#You and him game

[doomwitctheories]

YOU and HIM Fanart

OC (Xura) x Canon (Adam from YOU and HIM +18 vn)

Title: Game of tag

[beewaxisnice]

I’m on a roll (not really)

Finished playing it not so long ago and honestly love the story, it’s pretty interesting :D

Im planning on drawing all the Cake chars when I get the chance !

Hopefully he looks alright

and I hope the white eyelashes are ok

Thank you for your time

Take care :3

[lavender-teardroplettes]

In my domestic era with the twins. .w.

[saintnightshade]

Adam from YOUandHIM VN

[msriri030]

Underground Devil

Adam x reader, heavenly apocalypse au, oneshot?

Disclaimer: murder, slightly heated scene, fighting

Masterlist

The Baptism of the Red Sea.

That was the day the Angels arrived.

Throughout human history, angels had been seen as celestial beings—pure, untarnished by sin. So when they filled the sky, humanity rejoiced. Some stretched out their hands, desperate to touch a fragment of heaven, while others offered baskets of fresh food, gifts for their divine visitors.

Everyone believed the angels had come to end humanity’s suffering.

It was a selfish thought. A human thought. A desperate wish.

Because if they had known the truth—if they had understood what angels really consumed—they would have run.

The Lord’s gospel, they called it.

Angels had come for only one purpose.

To extinguish the human race.

The air, once filled with cheers, became a sea of screams. People trampled friends and family in blind panic, scrambling to escape as angels descended upon them, their holy radiance dripping with human blood. Flesh was torn from bone. Streets ran red.

The ones who survived?

They fled underground, sentenced to a life in the shadows.

Because the surface belonged to the angels now.

And they…

They became the hunted.

But humans couldn’t survive completely underground. Resources dwindled, air grew stale, and no matter how well they hid, they still needed supplies.

That’s why the lottery was created.

Every few months, a group of “volunteers” were chosen—names pulled at random, their fates sealed in ink. Those selected had one job: go to the surface and scavenge for anything that could keep humanity alive. Medical supplies, building materials—if you were lucky, even non-perishable food like canned goods.

Most never returned.

And now, you were one of the unlucky chosen ones.

Night cloaked the ruined city as you moved with your group, a heavy backpack slung over your shoulders, heading back to base. The streets were graveyards of rusted cars and white feathers, their shattered windows like empty, staring eyes. You didn’t check inside. You didn’t want to know what rotted within.

Above, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers loomed, their broken silhouettes clawing at the sky. The wind whispered through the hollowed buildings, mingling with the pounding of your heartbeat.

Still, you kept moving.

Keep searching. But most of all—

You kept watching the sky, because you knew God’s messengers could be watching, too. Yet despite it all, you couldn’t help but admire the stars.

It was the one thing the angels hadn’t stolen.

Above the ruins of a broken world, the heavens stretched vast and untouched, glittering with cold, indifferent beauty. For a brief moment, you let yourself forget the dangers lurking in the darkness. The stars, distant and eternal, didn’t care about the blood-soaked earth below. Maybe that was why you found comfort in them.

"(Y/N)? Is everything alright?"

Magdalene’s voice was hushed, laced with concern. She was the last surviving member of your group—a friend you had made during your time on the surface. Short and lean, with red-dyed hair styled in short space buns that bounced as she walked, Magdalene carried a large gallon jug of clean water in her arms, shifting its weight as she glanced between you and the sky.

You offered a small, apologetic smile, falling into step beside her. "Yeah, I'm fine. I was just… looking at the stars."

Her expression softened. "Oh," she murmured, her lips curving into a faint smile. "I guess that is comforting. It reminds me of how we couldn't see them before because of the light pollution. To be honest, when I was a shut-in, I thought I’d finally make friends one day, go shopping in the city, maybe even sing karaoke together… silly, huh?"

Her hazel, droopy eyes—framed by freckles dusting her tan cheeks—met yours for a fleeting moment before turning ahead.

"Not really. I would have loved to go with you, Maggie," you said, your smile widening as you spotted a decrepit mall up ahead. You recalled your Aunt Ruth’s ramblings about malls, remnants of a time when the surface was still full of life. It gave you an idea. "Why don’t we make it a reality?"

Before she could protest, you grabbed Magdalene’s arm, tugging her toward the mall entrance. A brief escape wouldn’t hurt—just a small indulgence in fantasy before you both resumed your journey home. Maybe you could even bring back a few memories with you.

Pushing open the rusted doors, you held them as Magdalene stepped inside.

If only you knew who was watching.

He watched, annoyed, from the old banking tower, playing with a stray kitten he had found. Today was supposed to be a rest day—no killing, no hunting—but then you had to show up. Worse still, you unknowingly brought Him with your scent. Saffron. So he couldn’t pretend he didn’t see you.

His dyed purple hair blew in the wind, stirred by the force of Saffron’s wings breaking before landing onto the platform. The white-haired man was something of a guardian—or perhaps more like his clean-up crew. He never quite understood why Saffron loved to devour human flesh. At least it meant he didn’t have corpses rotting everywhere, he supposed.

"Hello, Adam. Are you hunting those humans too?" Saffron asked, his glowing green eyes locking with Adam’s.

Adam glanced over his shoulder. "If so, I would be happy to join you, even though my wings are designed to be silent compared to yours."

He wasn’t wrong. Saffron’s white wings were long and broad, their pale blue primary feathers reminiscent of a hawk’s, built for soaring high above. Adam’s, on the other hand, were rounded, with soft, serrated feathers—perfect for gliding soundlessly behind any prey he chose.

