a sideblog where I post all my clone fics, I'm 20 and I write for both tcw and rebels. I love writing wererex or any wereclones, you can just call me Mack! My Icon is commissioned from @Anstarwar, Header image from lavenderstars37 and my main is Mackstrut- Request's: Closed- Headcanon requests open! https://ko-fi.com/mack73841 If you like my writing, why not buy me a coffee!❤️
so you’re telling me this “flesh droid” won’t be morally responsible, cause “it didn’t know better”, if I hunt down the author of the article and introduce them to some “orders” of my own?
✦ blurb — Every Extermination follows the same routine: Adam leaves, you pretend not to worry, and you wait. When he returns later than usual, your carefully guarded composure finally breaks.
The archive was quiet on Extermination Day.
It was always quiet on Extermination Day, in that heavy, unnatural way Heaven sometimes got when everyone was pretending not to think about the same thing.
Officially, no one called it that. Not in records, not in reports, not in anything meant to be preserved. On paper, it was an annual cleansing operation, a controlled descent, a necessary intervention carried out under divine authority. Clean words. Careful words. The kind of words that made it easier to forget there was blood underneath them.
And every year, those words came to you.
Names, departure times, assigned squadrons, confirmed returns, injuries, losses, whenever Heaven decided to admit they were losses at all.
You were an archivist, not a soldier. You didn’t go down there with a blade in your hand, didn’t fly through ash and smoke beside the Exorcists, didn’t hear Hell screaming beneath a red sky. You stayed above, surrounded by marble shelves and glowing ledgers, waiting for the gates to open so the reports could start coming in.
For everyone else, Adam going to Hell was normal.
For you, it never was.
People talked about it like bad weather. Unpleasant, necessary, over soon enough. Adam always came back anyway. He came back louder than he left, laughing before the blood had dried, bragging about numbers, strategy, and how Hell still hadn’t learned a damn thing. He made survival look easy, like it was just another thing the universe owed him.
You knew better.
You had seen the pages before they were sealed. You had archived feathers that came back without bodies. You had written down the names of angels who had left Heaven singing and never returned at all. They were rare, but still…
Adam always came back, yes, but one day, statistically, someone didn’t.
That thought had lived in your chest for ages, and you never told him, because Adam would have hated it.
He hated the idea that anything could touch him. He hated being reminded that under the armor, the jokes, the noise, and all that impossible confidence, he was still something that could bleed. If you told him you counted the hours until the gates opened again, he would laugh. If you told him you checked the return lists before anything else, he would call you dramatic. If you told him every Extermination left a stone sitting in your stomach until you saw him alive, he would tell you not to worry.
As if worry had ever listened.
So you worked.
You sharpened quills that were already sharp, reorganized reports that were already in order, reviewed old casualty records until the words blurred beneath your eyes. You learned to look calm while your hands moved from one file to the next, learned to answer politely when other angels asked whether the ledgers were ready, learned to keep breathing every time footsteps echoed outside the archive doors.
The pattern never changed.
Adam left, you pretended not to worry, you worked until there was nothing left to work on, then you waited.
You had been doing it for so long that you sometimes wondered when the waiting had become part of loving him.
Not that you called it that. Not aloud. Not even to yourself on most days.
Adam was your friend. Somehow.
You had known each other long enough that he no longer knocked before barging into the archive, though "knocking" implied he'd ever cared about doors in the first place. He would shove them open with enough force to make every archivist look up in alarm, stroll inside like he owned the building, completely ignore the three different KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN signs hanging on the walls, then drop his mission reports onto your desk with all the grace of a collapsing bookshelf.
"You people seriously work in here all day?" he'd asked once, looking around the endless shelves with visible disgust. "No offense, but this place sucks."
You didn't even glance up from the ledger you were annotating.
"And yet you keep coming back."
"Yeah, because I'm interesting."
"You also need someone to file your reports."
"Damn right I do." He leaned both hands on your desk, grinning shamelessly. "Future generations deserve to read about how awesome I am."
"They're casualty reports."
"They're victory reports."
"They're paperwork."
"They're historical documents."
"They're paperwork."
"They're legendary paperwork."
You sighed, finally taking the folder from his hands.
"You know," he continued, watching you flip through the pages, "I bet mine are your favorite."
"They're the longest."
"Damn right they are."
"They're also the only reports where I have to correct the grammar."
"Grammar's for nerds."
"You wrote, 'Kicked ass. Ten outta ten. Would exterminate again.'"
"It gets the point across."
"It does not belong in an official archive."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
"Yeah?" He smirked, folding his arms behind his head. "Good thing you're cute."
You looked up at him, completely unimpressed.
"I was about to tell you your report is missing three pages."
His grin disappeared.
"...It is?"
"It is now."
Adam stared at you for two long seconds before letting out an exaggerated groan loud enough to make two junior archivists flinch somewhere behind the shelves.
"Oh, come on!"
"You shouldn't have called me cute."
"I was complimenting you!"
"You were distracting me."
"I was flirting."
"You were failing."
He barked out a laugh, loud enough to echo through the archive, then reached across your desk without a shred of shame and stole the apple sitting beside your ledger.
"That's mine."
"Not anymore."
"You've stolen my lunch three days this week."
"You keep bringing good lunches."
"You keep eating them."
"You'll survive."
"I'll file your reports alphabetically instead of chronologically."
Adam stopped halfway through his first bite.
"...You wouldn't."
You finally looked up at him.
"I absolutely would."
He pointed the apple at you dramatically.
"You're evil."
"And yet you still come here."
"Duh." He shrugged, completely unbothered a second later. "Nobody else gives me this much shit."
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it.
Adam noticed.
His grin returned instantly.
"There it is."
"Don't."
"I made you smile."
"I regret it already."
"Sure you do."
He laughed again, loud, cocky, impossible to ignore, before wandering out of the archive still eating your apple, promising to "bring more victories worth writing about" next time.
The room felt strangely quieter after he left.
As always.
He filled every space he entered, whether that space wanted him or not. He could turn a formal council meeting into a personal performance in under five minutes, could make a room of disciplined soldiers laugh before battle, could infuriate Sera and charm half the court in the same breath. He was arrogant beyond measure, often careless, frequently unbearable, and beneath all of it, beneath everything he shouted over so no one would look too closely, he was the first person who had ever made the archive feel less lonely.
You balanced him, or at least that was what Lute said.
Adam stormed in, you gave him one dry look, and he lowered his volume by half an inch, which, according to everyone else, counted as a miracle.
He teased you constantly, about your books, your notes, your habit of correcting his grammar in official reports.
“You are going to be the reason I lose my position.”
“Bullshit. You love me too much.”
The words had been careless. A joke tossed into the air without meaning. You had looked down before he could see your face.
That was the danger of Adam. He said things without knowing where they landed, without realizing which words stayed lodged beneath your ribs long after he had moved on to the next joke, the next battle, the next song, the next stupid grin aimed at someone else across the room.
He did not know.
You made sure he did not know.
You had convinced yourself it was safer that way.
Love, when kept quiet, could not embarrass you. It could not ruin centuries of friendship, could not make him look at you with pity or discomfort, could not become another thing he laughed off because he did not know how else to hold it. So you kept it buried beneath routine, beneath teasing, beneath the careful professional distance of someone who signed return logs and pretended her hands did not shake until his name appeared in the correct column.
Alive.
Every year, that word saved you.
Until the year he came back late. The gates had opened hours after the expected time.
The first squadrons returned in groups, armor dented, wings dusty with ash, laughter rising too loudly as adrenaline carried them back into Heaven. Scribes gathered at the entrance hall with ledgers ready, healers moved through the crowd with practiced efficiency, and the returning Exorcists greeted one another with rough affection, comparing wounds like trophies while everyone else pretended the delay had not made the air feel thin.
You stood near the back with the return list clutched tightly in your hands.
Adam’s name remained unchecked.
Lute came back before him. That was the first wrong thing.
She crossed the threshold with blood drying along one side of her face, expression hard, jaw set, and when your eyes found hers across the hall, she looked away too quickly.
Your grip tightened around the ledger.
“Lute.”
She stopped, only for a second.
“Where is he?”
“He’s coming.”
That was all she said before a healer pulled her aside.
He’s coming.
Not he’s fine. Just, he’s coming.
The words sat in your throat like a blade.
More angels returned. More names were checked. More voices filled the hall, rising and falling around you until they became nothing but noise. You searched every face, every pair of wings, every flash of gold armor, trying not to imagine what the next report might look like if his name moved from one column to another.
Missing or deceased.
Then the gates flared again, and Adam stepped through.
The hall erupted before you could breathe.
Of course it did. Adam came back like a victory even when he looked like he had lost something.
His armor was scorched along one side, his hair disheveled, dried blood streaking from his temple down toward his jaw. Several feathers hung torn from one wing, the edges darkened with soot, and though he grinned the moment people turned toward him, the expression sat a little too tightly on his face. He lifted one arm as if greeting an audience, basking in the wave of relieved laughter and cheers that moved through the hall.
