#and i don’t have the patience or desire to go back over the structurally sound patch just to make it look ~pretty~

[j-esbian]

i know it’s been said a thousand times but i’m real tired of fast fashion clothes made out of tissue paper

[lupically]

#F40B32 | RYOMEN SUKUNA.

genre | light fluff, light angst, very faint romance undertone 

word count | 2616

warning | mention of death, mention of injury, mention of killing, decapitation 

note | i just wanted to try my hand at writing for a villain that is obviously irredeemable in a semi-realistic way.

what happens when you are irredeemable? you will fall in love anyway.

but ryomen sukuna wasn't in love with you. after all, he had killed you one too few times to claim that he was in love with you.

the first time he killed you was out of instinct. you were an intruder touching his soul the way mahito did, except you barged in without any malicious intention. he had gazed over your fallen body with mild interest then; a mere mortal, yet you emerged from thin air into his locked tight domain without dying?

the second time he killed you was a choice. he gave you not a minute to explain yourself, even though you had wasted the minute asking questions about his identity and the skull-filled area instead of giving him any valuable information about yourself. he had been fed up, he was never a man of patience, so he killed you with a wave of his hand and returned to his dull life alone on his throne.

the third time he killed you—he did not kill you. there was no third time; people liked to say the third time's charm but sukuna believed no such superstition. he killed you twice already and each time, you came back unscathed, both your body and your memories. whether he liked it or not, killing you for the third time would do neither you nor him any benefit, so he kept you alive.

you were afraid of him. he could tell, and he meant for things to be that way until he realized it served as a misfortune on his part. in order to understand this mystery—your sudden appearance into his domain, as well as your inability to leave it and his inability to kick you out—he has to gain some piece of information about you, but you were too shaken up from being murdered to talk to him at all.

sukuna's patience was reaching a breaking point and he thought about torturing it out of you, but he understood that humans are fragile, way more fragile than your typical jujutsu sorcerer. he could accidentally kill you and you would return with no scars and more unwilling to converse with him than before. then it was the waiting game all over again.

he wasn't planning on going through such a dull ordeal again, so he left you be and waited for you to calm yourself down.

the first time you talked to him, you asked him a question.

"are you going to kill me?" you asked him.

sukuna peered down at you from his throne. small, frightened, curled into a ball with no desire to touch the skeletons at his feet, but you looked up at him out of politeness.

he scoffed, displeased. "no, but i always can."

the second time you talked to him, it was to exchange a brief introduction.

"ryomen sukuna," he hummed curtly then he nudged his chin toward you. "your turn."

you shuffled up to your knees and sat down on your heels. your fingers fidgetted at your lap as you timidly peered up at his tattooed, disinterested expression.

"[full name]," you said with a nod, unable to meet his eyes. "nice–nice to meet you, sukuna-san..."

the third time you talked to him, you flinched.

"ma–may i ask you two questions... if i can...?" you asked, for the first time standing up to face him directly.

sukuna leaned away from his propped-up arm. after taking a better look at you, accessing your figure analytically despite having seen you move around slowly for days already, he shoved his hands into the sleeves of his robe and he suddenly jumped down from his throne to stand before you.

you pursed your lips nervously over his looming figure, face heating up with terrible anxiety while your eyes darted down to the watery ground. oh, his presence has been so overwhelmingly deadly that you forgot your white tennis shoes were stained red and your pastel ankle socks remained wet. you did not dare to complain, not even in your head.

"i'll allow it," he said.

"where am i?" you quickly asked.

"an innate domain," he replied.

you have questions, but you decided not to ask. you only nodded after breathing out a soft sigh to calm your nerves. this man constantly sounded condescending, he was kicking open your comfort zone without actively doing anything that would make you uncomfortable.

"okay..." you said, "thank you."

"aren't you going to ask me another question?" he stated with a raise of his brow. "you wanted to ask me two questions."

you gulped, blinking hopelessly at the air as a grimace appeared on your face. "the first question was if i can ask you two questions, and the second one is about where i am... so that makes two."

oh, a meticulously cautious one, and somewhat humorous too he would give you that. sukuna scoffed loudly, but it was less out of annoyance and more out of disbelief of your incredible dullness. however, as plain as you were, he has grown accustomed to your presence; the scent of fear that bounced off of you and the fact that he cannot kill you at will.

"you must be dying to know what this place is, are you not, you brat?" sukuna asked.

when he saw the flashes in your eyes, he knew he had you down through and through. all you were was but someone who was too afraid to say what they want, which was just as he expected from you. you wouldn't cause him trouble, you never could.

reaching his hand out of his sleeve, he stayed silent despite seeing the way you flinched with your eyes shut at his raised hand. his movement had been slow, but that was an involuntary response, an instinct that he didn't craft into you. he wondered what it was.

"you can ask me three more questions," he said as he pushed the heel of his palm against the curve of your head. he was gentle at first, then he clamped his hand down on your head as he bent his waist to meet your eyes. he laughed. "i'll allow it."

he could keep you here. he has no choice but to keep you here, and he would kill you once he realized he has the ability to. but for now, perhaps he could act a little civil, something like a human being but one that people would hate to the core.

except he was met with a little obstacle in the way, which was that you were no bad company.

the first time sukuna gained a liking toward you was when you asked him a peculiar question.

"sukuna-san," you called one time when there was only silence within the innate domain.

you sat on a bed of skulls, one that you tentatively asked the king of curses to make you so you wouldn't have to lean on the rib-cage structure and sit in water for slumber.

he denied it at first. calling you names and threatening you about ever requesting something from him—a bed in his domain? fucking atrocious. but your insomnia was killing you; you hated the blood water and your neck burned whenever you wake up having it arched at the worst angle possible.

he did not grow soft. he just made one so he didn't have to watch you sleep in his peripheral vision.

"hmm."

"why do you think curses exist?"

he raised a brow at you. "did i not teach you that before?"

"you did, sorry," you nodded, "then do you believe in god?"

"where the fuck is this coming from, you brat?"

"from where i came, god is good. but from what i am seeing, whether from where i came from or here, everything goes against that value," you muttered loudly as you pulled at your fingers. "cursed spirits harm people. if i can argue that way, i think cursed spirits are harmful within themselves."

"if god is good, and god is real, why would this happen," you said. "why should we feel negative emotions? why do we have the ability to create cursed spirits? why do curses like you exist?"

he furrowed his brows in irritation. have you reduced him to mere curses? have you reduced him to nothing but a brainless being that only takes joy in the suffering of others? no matter how he approached your words, he felt infuriated that you could minimize his importance to simply being a bad person.

he was much more than a bad person, much more than just a pain! he has ideals, he has goals and ambitions, he has wit and strength! he has anger and malevolence and power beyond which your soul could ever contain and endure! he was ryomen sukuna, the strongest curse in a thousand years and more!

he will fucking kill you.