Adam exhaled, pushing himself to his feet. "Alright. I’ll kill them for you—but stay here."

He stepped to the edge of the platform, spreading his black wings wide. The moonlight caught the silver shimmer woven into the feathers, making them glisten like liquid metal. Then, with a final glance back, he launched into flight.

Magdalene eyed the water jug nervously as she followed you deeper into the abandoned mall. Her gaze flickered around the darkened corridors, shadows stretching unnervingly across the cracked tile floors. "Are you sure we should be here, (Y/N)? Maybe we should keep moving—"

"Don’t worry," you reassured her, kicking an empty can across the floor. "This place connects to the underground railways. We can use them to get to the sanctuary. So, for now… let’s have some fun."

You came to a stop in front of a dusty clothing store display, its mannequins frozen in time, dressed in garments long untouched. A grin spread across your face as you turned to Magdalene. "Maybe we grab some new outfits? And if we’re really lucky, we might even find a working karaoke machine."

Magdalene hesitated beside you, her eyes catching on the glass storefront. The two of you stood side by side, your reflections aligning perfectly with the display behind it. Her breath hitched slightly as she imagined herself in a stunning white dress, Victorian lace trimming the collar and sleeves. Meanwhile, your reflection sported a sleek black suit with red accents—something sharp, something bold.

You watched the flicker of longing in her gaze and nudged her playfully. "What do you think, Magdalene? Just for a moment—indulge in a simple pleasure with me?"

She said nothing at first. Instead, she carefully set the water jug down, her fingers curling into fists. Then, without warning, she darted forward, scanning the debris-littered floor until she found a rusted bat.

With a wild grin, she gripped it tightly and swung.

Glass shattered on impact, the display window fracturing into a cascade of glittering shards. The sound echoed through the empty mall—sharp, defiant, exhilarating. Magdalene stood amidst the wreckage, chest rising and falling, the dim light catching the fire in her eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, she smiled—a real, unrestrained smile, bright and unburdened.

“Let’s!” she exclaimed.

You couldn’t help but laugh as you dropped your things, grabbing her hand and rushing into the store. Laughter filled the air as you both tore through the clothing racks, tossing garments into the air, daring each other to try on the most ridiculous outfits. The weight of survival, the looming specter of danger—it all faded, if only for a moment.

Eventually, you settled on a black sweater with devil horns on the hood, paired with black jeans and combat boots. As you adjusted your sleeves, you glanced toward the fitting room, waiting.

“Come on, Maggie. I wanna see—”

Your breath hitched when she finally stepped out.

Magdalene stood in the same white dress from the display, the Victorian lace softening her silhouette. Her hazel eyes shimmered under the dim mall lights, and in her hands, she held an imaginary microphone.

Then, without hesitation, she began to sing.

"I want you to stay'Til I'm in the grave'Til I rot away, dead and buried'Til I'm in the casket you carry."

Her voice wove through the abandoned store like a whisper from the past, haunting yet beautiful. When your eyes met, both of you burst into laughter—pure, unfiltered joy.

Magdalene plopped down beside you on the floor, resting her head against your shoulder. The light in her eyes dimmed slightly, sadness creeping in beneath the warmth.

“Thank you for everything, (Y/N),” she murmured. “This was the best day of my life…”

You smirked, exhaling softly. “Anything for you, Maggie.”

A beat of silence. Then, you sighed.

“Let’s head back?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Magdalene and you gathered your things, still smiling, still holding onto the fleeting warmth of the moment. You reached for the rusted bat, turning to say something—

But then—

A shift in the air, unnatural and wrong.

Your breath caught in your throat as movement flickered in the hallway beyond the shattered display. Silhouettes, tall and eerily still, stood against the dim emergency lighting. Their shapes were almost human.

Almost.

Then, the black feathers.

Sleek, pristine, and dripping with something silver edge.

Your stomach twisted. Your grip on the bat tightened.

“Maggie, is that—”

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“An angel.”

The word felt heavier than it should have, soaked in fear and finality.

The moment of peace was over.

Adam stood before you, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with a gaze so intense it felt like it could pierce straight through your soul. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, deafening in the heavy silence. Every instinct screamed at you to move—to run—but you couldn’t. You were frozen, trapped in his predatory stare.

A slow, deliberate smirk crept across his lips as he twirled a hunting knife between his fingers, the blade catching the dim light in hypnotic flashes. He always did love getting personal with his prey.

Then, without warning, he lunged.

The glinting steel arced toward you—

But before it could reach its mark, Magdalene yanked you back, her grip tight as she pulled you out of the way. Adam crashed hard into a rack of clothing, sending metal hangers clattering to the floor.

“RUN!” Magdalene’s voice snapped you back to reality.

Adrenaline surged through your veins as you grabbed her hand and bolted, your feet pounding against the tile. You barely had time to process what just happened before you found yourself sprinting toward the underground subway system—your only hope of escape. 

Adam wasn’t going to let you go that easily. His wings were relentless and fast, as he closed the distance with every stride. You and Magdalene sprinted, hearts pounding, but Adam was faster, his sheer presence a looming threat as he tore down the hallway after you.

The end of the corridor was near—just a few more steps, and you’d be at the staircase. But when you glanced over your shoulder, panic surged through you. Adam was almost upon Magdalene, his hand reaching out to grab her, to pull her into his grasp. Without thinking, your instincts kicked in.

You spun around and slammed into Magdalene, knocking her aside just in time to give her enough room to avoid Adam’s grasp. But as you moved out of way, the force sent you tumbling, and Adam’s body collided with you, shoving you both toward the end of the staircase. The momentum was too much. The bat you had been clutching fell from your hand with a loud clatter, skidding out of reach.

