d never disobey Heaven again. You’ll never ask again. You’ll be content. Please, Father, you’ll be good.
“Stay still,” she says, breathing out the last word in a plea, and when you cannot, she’s forced to continue.
The tearing is a sharp pain. One that makes you writhe and scream, your throat raw and the sounds unbearably loud. Every twist and turn only further aggravates the wound, skin pulling and muscles bare for the Angels to see. Warmth runs down your back, caressing the small part of your back and spilling onto your legs and thighs. Your hands slam into the ground, clawing at the porcelain floor. Through tears, you can liquid gold, shining and shimmering.
The cool air is agony against your open wounds. You’re warm, and wet, and the final strip of skin is pulled away from you. The heaviness of your wings are gone from you, and crane your neck to see them land with a heavy ‘thud’ away from you. The base of the ivory feathers are drenched in gold, and you can only think about the misery you’re in, and you reach for them. You need them back, you want them back. You’d sew them onto yourself if you could, but you can’t leave them here.
Your eyes glance around, wide and horrified, searching the crowd, and you roll onto your back, screaming once more, and calling for Father, your eyes landing on Adam. Legs block your view, and heavy hands lift you, pulling on your arm, and stretching the raw muscle.
You can hear someone, but your own screams overpower the other, and for a moment, you’re in the air, lifted and unable to breathe, until gravity pulls you down.
It’s a searing pain. It burns your skin and the whips of air slash against your back and body. You’re beaten and battered, carried by the air of Hell, and your screams only echo around you. The ground is unforgiving, a crater forming around you as you land. Gravel and sticks push against your skin. Your body lays crumpled on the floor, limbs twisted around each other, and your body is a mix of gold and dirt.
Weeds twist into your hair, and the stench of Hell makes you retch. You cry on the ground, alone and numb. There is no Father here; there is no warmth for you here. In a shay breath, with your hands clawing at the dirt, you wish for death. You wish for the demons to pry you apart and for your body to never recover.
-
And far away, tucked away in his castle, eyes looking up at the heavens, Lucifer sees a shooting star streak across the sky, and his heart drops.
Pt. 2 to Foggy Minds
Word Count: 3.2K
A/N: I had some requests for part two of foggy minds so i came up with this!!
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There’s a knock on your door. It’s quick, and curt and you rush towards the door with a pep in your step, your first instinct at such a knock to believe that it’s a package. But you stop short, and you remember that you hadn’t ordered anything. More knocks follow- rapid and heavier than before and you step back.
You’ve made your payments for the month. You can’t think that it would be any loan sharks- you’re dumb, but you’re not dumb enough to make those types of decisions. Your stomach twists and you think it’s a client who found you- it wouldn’t be the first time, but you can’t afford to move. Maybe if you’re quiet, whoever is behind the door will leave. The knocks come again, heavier and pounding on the door, and you turn, grabbing at a picture frame, the metal ridges digging into the palm of your hand. You just have to stay quiet-
“Oi!” You flinch at the voice. “It’s me!” Your eyes squint, and you can recognize the voice. “Let me in, will ya? This who fucking place reeks of death and shit.” Oh, you can recognize the voice. “Hurry up!” The banging continues, and you place the picture frame down, and you go to open the door.
He may be wearing a different mask, but you recognize his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Took you long enough.” He brushes past you and he takes up the whole room. He cranes his neck, walking everywhere and laying down on your couch, resting his head on a decorative pillow. “Your place sucks, by the way. I had some bitch offer to blow me for crack.”
You close the door behind you, securing the locks. You catch the look of disgust on his mask as he analyzes your home.
“How did you know where I live?” You ask hesitantly, your hands playing with the bottom of your shorts.
“Your boss,” he says casually, picking up a decorative statue on the end table. “All I had to do was throw money at him, and he gave me the address and-” he digs into his pocket, and pulls out a few condoms. They’re fisted into his hand, and without a care, he tosses them towards you. They scatter on the ground. You stare at the contraceptives, and back at him, your face growing warm. He clears his throat. “I’m here now, so you’re welcome or whatever.”
“Why-” your voice catches- “Why are you here, Adam?” His mask is emotive, a brief look of wide eyes is quickly replaced by a neutral look. “We just- You usually wait for like a week before and after Extermination Day, so- so what is this?”