“Relax,” he called, voice carrying easily despite the exhaustion beneath it. “I know, I know, place looked boring without me.”
A few angels laughed.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. He winced and you saw it but no one else seemed to. They saw Adam standing, Adam joking, Adam alive, which meant everything was fine.
But you only could see the blood. You saw the uneven set of his wings. You saw the way his fingers curled briefly against the edge of his breastplate, as though he needed to steady himself before straightening again.
The ledger slipped from your hand.
You crossed the hall before you realized you had moved.
“Adam.”
Your voice was sharper than you intended, too loud in the wide, echoing space, and several heads turned as you pushed between two returning angels and reached him.
His grin shifted the second he saw you, brightening automatically.
“There she is. Miss me?”
You did not laugh.
“What happened?”
His brows lifted.
“Damn, no hello?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I bleed. It’s part of the brand.”
“Adam.”
You touched his arm before you remembered where you were, fingers closing lightly around his forearm as you checked the long tear in his sleeve. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, though the wound beneath looked shallow, already half healed. Your attention moved too fast, from his arm to his temple, from his temple to the torn feathers hanging unevenly from his wing.
“Did a healer see you? Why are your wings like that? Can you move properly? Are you dizzy? Lute said you were coming but she wouldn’t—”
“Hey, hey,” he said, quieter now, the grin still there but strained at the edges. “Chill. I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“You came back late.”
“Had shit to do.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Barely.”
You reached toward his wing without thinking, fingers hovering near the damaged feathers, and Adam’s posture changed.
It was subtle, but immediate. His shoulders stiffened, his smile froze and the hall quieted.
Not completely, not at first, but enough that the change became impossible to miss. Conversations slowed around you. A few Exorcists looked over, then looked away, then looked back again. You felt the weight of their attention only after it had already settled, too late to stop the way your hand remained lifted toward his wing, too late to hide the fear on your face.
Adam noticed too. His eyes flicked over the room, then back to you. Something closed.
He stepped back.
“I said I’m fine.”
Your hand fell.
The distance between you felt louder than any shout.
“Adam—”
“Drop it.”
The words were not cruel, but they were sharp enough to cut through whatever had been left of your composure. Heat climbed your neck as you became aware of the angels watching, of the ledger on the floor behind you, of the way Adam’s jaw had tightened like your concern had become a hand around his throat.
He turned away from the crowd before anyone could say anything, his wing shifting close against his back to hide the torn feathers.
“Private,” he muttered.
You followed because you did not know what else to do.
He led you into one of the smaller adjoining chambers, away from the hall, away from the return lists and the healers and the eyes that had made him look suddenly less like himself. The room was empty, lit by pale gold through high windows, silent except for the distant echo of the celebration beginning outside.
The moment the door closed, Adam rounded on you.
“What the hell was that?”
You stopped. He had raised his voice before, thousands of times, but rarely at you like this.
“I was checking if you were hurt.”
“In front of everyone?”
“You were hurt in front of everyone.”
“I’m not fragile.”
The words came fast, bitter and hot, dragged from a place much deeper than the wound on his arm.
“I didn’t say you were. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t have to,” he snapped, pacing once before turning back, frustration twisting his face. “You came running over like I was some fragile little angel that needs coddling, touching my wings, asking a million questions, looking at me like I was about to drop dead in the middle of the damn hall.”
Your chest tightened.
“You were late.”
“And I came back.”
“You were bleeding.”
“I can handle myself in a fight.”
His voice grew louder, his tall frame towering over you now, wings tense, jaw tight, pride bleeding through every word because he could handle blood, pain, exhaustion, even fear if it was his own, but being seen as weak in front of the soldiers who followed him seemed unbearable.
“And you made a scene out of nothing.”
That landed.
For a second, you could only stare at him.
Nothing.
The hours of waiting, the unchecked name, Lute’s face when she looked away. The weight of every sealed casualty report you had ever carried through the archive.
Nothing.
You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to hold yourself together because if you started crying now, it would only prove his point, would only make this feel smaller than it was, like worry had turned you foolish and public and embarrassing.
“Yeah,” you said, and your voice came out too controlled, too thin. “And I already said I was sorry.”
Adam’s expression shifted, but he said nothing. You nodded once, as if agreeing with something neither of you had said.
“Sorry for embarrassing you.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Sorry for being the shitty friend I am.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That’s not what I—”
“Sorry for worrying about your safety,” you continued, emotion slipping through despite your best efforts, words coming faster now because if you stopped, you might break completely. “Sorry for waiting for your return every single time with a rock inside my stomach, wondering if you’ll ever make it back, or if you’ll die in horrible suffering somewhere in Hell where no one can reach you.”
Your throat closed around the last words.
Adam went still. The anger on his face faltered.
You could feel tears burning behind your eyes, and you hated them, hated that they were coming now, hated that your body had chosen this moment to betray you after centuries of carefully pretending you were fine.
“Sorry,” you choked out, one hand lifting uselessly before falling back to your side, “for caring too much about you, you dumb jackass.”
Silence filled the room.
Adam stared at you like he had never seen you before.
His arms, which had been crossed defensively over his chest, loosened. His wings drooped slightly, the torn feathers no longer hidden quite so carefully. For the first time since he had returned, he looked less angry than lost.
“I...” he started, then stopped.
You laughed once, wet and sharp and nothing like amusement.
“Yeah,” you said, sniffing as the tears finally escaped despite everything you had done to stop them. “Silly me, right? What was I thinking, worrying over you in front of everyone? What an embarrassment that must have been.”
His face tightened.
“That’s not—”
“You’re Adam,” you cut in, hurt making you cruel now, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you could not bear being the only one bleeding. “Of course you come back. Of course nothing can touch you. Of course the rest of us should just stand there and clap when you walk in covered in blood like it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It matters to me.”
The words were too honest. They slipped out before you could soften them.
Adam’s breath caught.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then his expression twisted again, not with anger this time, but with something overwhelmed and cornered, something that did not know what to do with your fear now that it had been placed directly in his hands.
“Would you stop...?”
The words were quiet. They hurt more than the shouting. Because after everything, after all the waiting and fear and love you had carried in silence, that was what he reached for.
Stop.
Stop worrying.
Stop crying.
Stop making him look at it.
You looked at him through the blur of your tears, and something inside you shut carefully, painfully, like a door closing before the storm could tear it off its hinges.
“Yeah,” you said, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “I’m stopping.”
Adam’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait, that’s not—”
“I get it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.” Your voice was quieter now, drained in a way that made him flinch more than the anger had. “You hate being seen as weak. I know. I’ve always known. I just thought maybe, after this long, you’d understand that I wasn’t trying to make you look weak. I was trying to make sure you were alive.”
His mouth opened but nothing came out. You turned toward the door, you did not wait for him to follow. You did not ask him to understand.
You had spent ages waiting for him to come back from Hell, waiting for him to notice the way your hands shook when the gates opened late, waiting for him to look at you one day and realize that what you felt had never fit inside friendship. It had seemed possible once, in the soft spaces between jokes and stolen lunches, in the way he sometimes came to the archive for no reason at all and stayed until your work was done, in the way he remembered things no one else did and pretended he had not.
You had thought maybe one day he would understand.
It turned out you were wrong.
Your fingers touched the door handle. Behind you, Adam moved.
He crossed the distance faster than you expected, and before you could open the door, his hand closed around your arm. Not rough. Never rough. But firm enough to stop you, desperate enough that you felt it in the way his fingers trembled against your sleeve.
“Wait.”
You did not turn around immediately.
His grip loosened the second he realized he was holding you back, though he did not let go entirely.
“Please.”
That word made you turn.
Adam looked wrecked in a way the Extermination had not managed to make him. Blood still marked his temple, his wing still hung wrong, but none of that compared to the expression on his face now, stripped of its arrogance, stripped of its performance, left with something raw enough that you almost wished you had not seen it.
“I fucked up.”
You blinked. He swallowed, glancing down at his hand around your arm before slowly releasing you.
“I did,” he said, quieter, as if saying it louder might make it harder. “I fucked up. I was pissed because everyone was staring, and I hate that shit, I hate people looking at me like I need help, like I’m not—”
His jaw clenched.
“Like I’m not enough.”
Your anger wavered. Adam looked away, running one hand roughly through his hair.
“And then you were there, and you looked scared, and I didn’t know what to do with that, because nobody looks at me like that.” His laugh came out short and humorless. “They expect me to come back. They cheer, or they ask for numbers, or they ask if I killed anything worth bragging about. Nobody waits like you do.”
Your throat tightened. He looked back at you then, and the guilt in his eyes made your chest ache.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“You never asked.”
“I know.”
He stepped closer, careful this time, as though you might disappear if he moved wrong.
“I should’ve. I should’ve noticed. You’re always there when I get back, always acting like it’s because of the reports or whatever, but it’s not, is it?”