In an instant, Adam was upon you. His grip was unyielding, an iron vice that clamped onto your shoulder and wrenched you to the ground with terrifying ease. The impact stole the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as pain flared through your body. Before you could react, the cold bite of steel sliced through flesh—a sharp, searing agony that ignited in your shoulder as the blade buried itself deep.

A strangled scream tore from your throat, raw and rugged with pain. The world around you blurred, your vision tunneling into the suffocating haze of agony. Above you, Adam loomed, his twisted smile stretched wide in satisfaction, his reddish eyes gleaming with something dark, something insatiable. A predator, savoring the moment before the final blow.

But then—movement.

A shadow flickered just beyond Adam’s shoulder. Your gaze darted to Magdalene. She moved with a silent, deliberate grace, staying just out of his peripheral vision. The dim light glinted off the metal bat in her grasp as she crept closer, her fingers tightening around the handle.

Your breath hitched. Adam, perceptive as ever, noticed. His smirk faltered, suspicion flashing across his face as his eyes narrowed. He followed your gaze, beginning to turn—

You had no time to think.

With a desperate burst of energy, you yanked him down, your fingers tangling into his hair as you crashed your lips against his.

For a heartbeat, his entire body stiffened, wings flaring in sharp, startle reflex. His grip on the knife faltered, just slightly, just enough.

Then, like a dam breaking, something inside him cracked.

His body melted into yours, the rigid lines of control dissolving into something heated, something frantic. His lips moved against yours—hesitant at first, unsure, but quickly growing hungry. Desperate. He let out a low, needy groan, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers twitched at your sides, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

His inexperience was obvious—the way his lips parted against yours, searching, unsure but eager. The way he let himself lean into you, pressing closer, needing more. It was intoxicating, the way he surrendered without even realizing it.

Oh. This angel was probably a virgin.

Finally, you let him go.

Adam gasped, staggering back as if the kiss had stolen the air from his lungs. His chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, his usually sharp, calculating expression utterly undone. His reddish eyes, wide and unfocused, stared at you with something raw—something almost reverent.

His lips were slightly parted, still tingling from the contact, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. His wings twitched behind him, feathers ruffled and disheveled. A deep, rosy flush spread across his cheeks, creeping down his neck, a stark contrast against his usual composed demeanor.he finally breathed, his voice hoarse, dazed,

“What… what was—” 

Slam!

The sickening crack of wood against bone echoed through the night as Magdalene swung the bat with every ounce of strength she had. The impact sent a violent tremor through Adam’s body, his wings flaring wide in a stunned reflex before they crumpled uselessly against him.

A sharp, strangled grunt tore from his throat as the force of the blow sent him toppling off you. He hit the ground hard, his hands flying to the back of his head where Magdalene’s bat had struck. His fingers trembled, gripping at the point of impact, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

You didn’t hesitate. Ignoring the searing pain radiating from your shoulder wound, you scrambled to your feet. Magdalene grabbed your arm, and together, you bolted toward the entrance of the underground station. The city lights ahead where a beacon of salvation, the cold, sterile glow of the station promising safety.

But Adam wasn’t finished.

With an enraged snarl, his wings unfurled with a powerful snap, propelling him forward at an inhuman speed. The rush of air behind you sent a chill through your spine. He was gaining on you—fast.

You reached the station entrance first, barreling inside just as Magdalene skidded to a stop behind you. Relief surged through you—until you noticed the look in her eyes.

She was smiling.

Something was wrong.

Then, like ice flooding your veins, the realization struck—you weren’t safe yet. The underground station had an emergency gate. A heavy steel door that could be locked from the outside.

Your stomach dropped.

“Magdalene—” You turned to stop her, reaching out desperately, but it was too late.

Adam’s dark silhouette loomed behind her, his towering presence swallowing the dim light of the entrance.

With one final glance at you—something unreadable flickering in her eyes, something fierce and unwavering—Magdalene slammed her hand against the emergency button.

A deafening clunk rang out as the steel gate groaned to life, sliding into place with an unyielding finality.

“No—Magdalene!” You screamed her name, panic clawing at your throat as you lunged for the gate, your fingers grasping at cold steel. But it was done. She was on the other side.

Trapped with him.

A scream tore through the air, raw and filled with agony.

“Magdalene! You sadistic bastard!” Her voice cut through the heavy silence, followed by a sickening tear. The unmistakable sound of flesh being ripped open.

You stumbled back as something warm splattered against the floor beneath the gate. Your breath hitched. Blood. A smear of red spread across the pristine white tiles, seeping under the barrier that now separated you from the horror on the other side.

Your chest tightened, a sob wrenching itself from your throat as you slammed your fists against the steel. No, no, no—

“Magdalene!” Your voice was hoarse, desperate, but there was no answer. Just the wet drip of something pooling.

Then—silence.

A cruel, suffocating silence that made your stomach churn.

Knock. Knock.

The sound was slow, deliberate.

You froze, your blood turning to ice as a voice slithered through the cracks of the door.

“Little devil… are you there?” Adam’s voice was sickeningly sweet, mockingly gentle. “Don’t cry now. It won’t be long before I find a way in…”

A pause. A soft, wet squelch.

“…And when I do, you’ll join her.”

Your breath shuddered, your body screaming at you to move, to run.

You hesitated for only a second before you spun on your heel, sprinting down the underground corridor toward the only safe place left—the hideout.

But even as you ran, Adam’s voice lingered, curling around you like a promise.

A guarantee.

On the other hand, Adam—no, his body—was screaming at him to make you his.