"i'm really glad you're here, though," you finished off softly, an unknowing smile on your face as you rubbed your thumbs weakly together.

he will kill you.

"for a long time, i was told my anger and hatred aren't real. that they don't and should not exist, and i learned to bury them to the ground so they never appear on the surface again," you said, your innocent smile audible to his ears and making his chest twitch with guilt.

"cursed spirits' existence is proof that my negative emotions are real. they may be a problem, but i am not crazy for having them because they're here. they became something, they're here and alive."

he will... he will kill you.

"i just think it's unfair to put the blame on cursed spirits and cursed energy alone when the society's standard guarantees the manifestation of them," you said. "if my anger got out to the world in the form of a monster and it hurt someone, i'll forgive it. i will forgive myself."

he...

"you don't need to hear this, i wish i had your confidence, but i have to say it," you looked up and smiled at him, "i'm a little glad you're here, sukuna-san."

he will kill–he will ki–

the second time, he went stoic.

mahito was too smart for his own good. the first thing he noticed when he entered the soul within yuji's body was the way sukuna has the collar of your shirt clutched in his hand and your body pulled close to his side. it was a glance, he had one small glimpse of you both before he was kicked out of the domain.

your face was riddled with tears—crying, disappointed, and frustrated, but why? for the transfigured human whose name mahito almost forgot, or because sukuna just had one of the most sadistic outbursts you have ever witnessed.

and sukuna, the king, the lord, the almighty—didn't he look annoyed. well, not annoyed, per se. angry, mad, overwhelmed, knowing, protective. very, very, very protective; glowing eyes that glared at mahito's patched up face, fingers that gripped at your shirt so tightly he could rip the fabric apart, an aura that was ready to spit any moment if mahito so much as reach a finger toward your direction.

you meant something to ryomen sukuna. mahito realized that, so the second time he entered the innate domain, he killed you.

right before his eyes, with a cunning and triumphant smile, your neck cracked and your skin broke, and mahito tore your head off just before he was once again beat out of the domain.

sukuna tried to heal you. he tried to seal your head back to your lifeless body, time and time again pushing your decapitated head against your haphazardly cut neck. but his reverse curse technique wasn't healing you. your skin refused to piece itself back together, you refused to come back to him. time passed and he was getting mad, he was going batshit crazy trying to force himself out of this body.

bastard! bastard! bastard! he was supposed to kill you! he was supposed to be the one to kill you! he would murder that patch-faced piece of shit! he would kill mahito! and he would destroy the whole world, light it on fire and kill all that wasn't worthy of his time! he would jump universes, light-years, the bloodstream of the galaxy to find you and bring you back to him. he would—

"sukuna-san, i'm sorry i took a while! i thought you were fighting–holy shit, is that me?"

the third time, sukuna admitted to himself.

"what kind of flowers do you like, sukuna-san?" you asked, voice drowsy and your legs dangling after you climbed on one of the bones of the rib-cage structure.

"why does it matter?" he asked from his throne, eyeing you carefully.

your were a clumsy idiot. you could fall anytime.

"it doesn't, but it's flowers," you mumbled with your chin leaning against the bone, eyes threatening to close. "sukuna... sukuna..."

"what?" he snapped.

"i like lilies, the red ones," you said with a silly grin. "will you visit me when i die? sukuna... will you bring... mmm... bring red lilies..."

he looked ahead. your death; your grave, decorated with red lilies, protected and preserved with his curses. your death—he gritted his teeth. he refused to think about it. it was a waste of time.

or maybe he simply hated the idea of your death.

sukuna has not gone soft. he was irredeemable; a killer, a curse, a tragedy to descend upon mankind. he was not good and he never would be, nor did he ever have the intention to be good.

still, from you, there was proof that he could be more. what was left of his being; his anger and his torture, what was left within the gaps of his hell, the rare softness that once was there, belonged to you now.

you were the vessel that pocketed all that he could potentially become if he wasn't born to be ryomen sukuna, a version of him that you have witnessed. within you, there was proof that he did not only exist to hurt people, but also to validate madness and pain, to acknowledge passion in its murderous wakefulness. within you, there was proof that within himself, there are pieces of what it means to be human and alive.

hearing your soft breath, sukuna looked up to find you asleep with your head against the bone. your arms barely supported your weight and you were threatening to fall off as you dozed with faint snores. he stared at you, his fingers twitching, then he finally waved his hand so he could bring you away from the ribcage and to where he sat.

he paid no mind to subtlety when he set you on his lap. his hand supported your back while he kept your head pressed against his shoulder. his other arm went around your body, preventing you from falling off the throne made only for him to sit on. when he was done adjusting to the new sitting position, he relaxed.

brushing the hair away from your face, he stared down at you with disinterest, but his heart pumped and pumped for you to be warm and well, his arms tightened for you to sleep soundly.

"i will bring you all the red lilies you want," he whispered, the back of his finger gliding past your soft cheek. you did not smell like fear when you fall asleep, you did not smell like fear now even when you looked at him. "i will allow myself that."

after all, ryomen sukuna was only fond of you. very, very fond of you. 

[siriusmydeer]

smut req: being risky with sirius in the showers in the locker rooms after his quidditch practice (omg gia im sorry lol)

caught in the act

sirius black x fem!reader

summary: you and sirius get caught in the locker room showers together.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: penetration, pet names, dirty talk, teasing, choking, getting caught, exhibitionism, mentions of voyerism.

a/n: in my catholic school, during math class, writing smut. sounds v gia to me.

“darling, you don’t want us to get caught now d’you?” he crooned into your ear affectionately and in faux-fright as his hand danced around the hem of your skirt that had been pushed up from his needy touch of your skin. his lips previously nipped small marks of blooming red hues at your neck, his presence evident at your short puffs of air and small splotches of red transitioning to violet on your neck by the minute; his tongue previously drawing dainty swirls on the flushed skin under your ear, your whimpers only persuading him to continue in the public area of the gryffindor locker room.

his fingers buried themselves gravely underneath the hem of your black lace underwear, just at the sight of your jutted lip in limited-patience for his warm touch. your flushed-skin feeling the calloused pads of his fingers glide flawlessly through your cunt. the sight of him beating away bludgers belligerently without the bare amount of effort it usually took others was enough to have you clenching your thighs together as you cheered for the gryffindor male.

he caught the hint as soon as your legs crossed whilst he was mid-flight and sirius caught sight of the impatient recurrent bounces of your leg, suddenly taking several missed opportunities to tease you to the point where once he had finally landed you were anxiously clawing at his uniform in the quidditch lockeroom. “ahh— patience puppy.” he began to chastise you at your desirous whines while pulling on the bottom of his vermillion-hued uniform.