You looked down. He let out a quiet breath.
“Shit.”
Your silence answered him. Adam’s voice softened, and somehow that made him sound more frightened than before.
“I hate being seen as weak. I do. It makes me feel like everybody’s waiting for me to fail, and I can’t...” He shook his head. “I can’t handle that. So when you came at me in front of everyone, I heard something you weren’t saying, and I got mad at you for it.”
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t trying to make you look fragile.”
“I know.”
“I was scared.”
His face changed at that.
“I know,” he said again, softer, the words almost breaking. “I know now.”
You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because you were cold, but because everything inside you felt too exposed.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” you whispered. “You leave, and everyone acts like it’s nothing because you’re Adam, and Adam always comes back, and I have to stand there with the lists and the reports and the sealed casualty files, pretending I’m not imagining your name on one of them.”
He looked stricken.
“I never thought about you having to read that.”
“I know.”
“The idea of you...” His voice faltered, and he looked away, as if the thought had punched the air from him. “The idea of you finding out that way, reading some cleaned-up report about me not coming back, sitting alone in that archive with my name in the wrong column... fuck.”
Your eyes filled again, but this time the tears were quieter.
“Adam.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, then immediately softening because the word came out sharper than he intended. “No, I mean... I get it. Or I’m trying to. I didn’t think anyone waited for me like that.”
“How could you not?”
His mouth twitched with something almost sad.
“Because I’m me.”
That hurt too.
Because beneath all the arrogance, beneath the noise, beneath the endless declarations that he was the first and greatest and impossible to replace, there was a man who had somehow never believed anyone’s relief could be personal.
You looked at him for a long moment, tired suddenly, too tired to keep hiding, too tired to keep folding love into friendship and calling it safer.
“I’ve loved you for ages.”
Adam went utterly still. The words were quiet. Just truth, exhausted and simple, finally too heavy to carry alone.
“I never told you because I didn’t want to make things strange, and I didn’t want to be another person asking something from you, and I didn’t want you to feel trapped by it.” Your voice trembled, but you kept going. “I don’t want to cage you. I don’t want to make you less than who you are. I just... wanted you to come back.”
Adam stared at you like the room had changed shape around him.
“You love me.”
You gave a small, tired laugh.
“Please don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked.”
“You look shocked.”
“I’m processing.”
“You’re terrible at it.”
“I just got emotionally ambushed.”
“You yelled at me first.”
“Yeah, and then you dropped a ‘loved you for ages’ on me, so I think we’re both having a night.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, small and broken around the tears still caught in your throat.
Adam’s expression softened like the sound had undone him.
He reached for you, then stopped halfway, as though asking permission without knowing how to say it. You looked at his hand, then back at him, and the hesitation between you lasted only a second before you placed your fingers in his.
His grip closed carefully around yours.
“Hell doesn’t scare me,” he said, voice low now. “I know that sounds stupid.”
“It does.”
He huffed a faint laugh.
“But it doesn’t. Not the way it probably should. I go down there, I fight, I come back, and I don’t think about what it looks like from here because thinking about it means thinking about not coming back, and I don’t do that.”
You squeezed his hand.
“But the idea of you waiting here,” he continued, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles, “the idea of you sitting in that archive thinking I might be dead, or reading about it in one of those reports, or crying because I was too proud to let you touch my stupid wing in public... that scares the shit out of me.”
Your breath caught. Adam looked at you fully then. No grin. No performance. Just him.
“I don’t want to go down there if it means hurting you like this.”
“You can’t promise you’ll stop.”
“I know.”
“And I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“I know that too.”
His free hand lifted slowly, brushing a tear from your cheek with surprising gentleness.
“I love you.”
Everything in you went quiet. Adam swallowed, as though the words had cost him more courage than any battlefield ever had.
“I do. I think I have for a while, and I didn’t know what the hell to do with it, because loving someone means giving them a place to hit you, and I’m not exactly great at standing still for that.” His mouth tightened, not quite a smile. “But I love you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like caring about me was something you had to apologize for.”
You closed your eyes for a second. His forehead touched yours before you realized he had moved closer.
The contact was careful, almost uncertain, and so unlike the loud certainty he usually carried that it broke something soft inside you. Your wings brushed his, feather against feather, and he let out a breath that trembled more than he probably wanted it to.
For once, he let himself lean. Enough for you to feel the weight he rarely allowed anyone else to hold.
Your hand slid up to his shoulder, avoiding the worst of the damage to his armor, while his arm came around your waist and drew you close. He smelled faintly of smoke and metal, of blood that had dried before it reached home, of the cold air near Heaven’s gates. You hated it. You loved him. Both truths lived in the same breath.
“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You were an ass.”
“Massive ass.”
“You embarrassed me too, you know.”
“I know.”
“You made me cry.”
His arm tightened.
“I know.”
“You scared me.”
His forehead pressed a little harder to yours.
“I know,” he said, and this time his voice cracked around the words. “I’m sorry.”
You believed him.
Silence settled between you, no crowd, no hall full of watching angels, no applause or performance or pride standing tall enough to hide behind. Only the two of you in a quiet room, hands still tangled together, wings brushing softly whenever either of you breathed too deeply.
After a while, Adam shifted with a small wince.
You pulled back at once.
“Your wing.”
He sighed.
“Here we go.”
“Adam.”
“I’m kidding.”
“You need a healer.”
“I need you to not look at me like I’m about to shatter.”
You softened.
“I can try.”
He nodded slowly.
“And I can try letting you worry without being a dick about it.”
“That would be nice.”
“Look at us. Growing.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, faintly, and Adam noticed. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I can’t promise I’ll never go back down there,” he said.
“I know.”
“I can’t promise I won’t come back scratched up.”
“I know.”
“I can promise I won’t make you carry the waiting alone anymore.”
Your chest tightened.
“That’s all I wanted.”
His eyes moved over your face, lingering on the tear tracks, the exhaustion, the love he had somehow missed while standing in front of it for ages.
“When I leave,” he said quietly, “I tell you before I go. Properly. No bullshit. When I come back, I let you check if I’m hurt before I start running my mouth.”
“That may be impossible for you.”
“Probably, but I’ll heroically attempt it.”
“And if you’re late?”
His expression sobered.
“If I’m late, you’re allowed to worry.”
“I don’t need permission.”
“No, you don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m giving it anyway.”
Your fingers tightened in his.
The ache in your chest did not vanish, not completely. It could not. The next Extermination would still come, the gates would still open, angels would still descend, and you would still know too much about numbers and probability and names written in the wrong columns. Love did not make war gentle. Confession did not turn danger into something harmless.
But Adam knew now. He knew what waiting cost. And for the first time, that made it feel less like standing alone beneath a collapsing sky.
He pulled you closer again, this time without hesitation, his chin resting briefly against the top of your head while his wings curved around you with a protective warmth that made your eyes burn all over again. You let yourself hold him carefully, mindful of the injuries he would finally allow someone to tend to, while his heartbeat steadied beneath your cheek.
“I really am fine, by the way,” he murmured after a moment.
You pinched his side.
He yelped.
“Okay, injured, betrayed, attacked in my moment of vulnerability.”
“You deserved that.”
“I say I love you and this is how I’m treated.”
“You yelled at me.”
“I apologized.”
“I’m still deciding if it was enough.”
He smiled against your hair.
“Take your time.”
You did.
You stood there a while longer, holding him in the quiet, letting the fear drain slowly from your body now that he was here, alive, warm beneath your hands. Eventually you would make him sit. Eventually you would call a healer. Eventually he would complain the entire time while letting you fuss over him anyway, because he had promised, and because promises, when finally made honestly, had weight.
For now, you only held on.
Adam’s hand moved gently up your back, hesitant at first, then surer when you did not pull away.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “I always did come to the archive first.”
You lifted your head slightly.
“What?”
“After. Before the hall, before the reports, before Sera sometimes.” He shrugged with one shoulder, trying to make it casual and failing because you were close enough to feel the tension in him. “I told myself it was because you had the paperwork.”
You looked at him.
He looked away.
“It wasn’t.”
The confession warmed you in a way that almost hurt.
“Adam.”
“I think I liked knowing you were there.”
Your eyes softened.
“I was always there.”
“I know.” He looked back at you, and for once, his smile was small. “I’m gonna try being worth that.”
“You already are.”
He exhaled, almost a laugh, almost something heavier.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
His wings brushed yours again, and this time neither of you pretended not to notice.
Outside the room, Heaven continued as it always had. Voices echoed faintly beyond the door, healers moved through the returning ranks, reports waited to be written, and somewhere in the archive, your fallen ledger still lay open on the floor, Adam’s name unchecked in your hand.
You would fix that later.
Returned.
Alive.
But this time, the word would not be yours alone to carry.
Adam bent his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead with none of his usual teasing, lingering there as if memorizing the quiet. You closed your eyes beneath it, fingers still linked with his, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, the fear had not disappeared from either of you completely, but it had changed shape.