His breath came in ragged pants, his chest rising and falling with an unfamiliar, maddening heat. His mind was a haze, clouded by the remnants of your touch, the ghost of your lips still lingering like a brand against his skin.

A sinful moment. A taunt to his purity.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching as he gripped the hilt of his blade. This is wrong. You were a temptation, a wicked, intoxicating curse wrapped in human skin. His wings trembled, caught between instinct and restraint.

The only way to cleanse himself of this corruption—this unbearable, tormenting desire—was to end you.

To kill you like the devil you were. Or at least, to have you all to himself.

[lovelettervbs]

they want to fuck each other so bad it makes them look stupid :\

[turquoisesea01]

YOU AND HIM YOSHI LETS GOOOO—

[digitalwavemedia]

MY Yandere Saved My Life! Dollhouse Productions (Demo)

[batcavescolony]

Katniss is such an unreliable narrator. She says "Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me" girl you deliver strawberries to the Mayor, you hunt and trade for the district, when you fell at Prim being chosen someone caught you, when you went to Prim people parted for you, when you volunteered EVERYONE stopped. Idk how to tell you but I think you're a pillar of the community.

[softestaries]

oh wyatt callow, the boy who weighed everyones odds in the arena and still threw himself in front of a blade for lou lou, knowing hers too.

[chloesimaginationthings]

SOTM Tiger rock reminds me of Golden Freddy,,

[doomwitctheories]

YOU and HIM fanart-sketch

OC (Xura) x Canon (Adam from YOU and HIM +18 vn)

Loading...

[lavender-teardroplettes]

Is there anything cuter and more intimate than lighting your cigarette with an indirect kiss?

Small moments between Cain and Rus that I think about far too often. 🥰

[jamiedoodlesss]

happy pride month

[msriri030]

UGD: Crime and Punshiment

💬A/n: I had decide to this old-shot ( Underground Devil) in a series. I had working it for awhile since I really don't plan beside going as i go. I hope I will be able to great Apocalypse Au. Magdalene is an OC, not is canon!

🦝Summary: After being blamed for Magdalene’s death, you spiral into guilt and despair, nearly taking your own life. Her mother’s harsh words leave a deep wound—but also awaken a darker purpose. As you grieve, your sorrow turns to vengeance. You vow to kill the black-winged angel you hold responsible.

☢️disclaimer: This is base on a 18+ game, You and Him, belonging to @you-and-him . It is an amazing that holds at lot secret to be told. Please Play and Share on itch.io. Minor Don't Interact.

Saffron soared through the empty sky, the clouds parting around him in reverence or fear—perhaps both. In his arms, wrapped in layers of sacred silk and sealed in wax marked with crimson symbols, was the item his Lord had requested. His grip was steady, though his chest trembled. Delivering it was not a duty. It was a test.

He descended slowly toward the chapel perched in the heart of the city—a gothic crown of stone and stained glass that rose defiantly against the skyline. The streets below were abandoned, the windows shuttered. No one dared linger near this place. Not when he was inside.

Saffron’s boots touched the ground with a quiet grace, the wind from his landing stirring dust and dead leaves. His radiant wings folded behind him, drooping low—not in exhaustion, but submission.

He pushed open the heavy chapel doors and stepped into the silence, the stale incense-filled air clinging to his skin. Each footfall echoed, solemn and heavy, as he walked down the aisle, flanked by rows of empty pews, abandoned prayers, and unseen eyes. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

When he reached the final step before the sanctuary—he stopped.

He wasn’t allowed beyond it.

Because He stood there.

The Lord. The Savior. God.

Saffron fell to his knees without hesitation, bowing low, his wings spreading out along the marble like offerings. He shivered as the air changed—a shift in pressure, a flare of something ancient and absolute. A rush of heat swept over his skin as massive, burning wings unfurled behind the altar, casting an enormous shadow across the chapel’s walls.

A single golden feather drifted down, curling gently to the floor in front of him.

Then—the voice. A velvet blade. Sickeningly sweet. All-consuming.

“Saffron,” God purred from above, voice echoing like a choir stitched with menace, “did you bring what I asked for?”

His breath hitched. His heart pounded. He dared not look up.

“Y-Yes, God…” 

As Saffron peeled back the layers of sacred silk, the air grew thick with incense and rot. The cloth—stitched with gold thread and sealed in wax bearing ancient, blood-colored sigils—unraveled like a prayer coming undone. Beneath it lay the offering.

A severed head.

Its skin, once alive with warmth, now sagged with decay—flesh peeling like wet parchment, mottled green and gray. Red hair clung stubbornly to the skull in damp, brittle tufts. The mouth was half-open, teeth yellowed and broken. Its eye sockets were hollow pits, dark and bottomless, yet somehow still watching. Waiting. Remembering.

God’s eyes glinted—not with pity, but purpose.

He stepped forward with divine calm, robes whispering against the marble floor. Then, slowly, he knelt. And with hands forged from stars and blood, He cupped the rotting head in His palms, as if lifting a newborn from the womb. His thumbs gently brushed the ruined temples, and He breathed in the scent of death without flinching.

A father cradling a child.

A god cradling a weapon.

“My lost sheep,” He murmured, voice deep and coiled with ancient power. “So far you wandered. So long you were buried in filth and silence.”

The air around them seemed to hum, the symbols on the cloth glowing faintly.

“But I have not forgotten you,” He continued, pressing His brow to the corpse’s. “You were always mine. And now… I will remake you in my image.”

He lifted the head higher, light flaring behind Him like a false dawn. His smile widened, slow and cruel, as divinity poured from His voice.