“please— i need you.” it was like your small plead was a rapid switch in his creativity-roaming brain, trying to contain every single sound while students chatted amongst each other just outside the locker room. it was almost a guarantee they would hear— at first sirius wanted to refrain for your sake of embarrassment, as you were a prefect, but now all he wanted was to be buried inside you with the whole of hogwarts students who yearningly pinned after you, hearing how he could make you feel at his very decree.

his hand grasped onto the column of your throat, slightly catching you by surprise but before even uttering a word of confusion he hastily placed his lips on your own; his own desperation taking over his clouded mind. without a warning be shot his tongue directly into your mouth, tasting your recurrent mango lipgloss directly onto his tastebuds every time he kissed you— it was familiar like your tongues greeting, similar to old friends, just tremendously more passionate.

the next thing you heard was the clatter of metal, feeling the small tinge of discomfort at first, realizing you were now pinned up against a vermillion locker with sirius’ small scribbling along with smeared ink all over it. your lips that were once melding like glue, and tongues prodding each other were seperated for a moment. at the anxious flick of sirius’ wand, hot water was streaming from the closet shower, the glass fogging up in merely seconds that could slightly cover up your bodies from any peering eyes that could interrupt the both of you.

you both glanced at the other for a moment, his pearl irises hastily gaping on every detailed aspect of your face; your eyes, the creases in your eyebrows, the pout of your lip, it all drove him absolutely mental in the best way possible. his hands now rapidly opening the buttons of your uniform top, as well as your pleated skirt. your own hands nimbly tugging the maroon and gold jumper off of his torso, pausing for a moment to appreciate the sweaty streaks that were glazed onto his clenched and over-worked abdomen from the quidditch practice he had partaken in.

the heavy sound of the water pouring out of the stream that directly landed onto the ivory tiled floor was heard amongst the teenagers heaving breaths as you both rapidly disarrayed each others clothing and made way to place yourself’s under the searing stream of water.

you hair was clinging to the nape of your neck as you were in a familiarly lustful position with your boyfriend, this time under the scorching shower head; sirius’ hand grasped onto your throat yet again, pressing you against the shower wall in the midst of a passionate kiss. the stream gliding through your body’s, chest to chest, without any room between the couple.

the prod of sirius’ prick was felt directly on your inner thigh, taking tutelage of the situation you placed your legs in a lock behind his back— in the direct position you had been desperately aching to be in for the past hour and a half of watching sirius stride through the air effortlessly on his broom, and his uniform sticking to every nook and cranny of his torso showcasing his an structure to every female sat upon the quidditch stands; a tinge of jealousy still remaining from all the girls fawning over your boyfriend.

“you’re sure?” the murmur was barely coherent, but it was still heard from the close proximity that you both had been sharing for the past ten minutes. the vibration of his words directly hitting your pouted lips as he patiently waited in response for your consent to continue. “yes, need you, please.” you confirmed with the anxious shake of your head.

aligning himself he took the tenacity to steadily push himself into the warm walls of your cunt, you body clenched suddenly as he waited for you to adjust to his substantially sized prick inside of you. he waiting for the shake of your head to continue before he took it upon himself to hold you against the wall of the shower and pace himself in the deep walls of your cunt before starting a paced speed before gaining velocity.

pure skin on skin being shared between the two teenagers, the thrilling feeling of adrenaline shared thickly through each other’s kisses running directly through your blood stream like recurrent laps around the quidditch pitch at the mere thought of someone watching sirius claim you for himself in such a public area. the sound of the falling patter of water mixed with the slap of each other’s skin was prominent; the lingering sounds of hoarseful grunts and moans from the rapid pace that was set from the beginning of his thrusts and only continued as he edged you both further to release.

“my desperate little puppy, begging for me.” the mockery of his words had begun, while he thrusted deeply into the walls of your clenched cunt. your brain bleary in pleasure, too distracted by the way he was inside of you too even nod at his words, you could barely even acknowledge his voice; only finding the will to whimper subconsciously as it travelled from the crevices in your throat directly into his ear.

“cant even mumble a word f’me, getting all fucked out are you?” he began to question your unresponsive figure, he knew you couldn’t answer and just further got off on the fact that your only focus was how he euphoric he could make you feel all at once. the squeeze of your neck from his hand, that had remained on your throat, at the sides evidently brought you to where you were as he awaited your response to his mocking words.

“yes— yes i am.” you finally muttered as the quick broil in your belly started to swirl through your bloodstream recurrently like lightning bolts ready to loop around the crevices of your spine and finally ready to spill into the depths of your awaiting cunt.

the twitch in sirius’ cock was predominant as he was close to his release as well after teasing the both of you for such premeditated amounts of time, “gonna cum, gonna finish.” you hummed into the coagulated air, that was dense from the steam of the shower and the arousal that set into the ventilation system, as he pushed one final thrust inside of your trembling figure the squeak of the door rang through your ear like violent alarms bells ringing like someone had stolen one of the most pristine items in the world.

while in the midst of your elated orgasams both overcoming your sweaty bodies being coated in the scorching water of the shower, while the feeling of sirius releasing into you was overcome in arousal. the tinge of fright started to become more prominent as the seconds ticked of whom had just walked in on you and your boyfriend intensely having sex meters away from them.

“sirius? where is he” you heard the familiar whisper of the quidditch captain, james mother fucking potter, the boy who could never shut his trap walk in on you and sirius having sex. he whistled in thought as he padded in around the locker room in a stroll for his best mate. his eyes starting to crease at the clothes scattered across the floor.

you glanced at sirius with wide eyes as the footsteps became more coherent to both your ears, sirius paused at the whistling numb down, his body frozen inside of you as a small skid was heard on the ground and a heavy sigh following.

“sirius, in the showers? really mate?”

taglist: @sirius-animagus @ronbrokemyheart @aricela @kirascottage @five-cups-of-coffee @myloveforluna @abbott27 @hufflepuffsfordraco

just a reminder i have a seperate tag for nsfw so if you wanted to be tagged in nsfw content go check out my taglist in my navigation!

[hoe-imaginess]

red | shigaraki tomura

Shigaraki x hero!soulmate!Reader

Based on two soulmate prompts:

You can only see color when you and your soulmate are touching.

You can’t use your quirk to harm your soulmate. 

word count: 2.4k

a/n: is two soulmate prompts cheating? idk. anyways, this is just some random angst I thought of a while ago, and just recently found in my drafts. probably some typos. pretend not to see it (:

⤰⤰⤰

If there was one thing worse than recruiting weaklings, it was recruiting slackers.