It had become something shared.
Something spoken.
Something that no longer had to rot in silence.
“I’m still gonna brag about the fight,” he said.
“I know.”
“And I still looked badass.”
“You looked half-dead.”
“Hot half-dead.”
“You looked terrifying.”
“Terrifyingly hot.”
You sighed.
“There he is.”
Adam grinned, but his hand stayed gentle around yours.
“Yeah,” he said, softer than the grin deserved. “Here I am.”
ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
It’s a lil common hc that the batch could have extra DNA from other species to get their abilities, I like that hc so much! I just go a lil deeper~
Chosen by hand from Jango Fett, less common species in the galaxy for the unique experiment by Nala Se. An old friend, two known reliable folk and a new, odd and powerful friend.
While Ashar and Dex didn’t have much thoughts about handing over their DNA for experimental clones, but “Ono” and Tay did.
Quite unfortunate, the kaminoans not allowing them to interact with their clone children, but after all…the mysterious “Ono” could. Very often sneaking in the nursery, with a very reliable cute ally named Omega to help out, and sometimes visit his big headed bestie.
Now…what’s Ono?…well, it should be so obvious if you follow me. Good ol’ pal, Sebastian Michaelis, the former Phantomhive butler…more info, here.
(Also yeah. Half demon Hunter)
Old Sebas/“Ono” sheet. Still the same design!
For more about this whole story…my fic~
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
just a few drabbles to make up for my excuse of a oneshot.
Lucifer 🐥🍎🐍
When he first found out you were pregnant he was the most ecstatic being on hell. "We're pregnant! You're pregnant! You're with child?!" he said with an ecstatic voice, poor Luci was just bouncing all over the place.
Lucifer was set on making sure he wouldn't fuck this up, just how he did Charlie. Speaking of Charlie, she was the very first person to tell.
First Trimester
He would not leave you alone, if you had to get a drink of water, he would instantly materialize. Want your favorite pregnancy craving sandwich, will make it right in bed.
Gotta use the bathroom? Waiting right outside the bathroom until your done.
Alone time? Who's she?
Anytime you have to puke in the mornings, no matter how bad the puking is, he'll have some cold water with saltine crackers on the side, while holding your hair as you hurl your guts out.
He might pretend to be mad at your belly while whispering things such as, "Why do you like causing your mama so much pain while she's microwaving you, little one?" he says with mock chiding, 3 minutes later he's just kissing your belly.
Second Trimester
He's helping you decorate the nursery, and by helping more like making you snacks while he does the majority of painting, and building the baby stuff. "Luci, I can do it, you don't have to baby me."
"But you technically have a baby in you, so I have to baby you!" he said with a whiny high pitched voice. Fight logic with logic, makes since to Lucifer Morningstar.
"You are so impossible.", "Yeah but this impossible knocked you up~."
Despite being the Devil, he still has the urge to do angelic things, hover like he's a guardian angel, he even went as far to bless your kids, even though he doesn't know it yet.
"Lucifer, what are you doing?" you say in a sleepy voice, after you felt divine power radiating from your stomach, causing you to wake up.
"I have to bless our child. It's basic parenting."
"Yeah, but can't this wait until morning?" you said in an irritated voice
"Nope."
You woke up with a throbbing pain to your belly, Lucifer must've felt it too because he immediately jolted up too fast and fell off the bed with a hard thud.
"I'm up! I'm up, is it time?" He would say that every time you woke up in the middle of the night from harsh kicks. "No, no, Luci something feels off." you say in a non committal tone.
You have never seen Lucifer this serious in your entire afterlife. "Let me see," he shifts back on the bed closer to you and rests his claw on your belly, emitting a soft warm glow from his palms. "Oh, shit."
"What is it? Is the baby okay?" you started to panic.
"We're having twins!" he said with ecstatic, contrasting to your nervous state.
Oh shit.
Third Trimester
He is an entire nervous wreck, along with your due date approaching, and him trying to figure out if they should do a home birth or a hospital birth everything is a frazzled mess.
"Lucifer! Calm down!"
"I can't calm down, you're nearly gonna have our twins! he argued back in a shaky voice.
You weren't even due for another month. And here he was panicking like the exterminations were coming straight for you. "Look if it makes you feel any better do you want to practice when I am in labor"
That was definitely a weak excuse to calm him, if not cause him to panic even more. After you finally calmed him down from his frazzled state, he agreed to your suggestion of letting him take a walk in the park and calm his nerves.
"Honey I'm back!" he said in a excited voice, a little too excited for his own good.
"Luci, you wouldn't mind showing me the inside of your coat for me would you?" he knew you had him cornered. He pulled out a baby duck with shame, from his coat pocket.
"Lucifer! Why would you take a duck!?"
"It was lonely, and it can be a little birthing present for our kids." he argued back weakly.
Labor
To say you were in pain was an understatement, each contraction felt like, God himself was punching you.
"Son of a cocksucking bitch!" you cried out in pain as you gripped the hospital railing, causing it to leave an indent of your finger marks.
Lucifer felt so ashamed. You were in pain like this because of him!
"Darling I am so, so so, sorry!" he said, but his words fell to deaf ears. You pulled him by his bowtie, looks like pain was taking over you.
"Lucifer, when I am done giving birth to the both of our kids, you are going to be wishing that-ugh!" you couldn't finish your threat when another contraction hit you.
You screamed in pain tears prickling at your eyes as you writhed in pain.
"Duckling, you can hurt me all you want when this is over but please for the love of Father you need to focus on giving birth." he said firmly but lovingly.
All you could do was pant, the wave of childbirth was really taking a toll on you. "Last time I checked, you were the one who gave Eve the apple and if you didn't, this wouldn't be so painful!" you shot back with disdain in your voice.
Alright, he had to admit you got him there. "Okay, yes I did some wrong on my part, but it'll all be over when we hear the cries of our-"
Right on time. Before he could even finish his sentence, you both heard to symphonies of wailing, healthy wailing. After the nurses, cleaned both of your little girls. Lucifer was bawling his eyes out.
"Lucifer, are you crying?"
"No, I'm just cosplaying a waterfall." he said through his cries. You both named your twin daughters, 'Clara and Clover.'
Abel 🐑 😇 🎸
Oh, Abel. He was such a nervous wreck when he found out you were pregnant. "Wait, pregnant? Us, You, we're having a kid?" he said in a nervous, shaky voice.
You nod, in reassurance as he starts to sweat. "Wow! This is a lot to take in, what are we-" he stopped himself before he grabbed the both of your hands in his own.
"I am so glad you decided to tell me this. I'm a little nervous but excited to start my own family with you. You could see and hear the adoration in his voice as he gently reassured you with the same voice that would sing you to sleep each night.
First Trimester
The way this man acted like you were having his babies right now, was absolutely adorable. He was fretting over every single detail about you, birthing plan, cravings, health, etc.
"Lamb, I have to make sure everything is perfect for the both of you, otherwise what type of husband and father would I be?"
Your poor husband was so worried about becoming like his late father, even though you've reminded him countless times that he is nothing like his father. "But what if-" he started before you interrupted him.
"But nothing. You are the best husband in all of Heaven, so you need to act like it." you chided him gently
His heart shatters into a million pieces whenever you get morning sickness. Immediately at your side, no questions asked. Rubbing your shoulders up and down with a comforting aura.
"I know lamb, I know." is what he would tell you everytime. After your done with your daily puking, he always keeps a washcloth in the freezer so he can put it on your forehead after.
During your pregnancy he decides to work from home, letting Lute do the physical exertion so he can stay home with you and make a living at the same time.
You like to just randomly crawl up into his lap so you can take a pregnancy nap on him.
As much as he tries to resist, he just lets you lay there for a good majority of time when he works.
"Hon, I can't cuddle with you right now, I'm doing some- nevermind." and he just looks down with a smile and carries you back to bed.
Second Trimester
Abel was more excited than you to build the nursery he could not stay still. "Oh and a shade of dandelion over here, the bookshelf, rocking chair over there!"
"Abel, calm down! You're gonna get paint everywhere." you said with mock chastisement. You were holding the paint cans, while he was holding the paint brushes.
"I'm sorry, Lamb. It's just so exciting. I get to give my girl or boy the nursery, of their dreams!" he said with the twinkle in his nervous eyes that could calm the coldest of hearts.
Abel will make you anything you want, homemade taffy, churros, whatever you want? He can make.
"Abel darling can you make me a mutton pie?" you look up at him with hopefulness in your eyes.
His eyes shifted between you and the stove. "(Y/N) I'll make you whatever you want, but I draw the line at sheep."
In the middle of your naps, you can head Abel beside you, tuning his guitar and strumming simple cords to your belly as an attempt to bond with them, before they're even born.
He smiled at you, and began to start one of his instrumentals again. You shot up in pain during one of your naps, holding your stomach, while Abel was sleeping beside you. "Abel can you wake up? Something's wrong.."