“You will rise. You will serve Me. And in My name, you will slaughter every devil who dares speak against My kingdom.”

The silence that followed was reverent. Heavy. Sacred.

And then… the head twitched.

At first, it was a faint shiver—like a fly brushing against spoiled meat. Then came the unraveling. The rotten flesh bubbled and hissed, melting off the bone in slick, black sloughs. A low cracking sound echoed through the chamber as the skull repaired itself—seams knitting, fractures sealing.

Saffron stepped back.

Layer by layer, sinew crawled across the bone like vines reclaiming a ruin. Muscles pulsed and stretched into place, veins threading beneath translucent skin. Hair—once sparse and matted—sprouted anew in chestnut waves, curling down the back of a neck still glistening with afterbirth-like sheen. Eyes opened last—dull, hazel and dopey with confusion. They blinked slowly, like a newborn catching light for the first time.

The creature—reborn, yet disappointingly slight—sat up on trembling arms, breathing in short gasps. They were smaller than God had imagined. Narrow-shouldered, lean. Fragile.

They stared at their freckled hands, trailing their gaze across their naked form, bewildered—almost childlike.

God tilted His head, eyes gleaming with cruel affection. He smirked, savoring the moment as he always did. There was something He loved in this vulnerability, in watching divinity press itself into imperfect vessels.

Saffron looked, lips curled in wonder at his master. This—this unholy birth—was always amazing to watch.

Then came the scream.

It tore from the reborn angel’s lungs with no warning—raw, wet, animalistic. They clutched their abdomen, then their sides, then their back as the pain hit like divine lightning. Their bodies jerked forward, forehead slamming into the polished floor. Hands clawed at the stone as they writhed, shrieking.

Then their spine arched—bones popping, tendons stretching too far. The skin on their back bulged. Split. And with a sickening crack—two wings burst forth.

Crimson.

Feathered.

Soaked in blood.

They unfurled like banners of war, tearing open the fragile skin and leaving deep, pulsing wounds in their wake. Blood gushed from their shoulder blades, dripping down to the marble like wine poured at an altar.

The angel sobbed through gritted teeth, body convulsing as the wings spasmed behind them, trying to find balance.

God stepped closer, voice soft and cruel. “Shh… Let it break you. That’s how you’ll be remade.”

The new angel’s screams echoed long after the transformation was done—echoed off the chamber walls like a hymn twisted in agony.

God stepped forward, his feet echoing softly across the polished obsidian floor, the blood still steaming beneath his soles. He crouched before the trembling creature—this fragile, ruined thing clutching its ribs and whimpering beneath the weight of its own new existence.

Their red wings twitched behind them, feathers crooked and glistening with fresh gore. The angel—no, the infant of His will—lifted their head slowly, eyes dazed, wide, still blurred by pain and raw confusion.

God cupped their face gently, thumb brushing away the blood streaking down their cheek.

He smiled—a grotesque, paternal thing, full of pride and menace.

Then he leaned in, lips close to their ear, and whispered with delighted finality:

“Your name will be Lucy.”

He chuckled softly, the sound echoing through the hallowed chamber like bells tolling at a funeral.

“Lucy,” he repeated, savoring it. “My bright one. My little dawn. You will be my flame… the first of many. You will show them the mercy I never promised.”

The angel blinked, lips trembling.

Saffron turned away, jaw tight, refusing to watch the naming of another holy monster out of jealousy.

—

The moon was full, casting a pale, silvery glow over the city and flooding through the floor-to-ceiling window behind Adam. Its light painted the rooftop in cold luminescence, bathing him in ethereal white. He stood still, barefoot on the cracked concrete, a cold wind brushing against his skin—but he felt nothing. Just a sharp, hollow sense of disorientation.

This was his building. Wasn’t it? It looked like it. The layout. The rooftop rail. The faded mural of a phoenix curling along the wall. But something was… off.  Wrong in a way he couldn’t name.

Then he heard it. 

A voice—distant and haunting—singing from somewhere deep within the building. It drifted up like mist through the stairwell, soft and eerie, laced with a sorrow that wrapped around his bones. A song he almost recognized.

Drawn by it, Adam moved. Slowly, like a man sleepwalking through someone else’s dream. He pushed open the rusted rooftop door and stepped into the stairwell.

The halls were long and narrow, choked in shadows. Fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and flickered uselessly. As he descended through the building, he passed through corridors lined with decay.

Rotting corpses slumped against the walls—some with hollowed eyes staring blankly into the void, others crumpled in twisted positions that spoke of agony, of fingernails clawed bloody against peeling concrete in a final, desperate attempt to escape. The air was thick with mildew, decay, and the coppery tang of long-dried blood.

Broken furniture littered the hallways—splintered chairs, shattered glass, overturned filing cabinets. A child’s rusted tricycle sat half-buried in dust, its front wheel still faintly spinning. The silence was suffocating, broken only by that soft, distant melody—the eerie hum of a song floating up through the stairwell, delicate and haunting.

Adam scoffed under his breath, wings twitching behind him in agitation. That voice. Sweet, lilting. Too familiar. He clenched his fists and moved forward, a heavy weight building in his chest. He had to find out who was singing—and why that voice seemed to pull something ancient and aching from within him.

He pushed through the crumbling double doors at the end of the corridor, expecting to step into the ruinous cityscape he’d always known—abandoned buildings, crumbling concrete, shadows where life had once breathed.

But instead…

An endless field of white roses stretched before him, swaying gently beneath the moonlight like an ocean of snow. The wind rustled through the petals, sending a soft hush across the field like a lullaby. The world felt untouched—sacred, almost.