Active enlistment in the criminal world had the unfortunate ramification of attracting the lowest of the lows. The last two miscreants Giran drafted for the League had used the weaponry rationed to them for petty crimes. This included the robbing of a video store. Not just any video store, but one directly down the street from the League’s hideout.

Of course, that was unacceptable.

Shigaraki had little patience for the new recruits to begin with, but it was rapidly extinguished with their hazardous act, along with any leniency he might have had for their punishment. These men had exploited the power Shigaraki gave to them, and worst of all, undermined the League’s legitimacy. The solution to this problem was clear.

Kurogiri offered to dispose of the traitors swiftly and soundlessly, but Shigaraki’s hunger for retribution against these trespassers required a personal effect. And so, Kurogiri transferred Shigaraki to the location. The men were hobbling around in the same alley they’d been found in when Shigaraki emerged from the black vapor’s of Kurogiri’s quirk.

Upon seeing him, the duo went into an indignant frenzy. They knew who he was, and without even needing to ask, without even needing to hear the promises of violence that Shigaraki muttered under his breath, they knew what he was here to do.

The confrontation lasted mere seconds. They were as meek as they were stupid, and neither men were fast enough to counter when Shigaraki grabbed for them. He dispatched the first man with voracious haste, but took his grueling time with the second.

As the man’s sleeve cracked like dried mud, pieces falling to give way to vulnerable flesh underneath, Shigaraki reveled the sight with a sickening smile.

The deteriorating man’s cries of anguish were dreadful: the cries of a man forced to confront his imminent death.

It was a sweet tune of victory to Shigaraki’s ears.

Then, something ruined it.

“Stop!”

At the sound of your voice, Shigaraki glanced over his shoulder, his feverish, red eyes glaring at you from behind Father’s mask.

A hero. A hero on patrol, Shigaraki guessed, seeing that you were fitted in your uniform.

“Put the man down,” you demanded of him, with that confident, entitled authority that heroes enjoyed, and Shigaraki detested.

But Shigaraki granted you the request, not much concerned with revenge, or the man, now that he was soon to be a pile of dirt. Indeed, the minute Shigaraki loosed his grip on the man’s arm, Decay took its freedom in stride and consumed him within seconds. The screams abruptly stopped.

Now it was just you and Shigaraki in the empty alleyway. What had remained of the forgotten men floated away in the light breeze.

Your throat was tight, acid edging its way up the back of your mouth. The scene before you was horrific. Where the distressed man had just been, now remained only dust. And the villain standing over the formless corpses was looking right at you.

Shigaraki didn’t recognize you, didn’t know what your quirk was. But it didn’t matter. He would have killed you anyways, but the fact that you’d just disrupted the recreation of his revenge was all the more reason to do so.

He took a step forward. Not to be daunted, you did the same.

“Stop right there,” you demanded again.

Just another disillusioned display of hero supremacy. Shigaraki had no patience for it.

“Stop,” you commanded, firmer now as his approach went undeterred.

The eery slowness in his gait betrayed the bloodlust he radiated; his fingers twitched with their vitalized hunger for violence, and after you’d seen the carnage those fingers extracted on human flesh, you weren’t about to let your guard down.

In an instant, he was lunging for you. His speed shocked you, and the second you spent activating your quirk for a counter-move was enough time for him to invade your space. Adrenalized fear shot through your limbs, and briefly, you wondered how your quirk might defend against his. But it didn’t matter. You were about to find out.

With surprising agility, he ducked out of the way of your defensive attack, then took hold of your forearm. His quirk descended upon your flesh. The pain registered, and your throat tightened around a cry of alarm—

But then, something in the air between you burst.

Like ripples fanning across a puddle, euphoria extended from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, filling every space inside of you as it invaded your senses.

Shigaraki suffered a similair disturbance. The explosion was almost nauseating. But even more shell-shocking was the world which greeted him once his eyes adjusted.

It first registered in his peripheral: something glaringly present, something striking against his vision—

Was that his hair? 

No, it couldn’t be. 

It didn’t look like his hair. Not the hair he normally saw shrouding his face.

But then he realized it was in fact his hair. His hair, but colored.

It stood out unimaginably stark against the drab schemes of the alley. But then, the alley too found life. Its color came to fruition: a wash of brown along the brick wall, dirtied, beige cement holding the structure together.

Then, from the periphery, the infectious color worked its way to the center of his retina. The kaleidoscope of color that was you hit him in full force. Your outfit, your hair, your face and eyes—your eyes which flicked desperately between his own, and the place where his hand made contact with your skin.

Reminded of his assault, Shigaraki looked to where his digits curled around your forearm, and took in the color of your skin. The color was intervened by another now, deeper and angrier, as fissures broke along your flesh under his Decay. Lines of destruction that had always looked grey in his monochromatic world, like topography on a map, were now imbued with life—with the real, true physical destruction.

But the new life in his vision was momentarily overshadowed by another discovery: you were still alive. Alive, and whole.

He looked again, closer, at the place where his lethal hands gripped your arm. The spread of his Decay was compromised by some unknown force, the destructive lines breaking your skin denied in their desire to consume you completely.

His quirk had been stopped. He couldn’t hurt you.

All of these discoveries happened within seconds, and for a moment, his mind lost its war with rationale. He came as near to speechless as he ever got. While his sense of the world, of its truths and realities, tried to reassert itself, he became ignorant to the dilemma before him, and lost himself in the pleasure of color.

Something suddenly caught his eye, and he glanced downward. 

Were those his shoes beneath him? 

Their vibrant color was the very same as that of the raw sinew that showed itself beneath your flesh, as it cracked away under his quirk—

Red.

That was the name of the color.

He’d heard it before: a way to describe spilt blood. It was blood he was seeing. Your blood.

And the reason he was seeing it, the reason he was granted the gift of this true sight, the reason this contact hadn’t yet ended in your demise—was because you were his soulmate.

Shigaraki pulled away, eyes wide. The color left the world, replaced with the grays he’d endured for a lifetime.

He wondered if breaking contact would elicit Decay to recover its power. His mind raced as he prepared to watch you crumble, to watch you scatter into flakes and blood and organ—

But no. Decay was still obstructed by something unseen. It had damaged you, but refused to do any more than that.

“That’s impossible,” he muttered, almost uncertain if he’d spoken it out loud or not; the fretful shock on your face, and your lack of response, giving no indication.

Apparently, you didn’t even notice the catastrophe his quirk had left on your skin. You merely stared at him, stunned into silence, consuming the same realizations he was.

Then, stirred into an involuntary need to confirm the revelations, to make certain it wasn’t some trick of the mind, you started to move toward him.