"What is it..?" he mumbled sleepily
"My stomach is hurting.. really bad". "Oh, shit!" and he leaped out of bed getting your sweater and flats, so you could both could see Sera.
"Huh, looks like you two are having twins, nothing serious." and she just turned back to her desk.
"TWINS!?" he exclaimed, "Oh, twins that sounds nice, Abel.". All he could do was look at you in shock. The only reason why he exclaimed like that, was because all he could think of would be the pain you would endure.
Third Trimester
Sure, your stomach was bigger than ever, but Abel's love was even larger. But there's a little insecurity bugging you, stretch marks.
Abel catches you staring at yourself in the mirror, in your undergarments. "Lamb, what's got you all out of sorts?" he rested his head on your shoulder staring at you through the mirror.
"All these damn, stretch marks I look like an elephant.". Abel looks like he was more offended than you, "Darling, how could you ever say that about yourself, you're the mother of my children!". he exclaimed while tracing your stretch marks.
You felt your tears streaming down your face before you could even register it, sniffling you looked at Abel who was also crying with you. "Why are you crying?", "Because you're crying!"
Labor
Having two angelic twins, is hard. No shit Sherlock, but atleast Abel, was able to make it better (pun included). This man was bursting into tears, snot running down his nose.
"Hon it looks you're going through this labor instead of me-!" you telped out in pain as you felt one of the twins kick at your stomach.
"But Lamb, it is my fault, I got you pregnant in the first plahace!-" his muffled cries were silent when he put his head into your shoulder.
"Honey, instead of you crying your ass off, can you atleast hold my hand?
He looked up from his tear blurry vision, and just stared at you with love before following your command.
On second thought maybe you should've just left him in the waiting room. After an excruciating labor, you both hear the synchronized cries of your twin boys. 'Caleb and Malachai.'
Adam 🎸⚡️
He notices it before you do. Probably with a slick comment, "Are you on your period?" he says with a smug voice.
"No, I've been late, why?'
"I think you might be pregnant." he says nonchalantly. "And how do you know?" you say with a hint of irritation in your voice.
Sure enough you both go to see one of the Heavenly doctors, and the news hits you like a truck, "Yes miss, congratulations, twins too."
You couldn't believe this shit, you pregnant with Heaven's golden boy too, this is gonna be a fun nine months.
First Trimester
He will spend the entire first three months picking on you (lovingly) and your bump. One time while you were washing the dishes, and Adam walked in, he just had to make a joke about your bump. "There's a perfectly baked bun that you have there."
"Adam, do you value your life?" you say without looking away from the dishes that you were washing. Safe to say that he didn't bother you for the entire day
Morning sickness, goodness you hated it- who wouldn't? Every time you would puke he would be there with a cold cloth while holding your hair, "Wow every time I hold your hair like this usually I-" you interrupted him before he could finish his sex joke." after you finished your puking he started his spiel about how he hates Lucifer for doing this to you. "That slippery bastard is so infuriating! I mean because of him you have to suffer giving birth to my kids!"
Looks like he was more upset about this pregnancy than you were.
"Adam calm down.." you said tiredly, as much as you wanted to argue you couldn't and wouldn't.
"Tits, how can I calm down when I know that you feel like crap from the one person I hate?"
You never got to hear the end of it.
He always makes comments about your boobs, wether it's 'My girls are getting bigger each week', he once asked if he could suck on them, but proceeds to act confused when you say no..
Second Trimester
You and Adam were fast asleep in the shared bed, when a pang of hunger awoke you. "Adam,-" but before you could get your sentence out he jumped out of bed. "I'm up! Is it time?"
"No, babe I was just gonna say I'm hungry, can you make me ribs with peanut butter on them?" you looked at him hopefully. Adam looked at you like you just asked him to stop exterminations.
"Babe, that's gross-" he got cut off by your tear-filled eyes looking at him.
"All right, fine, I guess I can make that disgusting concoction for you." he said begrudgingly, but the both of you knew he was wrapped around your finger.
While you two were working on the nursery, you couldn't pick out a single shade of white, "Babe, this is 'Eggshell' not 'Creame'!" you cried out as your eyes prickled with tears.
"Tits, why are you crying, they all look the same won't they?" he tried to gently reassure you while holding the paint cans. "I don't want my kids look at eggs for when they're born, I don't wanna be a boring mom!"
You started to wail in the middle of un put baby equipment, paint brushes, measuring tape, and wood-slabs.
Adam pulled you into his burly arms and begins to kiss your nose, mouth, cheek, forehead. Any part of your face that would calm you down quickly enough. "Baby, it doesn't matter what color the nursery is, you wanna know why?"
He pulled away to look at your tear streaked face, before continuing, "because these babies are gonna have the best mom ever." he said, reassuringly. "You mean it?" you said tear-filled.
"I mean it.".
Third Trimester
Being the only responsible one in the relationship, you were the only one who packed your overnight bag, but it couldn't help to have a little fun with him. You decided to do a practice drill on Adam, while he was half asleep.
You loved that stupid, but domestic look he had when he was asleep, a chubby bicep over his eyes, just in his lightning bolt boxer briefs, and un-matching socks.
Inhaling a sharp breath you try to hone your best acting skills and put on some light water on your face to show either sweat or tears. "Adam!" you said in that fake broken voice.
He slowly shot up rubbing sleep from his eyes, "What, what? I'm up.." he said before putting his cheek back on the pillow, eyes fluttering back closed.
Not a good start, you said to yourself, "Babe!", this time he finally woke up, with a disgruntled sound, sure he took paternity leave off but he was still tired from training the exorcists, "What..", he said in a sleepy but hot voice.
"The baby's coming!"
"Five more minutes..."
"Now!", he finally got up but you could see from the sluggish movements in his body that he was far from prepared, got the camping bag instead of the hospital bag. Oh boy, this was not going well so far.
Sure you felt some discomfort in your uterus while testing him it shuld brush off, right?
Right?
Labor
You spent the full thirty hours cursing him out, and screaming, "Look sugar-tits, can you please for the love of GOD, focus on giving birth to our kids, then you can threaten to cut my dick off."
Adam, knew that in this moment, he had fell in love all over again. He reached over with a softness that was reserved for you, and your kids only. He bent down to kiss your temple wiping your tears away, "Look sweets, I know I'm not the most chivalrous person in Heaven but-"
"Wow, Adam really not-fucking time for big words!", you basically shot the words out, letting out a gut wrenching scream.
"I know sweets, but I've seen you kill fucking overlords, during extermiantion. Where's the woman the stole my heart. You can fucking do this.", it was as if his words had cast a spell on you, and you leaned back against the pillows, and pushed with all your might, giving birth to your baby boy, and girl.
"Look babe you did it.."
"No, we did.", he leaned down and kiss your lips.
You decided to name the girl, Adeline.
And Adam named the boy Artemis.
a/n: I've actually had this in my drafts since, march and couldn't post lately because I had to take finals early, than usually.
If it’s possible for you to write the can you do a Vincent x female reader but reader has autism, but it’s more like socialising with autism(I have mild autism), but it’s best to do research about it first before writing just to let you know know that autism is a spectrum it’s not liner.
I like to imagine that Vincent tries to make friends with her as they both grow to be lovers, And learns to accept some things about her that she’s not as social as he is.
Oh Sure!
I hope I hit the mark quite accurately and aimed for an intermediate level.
The Shape of Quiet I Vincent x mild autism! Reader
Word Count: 4.4k~
‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹
‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹
I — Noise
The studio smells of coffee, printer paper, and the light dust that always settles in prop rooms. I know this smell better than my own home by now—and that means more to me than it should. Smells are reliable. They don’t change just because you’re not looking.
I’ve been here for three weeks now. As a set assistant—that sounds like more than it actually is. Because it means: call sheets, production schedules, change memos, and the quiet hope that no one will forget to send me the revised script pages on time today.
I prefer to work in the corner next to the second camera exit. It’s quiet there. There’s predictable lighting, a steady noise level, and no one asks me questions that aren’t on my checklist. In three weeks, I’ve learned which paths through the studio are least traveled, at what time the cafeteria gets too loud, and that after a long day of meetings, I need at least two hours of silence before my mind clears up again.
These aren’t quirks. This is how my brain works. At least that’s what a doctor says, but to most people, they’re quirks. Sometimes I take it too much to heart.
I first notice Vincent Whittman when he laughs too loudly.
Not loud in an unpleasant way. It’s—precise. Calculated. I look up because my brain automatically reacts to unexpected sounds, registering and processing them. There he stands at the other end of the studio, surrounded by actresses and assistants. He laughs, and everyone in the room turns toward him like sunflowers toward the light.
I briefly analyze why. Voice: pleasant, deep, without harshness. Posture: open, inviting, controlled and relaxed. Eye contact: distributed, excluding no one. I recognize the pattern. He’s doing this on purpose. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Shaking my head, I turn back to my spreadsheets.