Adam’s violet eyes widened in shock. Then narrowed in rage.

Because there—at the center of it all—you stood.

You.

The devil with a voice like honey and a smile like a sin. Singing. Spinning in the flowers as if the world wasn’t ashes behind you. Blissfully unaware—or perhaps pretending to be.

He bared his teeth.

Black wings flared behind him as his fury rose. His amethyst hair whipped around his face like a storm as he dove through the air and slammed into you, knocking you to the soft earth.

“I got you, Devil,” he snarled, panting. His hands pinned your wrists above your head. “I’m going to kill—”

But the words choked in his throat.

You were bare. Vulnerable. Glowing in the moonlight like a fallen star, skin kissed with silver light, curves softened by shadow. And your eyes—those eyes—didn’t fear him. They welcomed him. Warm. Knowing. Undeniably you.

A soft hum escaped your lips as your fingers rose, trembling slightly, and cupped his cheek. “Kill me, Adam?” you murmured, your voice silk and fire, your breath brushing his lips. “I thought we could have fun.”

He shuddered. His breath hitched like you’d pressed a blade to his ribs—but it wasn’t pain that gripped him. It was wanted. Pure and unfiltered.

You leaned in, closing the space between you inch by inch, your lips ghosting just near his—close enough to taste the tension but cruel enough not to break it.

Adam trembled above you. His muscles locked, trembling with restraint. His heart thundered like war drums in his chest, and still, he couldn’t look away. You slid your hand slowly, deliberately, up his chest—feeling the rigid line of his body, the warmth bleeding through his skin, the way he swallowed hard beneath your touch.

His wings stretched behind him, fully unfurled now, dark and wide and shaking. A helpless display of instincts he couldn’t deny. Betrayal by his own body. His own desire.

He hated you.

He hated he wanted you.

So why couldn’t he pull away?

Your lips hovered near his—close enough for the heat of your breath to ghost across his skin, for the electric tension to buzz in the air like a storm waiting to break. You tilted your head, brushing against him—not a kiss, not yet. Just a whisper of what was coming. A cruel invitation.

And he didn’t stop you.

He didn’t move.

You kissed him—and as your lips met, the once-pure white rose at your feet bled crimson, its petals darkening beneath the weight of that kiss, an unspoken promise being broken.

And he groaned—deep, involuntary, like the sound had been dragged from his ribs. His hands, once rigid with fury, shifted lower, curling around your hips with a grip that was no longer violent but needy, grounding himself in the warmth of you. He didn’t push you away.

He pulled you closer.

Your bodies pressed together, heat blooming where skin met skin. The soft drag of your bare chest against the fabric of his tunic made his breath stutter. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he arched slightly toward you—like your touch undid something ancient inside him.

His lips moved over yours, slow at first, unsure—then deeper, hungrier. He kissed you like a man trying to forget who he was, like he wanted to lose himself in the press of your mouth, the shape of your body beneath his.

Your legs shifted, wrapping loosely around his waist, and he faltered—his body shuddering with restraint, his hips pressing forward just enough to feel the friction and regret it instantly.

He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

“This is wrong,” he breathed, though his voice was hoarse and far from convincing. His wings trembled around you, twitching in response to every inch of contact, every breath you stole from him.

“But it doesn’t feel wrong, does it?” you whispered, your fingers trailing down to the base of his wings, slow and deliberate. “Not when you’re touching me like this.”

His grip on your hips tightened as he exhaled hard through his nose. He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the heat coiling low in his stomach, the ache of tension radiating through every muscle.

You shifted beneath him again, teasing, and he cursed under his breath. His whole body felt wound too tight, like one more movement would break him.

Because at that moment, Adam didn’t feel like a warrior of God.

He felt like a man—starving, desperate, and undone by the one thing he was told to destroy.

You.

“I... I don’t even know your name, you filthy sinner,” he groaned, breath hitching as he tried to regain control, trying to remember why he was here, what he was supposed to be. His grip trembled, not from weakness—but from the betrayal of his own desire.

You tilted your head, lips brushing his ear like a secret. “Me?” you purred, voice velvet and poison. “Were you the reason for HER death?”

A cruel smirk curled your mouth as your gaze slid—not at him, but behind him.

Adam’s blood turned to ice.

He followed your eyes, twisting just enough to look—

And saw her.

Her.

She stood over you both, skin burnt and stretched too tight, her eyes bloodshot and roaring with unspeakable rage. Her mouth trembled. Her hair clung to her face in damp, matted strands. An unknown, viscous liquid dripped from her fingers—one drop landing on Adam’s cheek with a sickening splatter.

Cold. Sticky. Metallic.

His breath seized.

He turned back to you—but you were gone.

Only cold earth beneath him now. The warmth, the temptation, the soft invitation of your body vanished like smoke.

Before he could sit up, the woman lunged.

Her hands—bone-white and impossibly strong—clamped around his throat. She slammed him to the ground, the air crushed from his lungs in a single, violent impact.

He gasped, clawing at her wrists, but she didn’t budge.

She leaned close, and the raw, animal grief in her face shattered something deep within him. Her eyes were a storm—wild, unblinking, full of memories that bled like open wounds. Then her mouth opened wide in a wordless, feral scream—a sound so primal, so drenched in loss and betrayal, it split the night in two like thunder tearing through glass.

The ground shook violently, spiderweb cracks racing across the field of white roses, their petals flung into the air like ash. A bitter wind rose, cold and merciless, howling through the dreamscape like a banshee. The roses bent and tore, rotting away.

Adam’s wings flared wide, a reflex, desperate—but futile.