He looks at you for a second. And then two. And then five, and when you squirm and look away from him, he snorts. “You could use better couches. You got a sweet puss, can’t you afford something better? Fuck, I know I’m paying way too much for you still to be living in this shithole.”
You’re fine with the comments being made during your line of work, but hearing it out loud in your home, makes everything feel so perverse. Your chest burns, the flames all consuming and making it harder to breathe. “It’s cozy,” you defend.
“It’s a fucking studio.”
“Well lucky for you, I am moving out.” He turns to you, and places his feet on the worn coffee table. “I uh- I went to the Hazbin Hotel.” You wish he didn’t show up. You’ve never had a client here, not in your personal home. “The princess allowed me to stay, so I’ll probably move out maybe in a few weeks?” You talk to fill the silence. Usually he can be so expressive with the mask, but now, he can’t get a read on him.. Is it because it’s a new mask? Because he hasn’t figured out the wiring or however the mask works? “I mean, it’s not like it matters to you. You don’t- You shouldn’t even be here.” You shake your head. “But um,” you clear your throat, “yeah.” You think you’d rather suck him off at this point than continue to talk.
“She’s letting you move in?” He sounds taken aback.
You shrug. “It took some convincing.” Your nails scratch along your thighs, and you can breathe a bit easier. “It was like she didn’t want me to. But I guess I looked pathetic enough that she felt bad for me.” You give a weak laugh. “But uh- They have a friend of mine- Angel- so he kinda helped, but even he seemed,” you pause, “weird about it.”
He’s silent. You shuffle your weight between each leg, and you think you’ve said too much. You open your mouth, trying to remedy the situation, but you’re interrupted.
“I’m hungry,” he tells you, grabbing at your remote and flipping through the channels.
You narrow your eyes in confusion. “Okay?”
“Make me something to eat.”
Every part of you is screaming to tell him to leave. To go back to Heaven- that there must be a price to pay for him visiting Hell for- for you. The thought of him visiting for you makes your heart beat against your ribs, drumming loudly behind the ivory cages. He’s visiting for leisure. That’s it. Not for you, but for fun. To annoy you- to annoy a resident of Hell.
But he’s made himself comfortable. And you hate to admit it- even to yourself- but you like the company. Even if said company is rather brutish.
“I’m making food because I’m hungry, not because you told me,” you huff, turning on your heel to walk to the adjacent kitchen.
“Yeah, whatever,” he scoffs.
-
The plates sit empty, and the television is turned on. The program isn’t anything new, something you’ve seen countless times, same format, different people. It’s boring, and with the swell of your stomach from the savory meal you just had, you could fall asleep. You think you are falling asleep. Your eyes are heavy and your mind is filled with static and mothballs, far too thick for you to be aware as Adam lets his hand rest beside yours. The side of his finger touches yours, and you want to hold his hand.
“If you want to be redeemed, I could probably pull a few strings.” He doesn’t turn around, and you think you dreamt what he just told you. You look at him, and you don’t know if you heard him or not. He looks away from the television, and his hand stays beside yours.
“What?” You ask with sleep laced into your voice.
“I doubt Sera or Lute would be happy-” you recognize Lute, but you haven’t heard of Sera- “but whatever. They can go fuck themselves if they say anything.” He says the words quietly, held together as if they should have never been uttered, a prayer under the ceiling of your home, the yellow lights nothing like the sunlight from above.
“Are you-” your voice cracks, and you clear your throat- “Are you being for real?”
“Why the fuck would I say it in the first place?” His wings flutter, feathers bristling against the worn couch. He sounds offended that you think he would say this. But what else are you meant to think?
“That’s-” your voice is soft, and filled with doubt and hurt. He turns to you, and he’s waiting and watching. “I can’t do that.” You shake your head. “That’s not fair to Angel. He’s been trying real hard-”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” His voice has lost the gentleness that it held before, the soft whisper is gone and replaced with something sharp and cold, and he looks at you through his mask.
You realize he hasn't removed it in all the time he’s been here.
“Angel- He’s making progress and he’s doing good despite-”
“The porn demon sucks cocks all day-”
“You don’t get to call him that,” you say defensively. “He does what he does because he has to. When you sell your soul, you don’t get to say no.” You pull your hand away from where it was, and you move away from him. “And if he’s the porn demon then what the fuck am I?”