Whittman comes over anyway. Of course he does. He’s an actor.
“Are you new here?” Whittman asks, leaning down slightly toward me. The closeness is uncomfortable—not because of him specifically, but because unannounced closeness is always uncomfortable. My body registers it immediately: half a step too close.
I look up. Heterochromia—the right eye a pale blue, the left a vivid green behind his glasses. He’s taller than I expected and smells like the sea.
Instantly, I’m seven years old, sitting on a rock above the water on vacation. Warm light. No people. No one who wants anything from me.
I blink. “Three weeks,” I reply.
Whittman waits. I’m silent. There’s nothing more to say—he asked, I answered.
A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’m Vincent.”
“I know.” I hold out the stack of forms to him. “One of these is yours.”
He takes the sheet. But he looks at me—with an expression I can’t quite decipher right away. Surprised? No. More like something has just thrown him slightly off balance, and he finds it interesting rather than annoying.
“I’m bothering you,” Whittman says finally. No apology. A statement. I notice that he doesn’t ask, “Am I bothering you?”—he states it. That’s more honest.
“No,” I lie, because that’s the answer you give. That’s what I’ve learned. If you say yes, people think you’re rude. So you say no, even if you mean: Please go away. My brain is currently processing your scent, your voice, the air conditioning, the wrong lighting, and the fact that my spreadsheet isn’t finished yet—all at the same time.
Whittman smiles. Sharp at the edges, warm in the middle. As if he were two different people at once.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, and leaves.
I sit there for another second. Watch his shoulders disappear into the crowd.
Then I keep typing.
Try not to think about him anymore.
It works only so-so.
II — Synchronization
Vincent comes every day. With him comes that smell every time—the sea, salt, something warm beneath it—and every time that brief, uncontrollable image: rocks. Water. Silence.
I don’t like that.
Sometimes he just stops by briefly, on his way to rehearsal. Sometimes longer. He always brings two coffees—one for himself, the other he places silently next to my laptop. Doesn’t take it back if I don’t say thank you. Doesn’t expect a thank you. I’d thought that if I didn’t say anything, he’d stop. But I’m wrong.
Every time, I drink it.
(That’s not a weakness. I like coffee. That’s all.)
On the fifth day, I ask, “Why do you do that?”
Whittman blinks. “What?”
“Come here. Bring the coffee.” I emphasize the question by pointing to both cups.
He’s silent for a moment—on purpose, I realize now. Whittman doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it stand until he knows what he wants to say. I know that pattern from myself, from the inside. It’s the first time I’ve seen it in someone else.
“It’s quieter here,” he finally says. As he does, he looks at me so calmly that I don’t know where to look.
I quickly look around. Stacks of paper. My humming laptop. The printer that coughs every twenty minutes. “Relatively,” I say and roll my eyes, because that’s a reaction I know and it fits.
Whittman laughs. This time it sounds more genuine than in the studio. Less polished. Less calculated.
I notice the difference. I commit it to memory.
I do that too often with him. Memorizing things without knowing why.
“I like the way you say things,” he said, resting one arm on the desk. His face is closer now, and I instinctively shift an inch to the side—not far, not noticeably, just a little more space.
“How do I say them?”
“Just like that. Straight to the point.” He brushes a strand of hair from his face.
I wonder if that’s a compliment. Most of the time, it isn’t. Most of the time, what’s behind it is: you’re weird, just wrapped in nicer packaging. Like finding cookies at Grandma’s and then finding the sewing kit inside.
“I expend energy on social codes,” I say. “When I’m direct, I save mental bandwidth.”
Whittman raises both eyebrows. Looks at me—really, not just a glance. As if he’s reading something he doesn’t quite understand yet, but wants to keep reading.
“That’s honest,” he says quietly and steps back—giving me my space without my asking.
I take note of that. Save it again.
“You asked.” Relieved, I roll back to my desk.
He nods. Drinks his coffee. Leaves eventually, without making a fuss about it.
I stare at my screen and realize I’ve read the last line three times without taking it in.
That’s not normal for me. I always get it the first time.
────୨ৎ────
In the evening on the subway, sitting by the window with headphones on. That’s my moment. No talking. No expectations. No faces I have to read. Just movement and the city passing by, and my mind finally stopping to process everything twice.
Today I keep the music playing without really listening.
I think about his face as he listened. How he didn’t answer right away. How he didn’t try to correct me or finish my sentences.
I try to analyze it—because analyzing is reliable, because then I feel like I understand something. But this time I don’t get any further than: He looked at me as if what I was saying was interesting. Not despite the way I say it. Because of it.
That’s new.
I don’t know what to do with it. So I leave it there, like you leave a stone on the ground that you don’t want to pick up because you don’t know what’s underneath.
III — Warmth
It’s the little things I’m starting to notice, without even realizing it.
Like how Vincent knocks before he comes in—always, even when the door is open. How he waits until I look up before he speaks. How Whittman has stopped asking me questions when I’m engrossed in a spreadsheet, and instead just sits there with his coffee. Sometimes he looks out the window. Sometimes at me.
I pretend not to notice. I always notice.
Inside, I kept a sort of list without meaning to. The list is called Patterns I Observe in Vincent. Not Reasons to Like Vincent. That’s an important distinction. That’s what I tell myself.
Entry twenty-seven: He doesn’t touch my things.
Entry twenty-eight: He never explains anything to me that I haven’t asked about.
When my stack of papers slid off the table during a chaotic day of filming, he caught it—without a word, set it down straight, and carried on as if nothing had happened.
I looked at him afterward. He glanced back briefly. Then we both quickly looked away.
My cheeks were warm.
I don’t keep a list of warm cheeks.
────୨ৎ────
One Thursday evening—the studio almost empty, it getting dark early outside, rain pattering against the window—he asks, “What are you listening to right now?”
I have one earbud half in. Vincent points to it.
I look up shyly. Whittman caught me not listening, yet he didn’t look as if that were strange.
“Nothing,” I say. “Sometimes I wear them so no one will talk to me.”
Vincent processes that. I see him sorting it out—not judging, just sorting. Then he nods. “Clever disguise.”
“It usually works.”
“Not on me,” Vincent grins, and his tone isn’t smug. He sounds almost apologetic. Almost.
“No,” I admit. “Not on you.”
He smiles—very quietly, very slightly. Not the studio smile. The other one.
I keep typing and notice that I’m smiling myself. At my screen, where he can’t see it.
Maybe.
(I’m worried that “maybe” is the wrong assessment.)
────୨ৎ────
One evening, after everyone else has left, he brings me my coffee and pauses. He holds it out until I look up.
“May I sit down for a moment?” Whittman asks, tilting his head slightly to one side. A strand of hair slips out of his hairstyle, and he blows it out of his line of sight.
That’s unexpectedly genuine. I’ve always seen him as flawless.
Somehow, that’s nice.
“Please,” I say, gesturing to the chair across from me.
He sits down. He places his hands flat on the table—a strangely open gesture for someone who usually makes such a point of his posture. “How are you?”
“That’s a very vague question,” I look up.
“I mean it specifically. Today was loud,” Vincent smiles at me warmly.
I think about the day. The unplanned rehearsal that went an hour over. The cameraman who asked three times what I meant by “left column”—I’d said it the second time in different words and shown it the third time because my brain couldn’t come up with a fourth way to put it. The light in the afternoon, which was set too bright and burned my eyes.
“Yes,” I agree. “Today was loud.”
Vincent nods. Says nothing. Just waits—and the waiting doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like space.
I don’t know why—maybe because it’s late and I’m too tired to sort through it all—but I explain: “It’s like a radio you can’t turn off. Everything comes in. Always. Every voice, every light, every unexpected touch. You learn to sort through it, but it takes its toll. All day long. And by evening, the battery’s dead.”
I hear myself talking and think: too much. That was too much.
But I don’t take it back.
Vincent looks at me for a very long time. And then, very quietly, with an expression that barely pulls his lips downward: “That sounds lonely.”
My heart does something I can’t name. It’s not pain. It’s not fear. It’s something that feels like opening a door and finding warm light behind it, even though you didn’t know the door was there.
“Sometimes,” I murmur. More honestly than I intended.
He reaches out his hand—slowly, across half the table—and places it next to mine. Not on top of it. Next to it. Just close enough that I feel the warmth without being touched. As if he knew exactly how much is just right.
How does he know that?
“I’m not a particularly easy person,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that feels like a confession. As if he, too, were opening a door right now.
“Neither am I,” I say, looking at our hands. How they lie side by side. How close they are without touching.
Vincent looks at it too. Then at me. His gaze is so open, so unusually genuine, that I don’t know what to make of it.
“Then maybe we’re a good match,” he smiles. Almost too quietly. As if he were thinking it rather than saying it.
I don’t answer.
I don’t pull my hand away either.