He was pinned, her hands burning cold as stone around his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. His pulse pounded in his ears like a war drum.

And then, she spoke—low, guttural, and trembling with rage.

“Why, Adam, why! You betrayed me!!”

Her voice was the echo of a soul unraveling.

Adam began to cry, tears streaming down his face. He gasped through the tightening grip, his voice cracking into raw, broken sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—please—please forgive me—”

But she shook her head slowly, her bloodshot gaze unwavering.

“No.” Her voice was colder now. Final. “It’s not enough anymore.”

And with a sickening twist—she snapped his neck.

A crack. Sharp. Wet. Final.

—

Adam screamed as he jolted awake.

He sat upright in his nest, drenched in sweat, clutching his head, his fingers tangled in violet strands of hair. His breath came in ragged, uneven sobs as the phantom pain of her hands still lingered on his throat.

“Please,” he whispered to the darkness, voice cracked and childlike. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

But there was no answer. Only silence.

He curled into himself, drawing his knees to his chest as his wings folded around him like a broken cocoon. Each feather trembled, rustled by breathless sobs. He shook with the weight of guilt, of memory, of something he couldn’t take back no matter how many nights he begged for it.

And outside, where the moon still hung high—untouched, uncaring—the wind whispered through the cracks like a voice that would never leave him alone.

He couldn’t help but blame you.

If you hadn’t kissed him. If he had killed you instead of your friend. If he had just done what he was made to do...

None of this would’ve happened.

But it didn’t matter now. Not anymore. The guilt had rotted into something darker. More determined. A fire that wouldn’t go out.

He was done waiting.

Done dreaming. Done hoping you’d come back to finish whatever twisted thing you started.

He was going to find you, Devil. Even if he had to crawl into the deepest pit of Hell, Even if he had to burn through every shadow.

He would hunt you down. And this time, there’d be no hesitation.

—

It had only been a few days since Magdalene’s death. But to you, it felt like years.

Her hazel eyes still haunted you—wide, bright, and full of gratitude in the final seconds before the light faded from them. She’d looked at you like you were her last comfort, like somehow… dying with you near made it okay.

You buried your face in your hands, sobbing quietly. The guilt was suffocating.

It was your fault.

You knew how dangerous it was outside. You knew angels were hunting. And still, you convinced her to come along—chasing a stupid idea of fun, of nostalgia, of pretending for one night that the world wasn’t broken.

Now she is dead.

Slaughtered.

By an angel’s hand. A holy executioner with wings like onyx and a voice like cold steel. You’d run. Magdalene hadn’t made it.

Her laughter echoed in your ears—soft and silly as she twirled in that white laced dress she found in an old mall. She’d sung that tune… the one from before, from when the world still had music and holidays and slow mornings. You could still hear the melody in your bones.

Now all that remained was silence. And regret.

You lay in bed like a corpse, unmoving, blank-eyed, your body curled tight with grief. The walls felt too close. Your skin felt wrong. Everything ached.

Then came the voice—harsh, slurred, and jarringly loud.

“(Y/N)! Get your ass up…Don’t tell me, You are dead? Even if I wish for it since your parent’s death.” She murmured under her breath, counting "Well get up anyway—I need you to run some goddamn errands in the market.”

A bottle clunked against the doorframe as your Aunt Ruth staggered into view, bleary-eyed and reeking of cheap gin. Her makeup was smeared, and the strap of her robe hung off one shoulder. She looked like a caricature of resentment and hard years—but worse, she looked amused.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She sighed exaggeratedly, leaning on the doorframe with a hiccup. “Oh, don’t give me that pitiful silence. Life sucks. She died. So what? That’s how it goes.”

You flinched—just the faintest twitch—but it was enough.

Aunt Ruth’s smirk widened. “Good. You’re still breathing. That means you can still carry shit. Now come on. We’re out of cigarettes, and I need some rum.”

Her voice was coarse, the words dropping like stones in the cold hush between you, each one loaded with expectation and contempt.

You rose slowly, every movement hollow. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your feet, groaning like the memory of broken glass—echoes of every shattered bottle and slurred insult Aunt Ruth had ever hurled your way. You had learned long ago that defiance wasn’t tolerated in her house. It was punished.

Still dazed, you dressed and slipped out of your living quarters, slipping a knife into your coat pocket before stepping into the dim corridors of the underground bunker. The air was thick with rust, dust, and the damp scent of old concrete. Fluorescent lights overhead buzzed weakly, their flickers casting long, trembling shadows.

People passed you by—some heading toward the communal social quarter, clutching worn ration bags or crumpled cigarette packs, ready to barter for a moment of numbness. You held your own handful of scavenged junk—nothing essential, just what little you could offer in trade.

Then it happened.

A fist slammed into your face.

Your head snapped back, vision flashing white. The floor met you hard, and you crumpled, your breath ripped from your lungs. Pain bloomed across your face, warm and wet. Blood filled your mouth. The sharp taste only made the world spin faster.

Shouts followed. A commotion. Hands pulling someone back.

You blinked through the blur, the world tilting until your eyes locked on her.

Magdalene’s mother.

Your heart dropped.

Two peacekeepers were dragging her back, arms trembling as she fought against them, her face twisted with sorrow and rage. Her voice was cracked and raw—each word hurled like a stone from the deepest pit of grief.

“Why!?” she screamed. “Why did she have to die!? Why did you let her go out there?! She wasn’t yours to lose—but you took her anyway!”

You couldn’t breathe. Your ears rang.

“She was my baby,” she sobbed, her entire body shaking in their grip. “So why—why couldn’t it have been you?!”