It couldn’t be, you told yourself. It couldn’t be him: this villain. It couldn’t be…

Shigaraki knew that you intended to reach out and touch him, your hand shaking as it angled upwards. But before you could make contact, he stepped back, extending his own hand not in an invitation of contact, but as a threat, his palm out and fingers ready to deliver Decay. Useless as it had proven itself to be against you, it was the only sense of control he had in the situation.

“Don’t,” he warned you, his voice weaker than he’d thought it to be.

There was a lump in his throat, centering his confusion and panic, both which spread over him in quick fashion. Mania returned to him like clockwork, a mania he often endured when facing accursed heroes. But he’d never felt it like this. Now there was anger, bewilderment, curiosity, and adrenaline all in one.

Unlike him, you worked through your confusion vocally, sputtering strings of rampant logic.

“But you’re—We—” You shook your head, and your arm moved again, inching up to him, seeking a touch that would give you answers. “We can’t be.”

Distress rushed through Shigaraki and he growled. “I said don’t.”

“It can’t be,” you kept on sputtering. “You’re a —It can’t be.”

A what? A villain? A monster? He dared you to go on. 

But even as his frustrations rose at the implications, Shigaraki concurred. You were a hero. A plague on society. But wasn’t the truth inescapable? Hadn’t that flash of colorful vibrance that nearly stopped his heart been evidence enough? Evidence that you two were fated to each other?

“It can’t be.” You said your mantra again, so close to touching him now. Kill, a voice in his head urged. Kill, kill, kill—

The pad of your finger made feather-light contact with his wrist, and the iridescence reinvented itself without delay.

All the colors that had teased him made themselves known again, bringing with them some disgusting bliss that made his insides curl with warmth. It was a delectable temptation, so overwhelming it made him nauseous.

Your eyes searched him, scrutinizing his colors and imbedding them into memory. An inkling of degradation tugged your brain as you realized the life of color you so desperately reaped was from a villain, one of the worst you’d ever encountered. Only from him would your sole, real taste of reality come.

You both pulled away this time, and the dull world of gray welcomed you like an old friend.

You shuffled back defensively, no colorful heaven able to erase the precarity of the situation. The throbbing, searing pain in your forearm returned, reminding you of the death he’d aspired to bring you.

Shigaraki stared behind Father’s fingers, eyes red and wide.

Kill, the urge came to him again. Kill you. Kill the colors, kill it all.

But he wasn’t sure if he could.

“Get me out of here,” he muttered.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Get me out,” he demanded again, infuriated. “Now.”

And after brief static, Kurogiri’s dutiful voice answered from the other end of the hidden communicator. Shortly after, the promised warp gate opened against the alley wall.

Shigaraki stepped back into its gloomy arch quickly. Realizing that he made to escape, you stepped forward, eager to prevent it.

“Stop,” you pleaded, but not with the antagonistic authority you’d shown before. It was a simple, desperate plea. Shigaraki knew he was leaving you with no less confusion than he felt in his departure, but his mind was scattered, and unable to rationalize this so long as he was in your presence.

Your mouth opened around another fruitless protest, but Shigaraki was already backing into the safety of the hideout, its colorless interior granting him security.

With one last valiant effort, you shot forward to reach for him. Shigaraki stumbled back and hit the floor when you lunged for the portal, but it was too late. The warp gate conjoining you both disappeared, separating you from him for good.

With Kurogiri’s gate officially closed, and you officially out of reach, Shigaraki simply stared at the spot where you’d been eager to touch him just moments before.

He was reminded of his station on the ground when he felt the hard wood on his backside. But he didn’t bother getting up; his muscles refused him.

“Shigaraki Tomura.”

He ignored Kurogiri. He ignored it all, let it fade into the gray banality of the colorless, lifeless world around him. How else could he describe it except lifeless, now that he’d had a taste of the true world?—The colors and their vibrancy?

And what was the price of attaining this world of bliss? Knowing that his fate was tied to you. A hero. The very thing he’d dedicated himself to hate, to kill. You, a hero, his soulmate.

It was disgusting. It was cruel. It was unfathomable.

Kurogiri was saying his name again, but Shigaraki didn’t care. He instead looked down at his body, down his stiff legs to his feet. His gaze remained fixated.

His shoes. What fucking color were his shoes? Red, he knew. But what did red look like? Why couldn’t he fucking remember what it looked like?

Kurogiri’s voice was harsher now, spurred by dutiful compulsion. “If you’re injured you must let me know,” he pleaded.

“What?” Shigaraki answered, voice thin, and lost. “What happened? Are you injured?”

“No.” “Then... why did you retreat?”

Now Shigaraki looked at his hands, the hands that had tried, and failed to kill.

His quirk. His Decay. For once, his touch had bore something other than destruction; it had shown him life.

Years before, when he’d still doubted his purpose in the world, and had yet to fully commit to any ambition besides to survive, learning about the histories of soulmates had been a gratifying discovery. Learning that there might be someone out there that would see him as more than just a destroyer, more than just a wielder of such a deadly power, had inspired hope.

But now, now that he’d all but given up on the idea of a soulmate—ridiculed it, in fact, having seen the optimistic idiocy it swelled through the populace—he wanted no part in it.

He’d always known the idea of a soulmate was baseless; that two people were to be decided for each other by fate.

Fate? What did fate matter?

Only cruel fate, the very same which had left him to suffer under the mantle of false heroes in his youth, would presume to make his soulmate one of those very heroes. Only cruel fate would show him a world of colorful life, but put its key in the hands of the enemy.

And what—he was expected to willingly accept it?

No. That wasn’t his fate. It wouldn’t be. This was no blessing. Tasting the promised world of color wasn’t worth the fretful irony. It was filthy. It was greedy. It was wrong. And he didn’t want it.

However alluring the true world was, however satisfying its colors and exquisite its details, Shigaraki fought the compulsion of its visual pleasure. He wouldn’t be a slave to destiny.

“Send me back,” he suddenly commanded. Kurogiri lingered over him, nervous in his confusion. “Are you sure? But, you asked me—”

“Send me back.”

There was only one way Shigaraki would find resolution. He would have to destroy the unattainable world of color, so he would never be weak to its promise.

And to do that, he would have to destroy you.

[fortisfiliae]

Promised Part 15 - Tom Riddle x reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Masterpost | Masterlist

Summary: In this story, Tom didn’t grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader’s sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Disclaimer: Please be aware that I don’t condone any of this in real life. (GIF is not mine)

A/n: This chapter is written from Tom’s pov. Reader will be addressed in third person.

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 2k

Part 15 - A Dagger for a Devotee

Now that all of the ingredients for the antidote were gathered and added, the potion was as good as finished. It just had to simmer on for a while. If the instructions were correct, it would be finished on June 29th, which was the last day of school. Graduation day. One day before the wedding. 