My heart is pounding in my throat, and I think: I’m keeping a list of his patterns, I’m collecting his little smiles, I think of him on the subway, and I don’t want him to get up and leave now—
Oh.
Oh no.
IV — Signal
It happened on a Wednesday, and it was bound to happen. I should have noted it in my spreadsheet: Wednesday: too many unplanned variables. Risk of overload: high.
The shoot was too loud, too fast, too full of things that didn’t go according to plan. I was interrupted twice in the middle of a task. Three times someone called my name before I was ready to answer. The open-plan office on the second floor, where I had to type up the error reports for an hour, smelled of cheap food and too many people at once.
At 4:30, the studio is finally empty.
I’m sitting on the floor behind my desk, back against the wall, eyes closed. This isn’t drama. This is biology. My nervous system is empty. Completely, clinically dead, biologically empty. I breathe and try to sort through, one by one, the things that came in all at once all day long.
I hear footsteps.
Slowly. Someone reading the room before entering it. Vincent.
“I’ll sit over there,” Vincent’s voice says. “You don’t have to say anything.”
The sound of the chair. He pulls it to the other end of the room. Not too close. Not too far.
He says nothing. He does nothing. He’s just there, so calm that the silence doesn’t feel oppressive.
Eventually, I lift my head.
Vincent is sitting with his back against the wall, his jacket off, looking at me. No pity. No unease. No expression that says: Should I do something? Should I say something? Just—being there. Watching. Not himself. Me.
I’m not used to being looked at like this.
It doesn’t feel wrong.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask. My voice sounds flatter than usual, drained by the day.
“I saw you at lunch. The way you were listening to the intern.” Pause. “You had that look.”
“What kind?”
“As if you were working very hard not to have a certain expression.” Vincent calmly wipes his glasses, glancing briefly at the lenses.
I stare at him.
That’s masking. He’s describing masking—holding one’s face together, consciously regulating every emotion so that no one sees how much is too much right now. He describes it, without knowing the word, with a precision that almost startles me.
“Usually no one notices that,” I say.
He puts his glasses back on and looks at me. “I know.” No bragging. Just a fact. I know I saw something you didn’t want to show. I do nothing with it except: be there.
We sit like that for a long time.
“Thank you,” I finally say, as the first footsteps can be heard outside again.
Vincent shakes his head. “No need.”
“Yes.” I look at him. “Most people ask right away what’s wrong. Or tell me it’ll be okay. Or do something.” I fidget with my fingers without realizing it, until I do realize it, and then I keep doing it on purpose because it helps.
He thinks for a moment. “Doing something sometimes feels like an intrusion.”
I stare at him.
Vincent looks slightly to the side. A faint blush, barely visible, just above his collar. He’s said more than he intended, I can tell. And he’s embarrassed by it.
Vincent Whittman is embarrassed.
This realization is so unexpected and so unexpectedly tender that I take it and tuck it away deep inside. Into the list that isn’t a list.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Exactly that.”
We look at each other and neither of us says anything else. That’s exactly how it should be.
V — Flame
The rain starts on a Friday evening, and we both only notice it when we’re standing at the exit.
Everyone else is already gone. I’m waiting for my train, bag over my shoulder, my thoughts already halfway on their way home. Vincent stands next to me, hands in his pockets, and holds his hand out briefly into the rain—appraisingly, matter-of-factly, as if he were documenting the weather conditions.
“We could wait,” he says.
“The train’s coming in twelve minutes.”
“Fine.” He leans against the wall next to the door. “Then we’ll wait.”
We wait.
The rain makes its sounds—steady, predictable, soothing. The studio behind us is cooling down. Somewhere, something is dripping in an irregular rhythm that I start to count until I realize I’m counting, and then I keep going anyway.
I notice him looking at me.
Not furtively. Not briefly. Just—openly. The way Vincent sometimes looks when he thinks I’m too busy to notice. But I always notice. I’ve always noticed.
Today, I hold his gaze.
Something in his face softens. Barely visible. But I’m good at seeing things that are barely visible.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“You always ask anyway.” I shrug.
That small, genuine smile. “True.” He looks briefly at the rain, then back at me. “What do you like? Besides silence and spreadsheets.”
The question surprises me because it’s not the one most people ask. Most people ask about activities, about hobbies, about things you can list. His question asks for something real. For something inside.
I take my time.
“When something is exactly as it should be,” I say finally. “A number that adds up. A plan that works. An evening when I don’t have to explain why I’m exhausted.”
Vincent nods slowly. “What else?”
“Why?” I look at him.
He turns toward me. In the light of the entrance, his face looks different—the sharp edges softer, the green of his left eye deeper. More open than I’ve ever seen him. “Because I want to know. Everything.”
Everything.
Warmth—uncontrolled, sudden, right in the middle of my chest. I know that feeling by now. It comes every time he talks like this. But this time it’s bigger than usual. This time it spreads all the way to my fingertips.
I let it be. I don’t analyze it away.
“Rain,” I say finally, a little quieter than I intended. “From the inside. If I don’t have to go out.”
Vincent looks at the rain, then at me. At me for a very long time. And then he laughs—softly, warmly, so genuine that it tugs at my chest.
The rain gets heavier. I look at my phone—train in eight minutes—and then at the wet street, and I think of the crowded Friday train car. The voices. The bodies too close together. The twenty minutes of standing in the smell of wet fabric and long days.
“I could give you a ride.”
I lift my head.
Vincent is looking straight ahead into the rain, not at me, as if that makes it easier for him. A slight tension in his jawline, barely visible. He’s not sure if the offer is welcome. He waits, and the waiting costs him something—I can see that.
“I have the car with me again today,” he adds, too matter-of-factly, too casually. “It’s not out of my way.”
“You don’t know where I live,” I say, irritated.
“No.”
I look at him. “That was some very half-baked planning.”
Now Vincent turns his head, and there it is—that unplanned smile. The unguarded one he only shows when he’s forgotten to hide it. The one I’ve been collecting all this time, without knowing why.
My heart tightens. Gently.
“From the park at the end of Lindenstraße to the second cross street on the left,” I say.
He blinks. “What?”
“Where I live.”
He takes a moment. Then, very quietly, almost to himself: “Okay.”
────୨ৎ────
His car smells of warm leather and the sea.
I sit down, and he closes the door behind me before walking to the driver’s side. I look through the fogged-up window at the rain and take a deep breath. My nervous system signals: safe. calm. no noise. no crowds. It rarely signals that when I’m around people.
Vincent sits down. He looks at me briefly before starting the engine—a brief, almost tender check, as if he wants to make sure I’m still here and that everything is still okay.
I’m still here. Everything is okay.
He puts his hand on the ignition key, but he doesn’t turn it right away. Instead, he looks straight ahead, and the silence between us is so thick I could almost touch it.
“I have to tell you something,” he says finally.
“Then say it.”
He turns his head toward me. His right eye is blue, his left green, and in between them is that look—open, a little helpless, sincere. “I don’t know when it happened,” he says. “I just know that every morning when I come into the studio, the first thing I do is check to see if you’re already there.”
I stare at him.
“And when you’re there,” he continues, calmly, but with a care in his voice as if he were holding something very fragile, “then the day is different. Better.” A brief pause. “That’s what I wanted to say.”
Raindrops run down the windowpane.
“I keep a list about you,” I confessed instead.
He blinks. “What kind of list?”
“Patterns. Things I observe.” I look at my hands in my lap. “How you knock before you come in. How you stay silent without it feeling heavy. How you set the coffee down without saying a word.” A brief pause. “I called it ‘analysis’ so it wouldn’t feel like the other one.”
“Like the other one.” He repeats it quietly.
“Yes,” I whisper to myself.
“And is it any different?”
The streetlights outside shimmer through the rain. One. Two. Three.
“Yes,” I say. Simply. Without beating around the bush. Just like the way he talks to me.
Vincent swallows. I see it. Then—very slowly, so slowly that I can see every moment and could say no at any time—he reaches out and places his hand on mine.
I look at his hand. At mine.
He turns his head toward me. His right eye is blue, his left green, and in between them is that look—open, a little helpless, sincere. “I don’t know when it happened,” he says. “I just know that every morning when I come into the studio, the first thing I do is check to see if you’re already there.”
I stare at him.
“And when you’re there,” he continues, calmly, but with a care in his voice as if he were
Vincent wraps his fingers around mine so gently, as if he were trying to hold onto something he mustn’t crush. And I think: so this is what it feels like. Not overwhelming. Not too loud. Just warm, and right, and so unhurried that my nervous system doesn’t want to run away.
We sit like that for a while. The rain drums on the roof. No one says anything, and no one has to.
Then he lets go—not abruptly, but deliberately—and starts the engine.
“Lindenstraße,” he repeated.
“Second street on the left,” I say.
“Second street on the left,” he repeats quietly, as if he wants to commit it to memory. As if it were important.