The corridor fell into silence except for her broken breathing and the humming lights above. The blow she landed was nothing compared to the one that came after.

Your legs barely worked as you rose. Blood smeared down your chin as you wiped your nose with your sleeve, still on the verge of collapse.

And then you walked toward her.

Your knees buckled halfway.

You fell at her feet—collapsing like a worthless sinner, sobbing with the weight of a thousand sleepless nights and guilt you couldn’t bury. The noise you made wasn’t quite human. It was raw. Animal.

“Can I still be forgiven if I kill myself?” you choked, each word scraping your throat raw. “Would that make it right? Would that be enough to bring her back?”

You reached into your pocket with trembling hands. The cool metal of the knife was suddenly in your grip. You raised it to your throat.

“If I turn it on myself..If I even it out—can I ever be pardoned for her death?!”

The blade hovered. Your hand trembled. You couldn’t even look away from her now. You wanted her answer more than air, more than mercy.

Magdalene’s mother stared at you, frozen, her mouth open but no words coming out. Her fury had faltered, drowned in the tidal wave of your collapse. Her eyes—red, swollen—widened, not with hate this time, but something harder to name.

Grief. Recognition. Maybe even fear.

“Tell me!” you screamed, voice cracking as your throat burned with desperation. “I swear—it was an accident! She wasn’t supposed to die!” Your hand trembled violently, the cold edge of the blade pressed to your neck. Tears streamed down your cheeks, mingling with the blood still trickling from your nose. “Can I still be forgiven if I kill myself?!” you cried, louder this time—louder than the buzzing lights, louder than the murmurs from the crowd.

A blur of movement.

Magdalene’s mother lunged forward.

Before you could react, she ripped the knife from your hand with a force that made your fingers sting. Her grip was iron, her face just inches from yours. You froze beneath her gaze—those grief-stricken, furious eyes burning straight through you.

She leaned in, her breath trembling against your cheek, and whispered coldly:

“No. Suffer the consequence of your actions.”

Then she dropped the knife between you both. The metallic clang echoed in the silence.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because her words didn’t just land—they buried themselves in your chest like a second blade. And somehow… that hurt worse.

You didn’t remember walking back. You didn’t remember the startled looks from the vendors or the way your own feet dragged like they weren’t yours anymore.

You only remembered the silence.

The kind of silence that screams.

Somewhere along the way, Aunt Ruth must’ve passed you in the corridor. You vaguely remembered her grabbing the trade items from your limp arms—rum, smokes, whatever else you’d scraped together—and muttering something like “‘Bout damn time you pulled your weight.” But her words sounded so far away. Like they were happening to someone else.

Your hands were shaking.

Your knees buckled the moment your door shut behind you.

You fell into your room like a puppet with its strings cut—no grace, no sound, just dead weight. You stumbled to the edge of your cot and collapsed. Your arms felt too heavy to lift. Your blood still crusted your upper lip and chin, staining the collar of your shirt.

The walls of your room blurred as tears welled up again—hot, fast, bitter.

You clutched the threadbare sheet, squeezing it into your fists so tightly your knuckles turned white. The fabric twisted under your fingers, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

You needed to scream. You opened your mouth, trembling—

Nothing came out.

Your throat seized. Your lungs burned like you were drowning in air. Your chest heaved with the weight of grief and guilt, of shame and sorrow so deep it felt biblical. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe.

You curled in on yourself, forehead pressed into the mattress as your whole body trembled. You rocked slowly, silently, like a child too far gone to be soothed.

The sound of your heartbeat filled your ears—too loud, too fast. Her face. Her voice. Her mother’s voice. “Why couldn’t it have been you?” “Can I still be forgiven?” “No.” “Suffer.”

The word echoed like thunder in your skull.

You clawed at the bedding, as if tearing it could tear away your sins too. You wanted to scream until your lungs bled. You wanted to dig your fingers into your skin and pull it all out—every trace of what you’d done. Every stupid, thoughtless mistake that had cost a life.

Her life.

You pressed your face into the sheets and sobbed—deep, wrenching sobs that scraped your insides raw. You bit down on the blanket to muffle the noise, but it only made it worse. Every breath felt like penance.

You weren’t crying for forgiveness anymore.

You knew you didn’t deserve it.

You cried because you were still here… And she wasn’t.

Because you were still breathing. And she was cold in the dark.

And nothing—not a thousand apologies, not a blade to your own throat—could fix that.

Not now. Not ever.

Your breathing slowed—but only just. The ache in your chest still throbbed like a bruise that would never heal. But something else had started to burn beneath the surface. Something colder. Sharper. Meaner.

It wasn’t forgiveness you wanted anymore.

It was revenge.

You sat up slowly, wiping the blood and snot from your face with the sleeve of your shirt. Your eyes stung, but you didn’t cry again. Not now. The weight of sorrow hadn’t gone—it had just changed. Hardened. Like molten grief cooling into a blade.

You remembered him. The angel with the black wings.

His sneer. His arrogance. That twisted mockery of divine justice as he looked down at you, as if her life was just collateral damage in some war you never asked to be part of.

He had taken Magdalene. And now… he would pay.

You swung your legs over the side of your cot and stood. Your legs wobbled from exhaustion, but your rage held you steady. You reached into the crack between your mattress and the wall, pulling out the second knife—sharper, slimmer, silent. You ran your thumb along the edge. It cut a clean red line.

Good.

You stared down at your reflection in the blade. Still here. Still breathing. And now—hunting.

You wouldn’t beg again. You wouldn’t break. You would find him. And when you did?

You would be the one with wings dipped in blood.

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