The wedding. Tom thought about it a lot. It would happen. That, he knew. The plan was to give Elsie the antidote on their wedding day so that she would be completely healed and they could still keep a low profile towards Marvolo and Morfin. Their wish would be fulfilled then, and even if the Gaunts were going to ask for more, they wouldn’t know that Elsie wasn’t under their might anymore. Tom was sure they were going to try to pressure him by threatening to hurt Elsie someday, even when he was married. That was just in their nature. They would never be satisfied.

He wondered how long it would take them to figure out that she had been healed. Weeks, months, years? And how they would react then. Were they going to take out their anger on him? The more he thought about it, the less he cared. He had even fantasised about it if he was honest. That Marvolo would lose his temper and would attack him. Tom had waited so long for an excuse to pay his Grandfather back, his fingers were itching just thinking about it. Oh, the things he would like to do to him were unspeakable and the grin on his face only widened the longer he envisioned them. He would welcome the opportunity with open arms. 

Some nights, when he lay awake and couldn’t just fall asleep yet, Tom wondered if his life would have been different, if he would have turned out to be another person, had he not been brought up by the Gaunts. He didn’t wish for it, like his fiancée had mentioned so often, no, but he still couldn’t help but wonder. Was there a possibility for a different Tom Riddle to exist? One that would live with parents, one that wasn’t as cold and narrow-minded, one that could crack a real good joke to his friends? A funny, warm, kind version of him? His stomach squirmed at the thought. Disgusting. 

He could have turned out like Benjamin Hilt. Merlin’s sake, what a nightmare that would be. To act like him, so loud and bothersome. Head in the clouds, mouth always open and never thinking about any consequences. Hilt had it so easy. But nevertheless, Ben’s attitude was intriguing. Annoying yes, but intriguing. Tom wouldn’t have thought Hilt would be able to keep his muggleborn mouth shut and keep the pact a secret, but he hadn’t told anyone about it yet, as far as Tom was aware. And he didn’t seem to keep his word out of fear, but rather out of belief. Ben wasn’t the type to have deep thoughts, by the looks of it at least, but he had his priorities set. And for that Tom respected him. Everything Ben did seemed to come so easily from within, not wasting one too many thoughts. It was something so deeply ingrained that it must have come naturally. 

He was so different compared to Tom’s friends. Or whatever word one would use for people like Avery, Lestrange and the others. They were nothing more than followers, blind and mindless. They wouldn’t just offer their help to be a good person. They always wanted something in return, even if it was just Tom’s recognition. And he knew, if someone else were to take his place, they would drop him in an instant. Their loyalty was superficial and egoistic. Just as his own. He would drop them too if someone more useful were to show up and solicit themselves. 

That was how it always had been. How he had thought friendships were meant to be. A mutual agreement, quite similar to business. Be polite, make use of a person as much as you can, make sure they’re intimidated enough to keep their knowledge to themselves and wish them well on their way out. Simple, beneficial and most importantly efficient. 

But what his fiancée, Ben and Camille had was so different. He had waited for Camille and Ben to ask for something in return. Weeks had gone by, where he had anticipated for them to come up and ask for a favour. A note from the head boy to get out of detention, or something else. But they hadn’t. They had helped to steal the Banshee tears and were still tending to the potion in the Come and Go Room every day. For nothing? He couldn’t fathom it at first, and only when he thought about it again, it came to his mind that this could be what real friendship was like. 

He didn’t like how much it churned him, how much consideration it had taken to come to this conclusion, when apparently for other people, that was the most natural thing in the world.

Tom obtained a much greater deal of wit than Ben, without a doubt, but yet, Hilt possessed so much more emotional intelligence than Tom could ever dream of. And he was jealous of him. That Ben could just walk through life, listen to his gut and trust that whatever it would tell him would be with good intent. Tom could have made real friends too then. He could have developed that trust to his gut too, if he hadn’t been fed those vicious thoughts by the Gaunts his whole life. He could have even gotten to know a muggle for all he knew, if he hadn’t been told, day after day, how worthless and irrelevant they were. That’s what they had always said. But the Gaunts had lied so often, maybe they had lied about that too. He had believed them for so long that he couldn’t even tell which opinion was his own and which one had been planted in his head by someone else. 

And then came three people who acted against all his values, showing him a glimpse of what life could be like. Everything he knew, his view of the world, as well as his belief, had collapsed in a matter of months. He had learned so many new things, he wasn’t even sure if he knew himself anymore. 

Had he changed? He must have, somehow at least. It was ironic, how the Gaunts’ plan to marry him off to a pureblood witch, who they thought would bring their family safety and respect, turned out to result in the complete opposite. Nothing, not even Marvolo’s paranoia and obsession for being a step ahead had come of use. They all had turned against them in the end, and for what? The faint idea of power and reputation? What worth did those things even have when everyone who bowed down to you only did so out of fear? They would take the first chance they got to stab you in the back with the very dagger you had given them. If you can’t trust your devotees, why bother?

Trust was something he thought of a lot, too. Did someone truly trust him? His fiancée for instance. She had put her faith in his hands several times in the past, yes. But would she trust him with her life? Had he done enough to earn her deepest trust yet? Or would she let him fall too when the opportunity arrived? When the deal was sealed, her sister was free and the Gaunts were powerless. Would she leave him, or would she stay? It kept him up at night when he thought about being alone again. Not because he depended on someone to be there, he was fine on his own. But he couldn’t change the fact that he wanted her to stay. And only her. No one else would do.

No one else had ever awoken that part of him before. That part that wasn’t as selfish, as calculating and cautious. And he knew no one else could. There was something about her, that slight brush of a hand when she touched him, or that unintentional notion of a smile she wore so often that broke out a whirlwind of emotion inside of him again and again. And he still didn’t even know what it was that he felt. It was nerve-racking, this mixture of nervousness, excitement and joy. If he had been able to, he would have buried those feelings long ago, deep down somewhere where they could have never disturbed him again. But he hadn’t. And he was glad about that. No matter how irritating it was, he craved it now. 

He craved to see her as often as possible, the sound of her voice, the touch of her fingers on him. Her mind, her body and everything in between had him longing, thirsting for even more proximity. He ached for that bond so much, it had become a hassle and he needed to suppress it to prevent himself from shying her away. 

But it was hard to feign composure when all he wanted was right there before him and she was so willing to accept his bid. It took all his might not to do what he most wanted and lock her up in a golden cage, where she would remain for him alone. His secret, his very own jewel. But most importantly his.