────୨ৎ────
Vincent is driving slowly. Deliberately slowly, I think, but I don’t say anything.
The city rolls by, wet and gleaming. Streetlights reflecting off the asphalt. Red light streaming across the windshield in long streaks. I lean my head a little against the windowpane—my moment, movement and window and no expectations—only this time someone is there, and it’s still quiet. Maybe even more so.
“Can I ask you something?” I say at some point.
“You never ask,” he says, sounding surprised.
“I’ll start.”
Vincent glances at me briefly, and there’s a small smile on his profile. “Then ask.”
“What have you been collecting?” I look straight ahead. “About me. You’re watching, too. I know that.”
A long pause. The windshield wipers push the rain steadily to the side.
“How you wear your headphones without music,” he says finally. “How you always take the same route through the studio. How relaxed you get when everyone else has left.” He pauses briefly. “How you sometimes smile at your screen when you think no one is watching.”
I turn my head toward him. “You saw that?”
“Yeah,” he grins faintly.
“Since when?”
“Since the second week.”
I stare at him. He’s looking straight ahead, but his ears are a tiny bit red, up there, just below his hair. I can see it in the glow of the streetlights.
He’s embarrassed. Again.
I turn my head away before he notices I’m smiling. This time, I look at the windshield. This time, I know he can’t see it.
This time, though, I’m fine with it.
────୨ৎ────
Vincent turns onto Lindenstraße—slowly, as if he’s in no hurry. As if he’s deliberately stretching out time without saying so. I could tell him. I don’t, because I’m in no hurry either.
He stops. Second street on the left. The engine is still running.
Neither of us moves.
I look at my hands. Then out the window. Then—because I’ve learned by now that it doesn’t feel wrong—at him.
He’s already looking back.
And there it is again, that expression—open, unpracticed, and so far removed from the man who laughs in the studio and turns all the sunflowers. This is the other one. The one I’ve been gathering all this time.
“Thank you,” I say. And I don’t just mean for the ride.
“You’re welcome,” he smiles. And he means more than that, too.
A silence. The rain. The ticking of the engine.
Then Vincent says, very quietly, with a hesitation in his voice that I don’t recognize in him: “May I pick you up tomorrow morning?”
I look at him.
“The studio doesn’t have a shoot tomorrow,” I say.
“I know.”
“There’s nowhere we have to go.”
“I know,” he admitted to himself.
I look at his hands on the steering wheel. At the way they grip it just a little too tightly—not relaxed, but waiting. At the right blue eye, the left green one, both looking so calm and yet not calm at all.
Then—slowly, without planning it, without knowing the right way to do it—I lean forward just a little and rest my cheek very briefly, very lightly, against his shoulder.
He holds his breath.
I sit up straight again.
“Second street on the left,” I say quietly. “At nine.”
Vincent takes a moment. Then, in a voice that’s a touch less steady than usual: “At nine.”
I get out. The rain is immediately cold, and I walk to the front door, hearing that he isn’t driving away. He waits until I’m inside.
I turn around in the doorway.
Vincent is still sitting there, in the car, looking at me. When he sees me—he raises his hand briefly, almost imperceptibly, as a greeting or a promise or both.
I raise my hand too.
Then I’m inside, and the door closes behind me. I lean my back against it and close my eyes.
My heart is beating so loudly that I can feel it in my fingertips.
I think of his hand holding mine. Of his ears turning red. Of his voice when he asked if he could pick me up—with that hesitation in it that he never has otherwise, that he reserves only for me.
A tiny flame.
I watch my breathing.
But tomorrow morning, at nine, in front of my front door—he’ll be standing there.
And I’ll get in.
That’s enough. That’s more than enough.
That’s all.
Or is it?
‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹ ‧₊˚☔︎︎ ☂︎₊˚⊹
Autors Note:
Do you guys wan't psychological issues like depression, ADHD or lost abilities ?
Vox sat in his office, one screen pulled up with important documents to read over regarding his company, and the other with the security feeds around V Tower.
Everyone knew that Vox saw and heard everything going on in the tower, which is why so many staff members were on guard—whether it be his own, Valentino’s or Velvette’s.
Vox clicked through the feeds looking, briefly glancing over what he saw while he was multitasking.
Then, he landed on the cameras within his penthouse and curiously found his wife, Y/N, lying on their bed with an arm thrown over her head.
“Sleeping and avoiding responsibility, hm?” Vox said aloud to himself as he continued to watch his wife, but then she shifted. Her shoulders were tight, a hand was pressed more firmly against her face, and her fingers were curled faintly as if trying to hold something in place.
Vox scoffed and zapped away into the bedroom, already ready to berate his wife about not upholding her own responsibilities around the tower.
And when his bright blue electricity faded into the room, Y/N lightly jumped and shielded her eyes from him.
“What’s your problem?” Vox demanded.
“Migraine,” Y/N confessed. “I feel really sick.”
Vox debated on telling her to get over it and to get back to work, but after decades of being married (both in Hell and on Earth), he knew just how severe her migraines could get.
“You should have said something,” Vox said as the lights in the penthouse dimmed and his obnoxiously blue screen darked too. “Have you taken medicine? A bath?”
And in no time flat, a bath had been ran and Y/N’s body had been submerged in the warm water. She half expected Vox to leave considering how busy of a man he was, but instead, he cemented himself on the floor by the tub.
“You don’t have to stay. I know you have work.”
“Voxtek will survive without me for a few minutes,” Vox said as he gently took his wife’s hand in his. “You’re more important.”
[Adam, Lucifer, Vox, Alastor (separately) x Reader] [Romantic]
Summary: How Adam, Lucifer, Vox, and Alastor would react to you telling them: "In another life, we are seahorses, and I impregnated you with our babies."
A/N: Can be GN!reader, but implied fem!reader
Masterlist
Word count: 659
- Adam -
Adam has been gossiping for nearly 15 minutes now; apparently, one of his exorcist angels was caught sleeping with a higher-ranked angel, which your boyfriend finds far too amusing.
You got bored 10 minutes ago and started daydreaming. Tuning Adam out is a talent you mastered years ago.
A grin grows on your face as you picture you and him as seahorses. You interrupt Adam with a cackle before saying, "In another life, we are seahorses, and I impregnated you with our babies."
The smile on Adam's mask drops as he silently stares at you. You continue laughing.
Adam then shrugs, and his grin pops right back up. "Ya know what? Let's roleplay this when you peg me tonight."
- Lucifer -
Lucifer wraps his arms around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder as he cuddles up next to you on the bed. "Whatcha drawing now?"
The whole page is filled with you and Lucifer as different animals. It started as you and him as ducks, per your lover's request, then you decided to keep the theme going. You just finished sketching you guys as seahorses.
You lay your head against Lucifer's, and instead of answering normally, you sigh thoughtfully, "In another life, we are seahorses, and I impregnated you with our babies."
A bright light flashes, and suddenly the weight of your lover beside you vanishes. On the blanket beside your thigh, Lucifer shapeshifted into a seahorse. You laugh in surprise as you gently cradle him in your palms.
Lucifer curls his seahorse tail around your thumb, smirking as he raises his eyebrows suggestively. "What's stopping it from being in this lifetime?"
- Vox -
A soft smile is on your lips as you watch Vox's two smaller sharks swimming around near the glass barrier. They always get so excited when you visit, especially Shok.wav.
A pair of strong arms wrap around you suddenly, and your smile brightens as you lean back into Vox's chest.
"What have you been up to?" Vox sighs out, his stress of the work day expelling in your presence, "Admiring our sharks?"
You hum in agreement and close your eyes as Vox subtly rocks you both back and forth like a gentle current in the ocean.
You rub your thumbs against Vox's hands lovingly as you softly say, "In another life, we are seahorses, and I impregnated you with our babies."
Vox continues rocking you both, unbothered by your random thought, and he squeezes you a little tighter.
"I've actually thought about that too. I'd push out all 1,000 babies just for you," Vox responds in the most casual voice, a dreamy smile on his screen.
- Alastor -
You're sitting at a table in the Hotel's library with four books open, trying to find an answer to a random aquatic question you had. Since your aggravating yet charming lover banned technology, you can't simply look it up on the Internet to ease your curiosity.
Alastor is sitting beside you, quietly reading his novel in your presence, with a relaxed expression. You don't fight the smile forming on your lips as you faintly hear his tail wag. You know how much Alastor cherishes these quiet bonding moments, so you aren't too irritated with him for making your research a little more difficult.
You flip a page in the book closest to you, seeing that a majority of the information is about seahorses. It's not what you were originally seeking, yet it reminds you of a little fun fact and gives you a new idea.
You lean your head on your hand as you smirk at Alastor. "In another life, we are seahorses, and I impregnated you with our babies."
A shriek of startled radio static emits from Alastor's microphone. Your lover goes very still for a moment before slowly setting down his book.
You cover your mouth in an attempt to hold back laughter.
Alastor side eyes you. "Genuinely, what is your problem?"
