#ler abel

Abel had always been everything Adam refused to be.

Where Adam was hard and unyielding, Abel was gentle. Thoughtful. Soft in ways Heaven rarely celebrated. He could be timid at times, yes—but every ounce of bravery he had, he spent on the people who needed it most. On hope. On the belief that Heaven and Hell didn’t have to be enemies. That change, redemption, and compassion weren’t weaknesses.

Y/N embodied that belief.

A sinner redeemed. Someone Abel should have, by all heavenly standards, kept at arm’s length. But he couldn’t. He didn’t even try anymore. Every time Y/N smiled at him, every time they sought him out for comfort or conversation, he felt something warm and overwhelming bloom inside of him.

And lately, whenever they sat together, Abel found himself watching them more than the world around him.

Today was no different.

They sat side by side in the Garden of Eden, the true one—untouched, untouched by time or human hands since the Fall. Eden was peaceful in a way that felt impossible for both Heaven and Hell. Holy light filtered through enormous fruit trees, gilding the air with golden dust. Flowers glowed faintly where they grew, and a gentle breeze stirred the leaves, humming a lullaby older than the Earth itself.

Y/N sat with legs tucked beneath them, eyes wide in quiet wonder. They looked like Eden had been made just for them.

Abel didn’t look at the scenery. He looked at them.

Y/N’s awe made him ache. How could someone so pure-hearted have ever been condemned? How had Hell claimed them when Heaven should have held them tight?

His breath caught as they turned their head and their eyes met his. There was a softness there—an unspoken warmth—that pulled his heart forward even before he consciously leaned in.

“Abel…?” Y/N whispered, voice barely above the rustling leaves.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He closed the distance slowly, giving them time to pull away. They didn’t. Their breath hitched softly. Abel’s hand trembled as it hovered near their cheek. His heart thundered like it was trying to escape his ribs.

He leaned in—

“ABEL!”

The spell shattered like glass dropped on marble.

Lute stormed into the garden with sharp, echoing footsteps. Her face was twisted in disgust, wings drawn high with righteous fury.

Abel whipped around, startled. Y/N flinched as if struck.

Lute’s eyes narrowed. “Your father would be horrified by you.” Her voice was venom in silk. “Getting close to a sinner? Touching one? Adam would be disgusted by the sight alone.”

Y/N froze, their posture curling inward. Shame—old, familiar, suffocating—washed over their features as they dropped their gaze to the grass. The brightness in their eyes dimmed instantly, replaced with that wounded look Abel hated more than anything.

Something inside Abel broke.

He stood up—slowly, deliberately—and turned toward Lute with a steadiness she had never seen in him. His wings unfurled in a sharp, protective arc as he stepped between Lute and Y/N.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. His voice trembled with anger he rarely allowed himself to show. “Don’t you ever speak to them like that.”

Lute scoffed. “I’m reminding you of your bloodline. Your father’s legacy—"

“I am not my father!”

The entire garden echoed with his shout. Birds startled into the sky. Light pulsed like a heartbeat through the trees.

Abel’s hands balled into fists. He stepped forward until Lute instinctively backed up.

“My father ruled through cruelty. Fear. Judgment.” His voice wavered, but not from uncertainty—from conviction. “I refuse to be like him.” He glanced back at Y/N—small, folded in, trying to disappear. “And I will never let anyone make them feel unworthy again. Not even you.”

Lute’s expression twisted in outrage. “This is a mistake you’ll regret.”

“No,” Abel said firmly. “The only mistake is listening to you.”

She stormed out of Eden in a swirl of feathers and fury.

As soon as she was gone, Abel rushed back to Y/N and knelt before them. Gently, he placed a hand under their chin and lifted, urging their eyes to meet his.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice breaking into tenderness. “Don’t listen to her. You are not filthy. You are not unworthy. You’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re everything good I’ve ever known.”

Y/N’s lips trembled. “But she’s right. I’m—”

“No.” Abel cupped their face with both hands. “You’re not what she called you. You’re kind and brave and so, so important to me.”

Y/N didn’t lift their head. Their shoulders were shaking. It made something in Abel twist painfully.

He had to fix this. He had to.

So he thought of the one thing that always brought light back into Y/N’s eyes. Something gentle. Familiar. Safe.

His smile turned mischievous—a rare spark that only Y/N ever saw.

“Well,” he said softly, “if my words aren’t cheering you up…”

Y/N blinked, confused. “Abel…?”

He wiggled his fingers.

“Then I guess,” he said, leaning closer, “…I’ll just have to use… emergency measures.”

Y/N gasped, realizing too late.

“Abel—no—!”

He pounced.

His hands slid to their sides, scribbling playfully, and Y/N burst into startled laughter, falling back into the soft Eden grass. Abel followed, hovering over them, gently but persistently tickling until their tears of sadness melted into breathless giggles.

“Ab—Abel! S-stop—!” they squeaked, half laughing, half breathless.

“Never,” he beamed. “Not until I see that smile again.”

Y/N squirmed, kicking lightly, laughter spilling uncontrollably. Abel eased up whenever they needed air, then resumed with feather-light teases along their ribs or pokes beneath their arm, each time earning another burst of joyful sound he cherished more than heavenly choirs.

The garden filled with laughter—pure and untainted.

When Y/N finally collapsed back, breathless and smiling, Abel rested above them, bracing himself with hands on either side of their head. He looked down at them with so much affection it glowed brighter than the Eden light.

“See?” he whispered. “Much better.”

Y/N’s cheeks were pink. “You’re impossible…”

Abel grinned softly. “Only for you.”

He leaned closer, heartbeat steady now, resolved.

“Who cares what my father would think?” he murmured. “Who cares what anyone says?” His forehead rested gently against theirs. “I choose you. I always will.”

And then he kissed them—slow, tender, full of everything he’d been holding back for far too long.