He couldn’t do that to her, he knew, she wouldn’t allow it. And he wouldn’t dare. He would never dare to add imbalance to the fragile structure they had built over the last year. She had come back to him eventually, day by day. He just needed to remind himself of that. Wait and improve his patience. Trust that she desired him as much as he did her. And by all accounts, she must have. Why else would she treat him the way she did? The idealist in him feasted on the way she acted towards him. How fearless and comfortable she was. How her mood could swing from gentle to feisty in a second, never dreading his reaction. Her honesty, which was the easiest, as well as the hardest thing to give someone, was what he most cherished her for.

Never before had he experienced something so close to perfection. The purity of emotion, so vibrant and raw it nearly hurt. But its absence was even worse, like a bottomless hole that sucked him in and ate him up from the inside. He had become addicted to the feeling and he would do anything to keep it. 

He would marry her, yes, and willingly so. He would do anything she asked from him. But if she was to leave him then, if she would take that dagger and push it into his heart, he knew it would destroy him.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Masterpost | Masterlist

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Secrets ~ 6

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series; light touching.

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Notes:

Tomorrow will be a 12 hour day for me. Working on Xmas but oh well. I got this done on my one day off and I hope I survive the next week coming up!

I love you all, I thank you for your patience and feedback as always! Please don’t shy away in the comments, reblogs, etc.

Your time at Regia passed quickly and slowly all at once. You were woken most days abruptly by Barnes pounding on your door or standing over you with his smug half-grin. Then you dressed in clothes you reviled and ate a breakfast you couldn’t enjoy for all the expectation of your intake. You were allowed some recreation though that was often reading bland historical texts or walks in the garden with your keeper.

Your least favourite part of each day were your dance lessons. You had to relearn how to walk, talk, look, and eat, but you had never had much rhythm. Besides, being so close to Barnes with him commenting on your every misstep was hardly fun. He delighted in every mistake you made, eager to reproach you for each, and was easily amused by Priscilla’s stick smacking across your legs, back, and ass.

You counted eleven days as you began to truly fledge. You were tired, annoyed, and to be honest, hungry. That day, you beat Barnes’ early disturbance. You sat, in a coral blouse and a pleated grey skirted, with the lowest pair of heels in the closet. He greeted you almost with approval and that made your want to tear the blouse and shred it.

You didn’t. You followed him downstairs to your usual miserable meal. When you finished, he escorted you back up the wide staircase to the hall of mirrors. You hated the room. It gave you an all to inclusive view of your ridiculous attire. You didn’t look like you. Sure, you were one for a scholarly look but this wasn’t really that. This was a pompous, over-stylised look which would go well only with a silver spoon on your tongue.

A man waited in the hall of mirrors, a woman too. The man was slender and tall and his long fingers were twined together as he waited emotionlessly. He bowed as you entered and recited a dull ‘your highness’. The woman was squat and stuffed into a patterned wrap dress spotted with bright reds, pinks, and oranges. She was more jovial as her voice chimed with the same recitation.

“Lester, Deanna,” Barnes announced, “My apologies for the delay. I trust you are ready.”

“Darling, your highness,” The stout woman swayed over to you, “Come with me.”

“Huh,” you looked at Barnes and he smiled as he gestured you forward.

“Just go,” he ordered, “She doesn’t look like much but she’s not one for defiance.”

You sighed and let the woman usher you over to the attached room. The racks of dresses were gone but long garment bangs had been hung from a hook along the opposite wall. The door snapped shut behind you and Deanna flitted around you, like an elephant in heels, and turned you to face her.

“Oh, love, you are gorg,” she chimed in a peculiar accent, “I think however Lord Barnes was a bit off on your measurements,” she grasped your waist, “Lovely, lovely.”

“I hate to be a bitch but what the hell is going on?” You asked.

She blinked and laughed. She drew away and pushed her dark curls back as they burst forth from the jeweled pin behind her head. “Oh dear, you are fiery. The king will… like that. I think.”

She didn’t sound convincing as she spun away and marched over to the hook and took down the first bag. She unzipped it as she neared and turned it to reveal the contents. A white lacy dress with thin straps and a scalloped hem around the neckline. The bodice was fitted and the skirt flared out into a princess silhouette. You knitted your brow as you stared at it.

“Your wedding dress,” she sang. “Oh, it will surely look splendid on you, darling. Your highness.”

She stripped the bag away and was careful not to let the skirts touch the floor as she held it aloft and folded the swaths of fabric over her arm. She held it out to her as she beamed at you.

“So… I don’t get to choose?” You wondered. You didn’t care very much but you hated that all your decisions were made for you.

“Oh, but this was refashioned from the former queen’s dress. It is a tradition in Astrania. In fact some of this would date back centuries!” She explained, “Of course we do update the style.”

You chewed on your lip and shrugged. “Let’s just get this over with,” you muttered.

You felt defeated as you couldn’t help but fixate on the white gown. It was like you were wrapping yourself in a flag of surrender. You’d wave your skirts and let yourself be taken. You undressed and stepped into the dress as she opened it for you. She pulled the straps over your arms and zipped it up. 

“Rather, it fits you well,” she came around as she pinched at the fabric and smoothed out the seams. She wasn’t wrong, though it felt rather constricting. “Well, come on. Lester needs to do his figures. He’s always the better eye for this. I just sew.”

She took your hand as you lifted your skirts with your other. You let her guide you back out to the hall of mirrors and you avoided looking around you. You couldn’t look at Barnes either as you sensed him watching you. You blurred your vision as you lifted your head and the tall man, Lester, walked around you. He began to pin little pieces in place and Deanna pulled out a small notepad as she began to jot with a stubbed pencil.

“Hmm,” Barnes appeared before you and your vision cleared, “Not bad…” He brushed the lace with his fingers and traced the curve of your waist with his hands, “However…” He lingered just below your chest, “You can’t show the entire kingdom your bra. You would do better to leave that behind on the day.”

“We can add some structure,” Lester offered evenly. “But our adjustments will be minor.”

Barnes reached over and tugged the skirts from your hand and fluffed them out around you. He rounded you and gripped your shoulders. You saw yourself in the mirrored wall and tried not to show your surprise. It wasn’t awful but you still didn’t like it.

“We have three days left. You have the other dress?” He asked.

“We have options,” Deanna said, “We were uncertain if the king would prefer red or blue.”

“Let me see,” Barnes sidestepped her and went to the attached room. 

Deanna glanced at you and waved you after him as she approached and gathered your skirts. She followed after you and your vigilant chaperone. She released the vast skirts and went to Barnes as he neared the hanging garment bags. She unzipped both and he tilted his head and tutted.

“Red,” he said, “I believe the king will be in blue.”

“Very well,” Deanna pulled the dress from the bag. “Now dear, let’s get you changed.”