“Don’t be stupid,” he sneers. You flinch at the words. “You’re a sinner. Take the fucking offer.” His mask glitches, and you wonder if it’s made of a cheaper grade. However, you doubt Adam would wear anything less than excellence. “We come down to slaughter you for funsies, and you’re telling me that because you feel bad for the porn demon you aren’t going to take the opportunity to be a winner?”
“It’s just-”
“You’re a Sinner,” he hisses out your name like it’s something grotesque on his tongue, his eyes narrowed and his wings curling behind him. “You don’t have to tough it out in the dirt like this. You could be living it up, we could be fucking on literal clouds.”
You look away. You forget your place. You forget that he visits not to spend time with you, but to fuck you. You’ve been used for as long as you can remember, and it hasn’t stopped. A part of you hoped that Adam wasn’t entirely like that. That one some deep, hidden, part of him, that he liked you as a Sinner, that he liked you. That perhaps because he was an angel, he had some decency in him.
“Adam,” you speak softly, your eyes fixating on a plate.
“What?”
“You’re being mean.” You roll your bottom lip between your teeth. “Meaner than usual.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re still being mean,” you tell him, shoulders raised and the food in your stomach churning.
He huffs. “I don’t know why you’d rather stay at this shithole. And then you’re going over to the princess’s hotel? Sinners are meant to stay down here. That bitch isn’t gonna save anyone.” His words are cold, and he hasn’t looked away from you. “You think you’re going to be redeemed?”
“Well-” you drag out, looking away from him. You aren’t sure. You want to believe that people can be redeemed, but a part of you knows that you’re only moving because it gets you free lodging. Rent isn’t cheap, and living in a hotel sounds fun.
“Let me give it to you straight,” he practically snarls. The venom in his voice is laid thick onto his words. “You aren’t.” His wings flap and the feathers prick themselves, the soft form they held, now rough and looking as if they were made for fighting rather than holding. “I’m giving you a chance to take the easy road and become an angel, but you’re too fucking dumb to even say yes.”
Your throat tightens, and your eyes burn with heavy tears. “I think you should leave.”
“Fuck you.” He grabs your wrist and you’re reminded that despite the physical appearance of him looking so man- he’s far more than that. “You think because I fuck you twice a year, that it makes you special?” His wings flare out, the golden feathers suddenly so cold. His voice is cold, and he presses his face closer to yours, teeth bared and a scowl ruining his pretty face.
Something awful twists at your stomach, nails piercing into your guts and innards, and leaving you filled with bile. “You quite literally asked me if I wanted to be redeemed,” you say quietly, spitting the words out. “Excuse me for thinking I’m so special.” The words are heavy and weak as they escape.
The eyes of the mask narrow, and his wings curl in, and you wonder just how powerful they are. “You’re a good fuck. That’s it. I get to rough you up, you beg for me.” His hand tightens around your wrist. “I’m offering it because it’s hard to find someone so fucking pathetic like you. Go to that hotel or don’t. Next extermination, I swear,” his words are filled with malice, “if I see you,” his nails dig into your skin, “I’ll be the one to-”
“The one to what?” You interject, your eyes glossy and voice wavering. “What? You’ll kill me? Fuck you, Adam. You- You come down here and act like you’re so much better than anyone else here-” you yank your hand back and clasp your other hand over the wrist- “well you aren’t.” Your chest rises and falls, your teeth bared in a desperate attempt to make yourself look dangerous. But with the tears in your eyes, and every fiber in your being begging you to run, to scream and hide away, you know you don’t even appear to be a threat.
You sit on the opposite end of the couch, holding your wrist, and trying not to cry. You can’t give him that satisfaction. But your legs bounce, and they won’t stop, no matter how much you try. You should have kicked him out before, you could have lied about having plans. You should have screamed for help- though you doubt your neighbors would actually do something about it.
“Why did you come here, Adam?” You ask, looking down at the ground. “We had something good going on.” You tuck your legs under yourself, biting at the inside of your cheeks, grimacing when you bite too harshly. “Even if I wanted to be a Winner, I wouldn’t- I’d be lost up there.”
He’s quiet for far too long and the rejection makes you close in on yourself.
“I wouldn’t kill you.” Your eyes glance over to him for a moment, but he’s turned his head the other way. “I didn’t mean it.” His hand goes to curve over where his usual horns are, but they flutter in the air, falling until they grasp onto the curved steel bone of his new mask. “You wouldn’t be lost,” he tells you, his face turned towards the wall in front of him. His voice is tight, almost as if he’s embarrassed to be telling you what he’s saying now. His wings flutter, gold shimmering in a wave. He clears his throat, and looks away. “A bunch of the angels are on the welcoming committee.”
“There’s a welcoming committee?”
“It’s fucking lame. We have some guy sing a song about how everyone in Heaven is hot, and he just flies around.” He sounds annoyed, the eyes of his mask forming a thin line of glowing dots, and you snort. “I’m telling you it’s fucking torture to listen to the damn song every time we get a new soul.” He waves his hand in the air, agitation light in his voice.
“When I arrived in Hell, it sucked.” He looks at you. You don’t like to talk about your arrival to Hell. Not to your friends, not to anyone. You hardly like to think about it yourself. “I uh-” you smile bitterly- “I was so upset. I was in hell. It was hot. The noises were loud. And I-” you stop, the feeling of loneliness making your body feel detached- “I was hungry.” You hadn’t realized just how loneliness was so consuming.
“What do you remember?” He probes.
You pause. You remember being terrified and alone; wanting someone to take you in their arms and tell you that you were safe; you remember wanting it all to be a dream. “I remember the pain of landing here.” You watch as his wings unfurl, one spilling over the armrest of your couch, the other careful to not smack you. It brushes against you, and you look at them memorized, the patterns of the feather delicacy etched upon him. “I think I’d take a song any day.” You remember taking jobs that you had never thought you’d ever take.
“Come ‘ere,” he tells you. You crawl towards him, and he touches you, his hands steady and holding you firmly as they situate you above him, letting you sit on his lap. The glowing eyes make your own look away, the gaze of him far too much, too empty and unclear for you to feel comfortable. You know your place. A pet for him when he wants it. Going to heaven would only further cement your place at the ground that he stands on. His hands grab yours and they guide you to the end of his mask. “Take it off.”
It’s a heavy mask. You wish you could examine it, even if you aren’t sure what any of it would mean, but you want to study it, to let your finger trace over the features. Your attention is pulled back to him, and you thin your lips.
He’s always been difficult to look at. His eyes are gold, shimmering and shining under your lights, how hair tousled and set from being confined in the mask, and you can’t stand to look at him. You close your eyes, and your hands ghost over his cheeks, tensing and choosing to rest over his clothed shoulders. Your lips meld, and your hands tighten over his shoulders. It’s soft, his stubble tickling your chin. You murmur his name, repeated when he kisses your neck, his name muttered like a prayer, your hands clawing and grasping at him. You shut your eyes, your body curling into his touch, lips desperate to find his again. You need him. You crave him. You wish he’d stop grabbing at your skin, but every touch is feverish, flaming your body more than it already has.
You kiss him with want. You kiss him like you’re alone all over again, wanting to commit him to memory.
-
Your eyes grow heavier, sleep wrapping itself around you like a warm blanket, or perhaps it’s his wing, curled around you, spilling over your body and your sofa. Each blink grows longer, and you nestle to the side of him, clinging to his warmth. “When are you moving to the hotel?” His voice is soft, the tips of his hands scratching up and down your arm. You mumble your answer, letting your eyes come to a close. “The hotel fucking sucks. The whole idea of it does. It's like she wants you to die.” Your brows furrow with each passing word. The words are lost on you, your mind too foggy with sleep to pick apart the words and piece the clues together. “Lilith’s brat is only setting you up for failure.”
“‘M used to it,” you mumble. “‘S no big deal, Ads.” You wish he’d stop talking. You’re tired, can’t he hear it in your voice?
“It’s fucking dumb,” he spits.
“Adam,” you whine, your legs tensing and squeezing around his own, “‘M tired.” You feel the gust of his wings, a ghost of a touch making your skin prick in chills.
“Stop talking.” His feathers are soft, and you always forget just how they feel despite touching them quite a few times. They curl around you, a heavy blanket or warmth, the soft hints of cologne and musk envelop you, and he’s soft under you, tender and gentle, his hands tracking into your skin, invisible tattoos kissed onto you. “I can do whatever I want in Heaven.”
“Mhm, sounds great,” you whisper, your body heavy above his, limp with sleep and full with sin and unknowing.
You're pulled closer to him, and you welcome his warmth and his comfort. “Even if you don't want to be redeemed, you can stay up there. I'll have you taken care of. No one would say shit.”