Barnes turned back and neared you. He faced you and reached around you. He pushed the zipper down slowly and leaned in until his breath tickled your nose. “Three days.” He reminded you. He drew away and left you as the bodice fell slack. He closed the door behind him as Deanna replaced him.

“Darling, I think red will look marvelous on you. And the king in blue! He has the most amazing eyes. Oh, if I was younger… maybe, skinnier,” she giggled, “Well, should I even tell you? You’ve seen him. Ugh, handsome bugger, he is.”

“Mhmm,” you grumbled as you wiggled out of the gown, “What a tragedy it’d be if his outside was ugly too.”

👑

That night was as restless as any. You laid in bed for a time, tossing and turning. You tried to forget about the blinding white dress and the abhorrent red number that came after. And how time seemed to pass regardless of your fears or your desires. You felt helpless. You used to be in control of everything and now, you couldn’t control even yourself.

You sat up in a slat of moonlight. You weren’t going to sleep. Your frustration mounted the longer you squeezed your eyes shut and clawed and clutched for rest. You grunted and stood as the duvet fell away from your legs. The short silk nightie sent a chill up your spin as it fluttered around your thighs.

You crossed your arms and went to the window. The lawns were peaceful despite the anxiety within the palace. You turned away as the lush green rippling in the silver shadows only heightened your uneasiness. You took the blush coloured robe from the chair sat before the vanity and swathed yourself in it as you neared the door.

It was, to your surprise, unlocked. As strict a warden as Barnes was, you just assumed he would have locked you in. You let out a breath and stepped out into the hallway. The portraits of your predecessors, dead and dusty, watched you pass as you tiptoed along. The windows cast shapes around you as you went along and at times, you were certain you heard whispers.

You descended to the lower first floor and ventured down a wing never explored before. Your eyes were attune to the darkness but still played tricks as you crept along. You heard the distant, muffled, and quite possibly, imagined ripple of water. You smelled a pool, the sharp scent of chlorine. Your senses brought you to a door at the end of the corridor.

Frosted glass framed in heavy metal. You pressed against the slotted handle and the clasp slowly lifted. You inched inside as you peeked around the door. Broad shoulders, bare and thick with muscle, beneath a head of dark hair. You were shocked by the scars along Barnes’ left shoulder and the arm no longer in place below. You’d never even noticed the prosthetic now laid out with his clothes on a bench near the wall.

He shoved himself into the pool and the water swelled around him. You placed your feet carefully as you eased the door shut and neared the bench where his suit was folded neatly with his shoes, socks, belt, and tie. You bent closer as you admired the hand at the end of the prosthetic; you touched it curiously. It felt lifelike even as it sat limp.

“Convincing?” Bucky’s voice frightened you as you heard the water move around his body. You turned to face him as he brought his right arm over the edge of the pool. “Don’t worry. You can toss it around. I won’t feel a thing.”

You were speechless; embarrassed. You hadn’t meant to intrude upon him but your fatigue mixed with your confusion had goaded you on.

“Sorry, I… I couldn’t sleep.” You hugged yourself and swept back to the door. “I wasn’t meaning-- I shouldn’t have--”

“Just an arm.” He said as he pushed himself up and turned to display what was left of his arm, a scarred stub just below his shoulder. “Good thing I was born with two.”

“Barnes…” You backed up until you were against the door. “I should go.”

“Alright,” he pushed himself back and floated with his single arm outstretched. “I always found swimming helped… with sleep.” He said lazily. “Calming.”

You didn’t move. You only watched as he floated along in only his briefs. He was entirely unbothered by your presence as he hummed and reached out to stop himself at the other end of the pool.

“Well, are you enjoying the show or you going to join?” He asked.

You watched him warily. “You’re not mad?”

“Maybe slightly irritated,” he shrugged, “You hovering is ruining the mood.”

You stared at him and slowly pushed yourself away from the door. You took small steps forward and lowered yourself along the rim of the pool. You held in a squeak as you hung your legs into the cool water.

“So, were you just not going to tell me there was a pool?” You chided.

“You didn’t ask,” he said as he waded casually through the water. “To be fair, you didn’t seem much interested in this place though as I’ve gathered, you are disinterested in most things.”

You frowned and rolled your eyes. You peered over at the wall and pondered leaving him as you found him. You were surprised by a wet hand on your knee.

“If I can get to you so easy, Steve’s gonna drive you mad,” Barnes said. “So if you’re going to be so easily perturbed, you better work on hiding it better.”

“Whatever,” you huffed.

“Whatever,” he mocked as his hand slid under the water and he gripped your ankle. “Loosen up.”

He kicked himself away from the wall and pulled you down into the pool. You plunged with a yelp and threw your arms up in panic. Your nose and mouth filled with water and he let you go. You bobbed back to the surface and spat as your silken night clothes clouded around you.

“What the fuck, Barnes?” You sputtered. 

“I’ll admit,” he said through chuckles, “I had a drink or two.” He winked as he moved around you. “Well, Duchess, you do play the role much better than you think.”

“Ugh,” you turned away and reached for the wall of the pool, “You are the worst.”

“Wait,” he pressed against you and caught you around your waist, “Wait, wait.” He drew you back with him. “Come on. Relax.” He dragged you further into the water, “Look, you’ve only got a few days left and even if you hate to listen to me, you should. Once you’re at court, this won’t happen. Ever.”

“What do you care? You haven’t so far.” You struggled with him and dipped below the water again. You twisted and turned and came up facing him as he clung to you.

“Duchess,” he warned, “Don’t be a brat.”

“A brat?” You blinked. “Let go of me, Barnes.”

He grinned and held you to him as he moved backwards across the pool. You felt something between you. It moved against your pelvis and as he spun you and pinned you against the tile, you realised what it was.

“Are you serious right now?” You snarled. “What about your king, huh?”

He chuckled and his hand slid down your back. He squeezed your ass as he kept you against the side of the pool. He was so close you could feel his breath and smell the remnants of his sweat and cologne.

“I’m supposed to show you how to be a good wife,” his finger tickled under your thigh, “In all areas.”

“I doubt he had this in mind,” you pushed against him but he was too strong. He slid between your legs as his hand stretched along the crease of your thigh. “I mean it, Barnes--”

Your voice gurgled as he reached below your nightie and stroked the front of your thin panties. The water splashed as you slapped his chest and growled.

“James!” You cried out. “Stop!”

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. He twirled his fingers and you gritted your teeth against the tingle it sent through you. You stared into his eyes, fighting against the urge to let him go on. You shook your head slowly and pressed your hands to his shoulders. He let you push him away as his hand trailed over your leg.

“Oh, you just wait, Duchess,” he purred as he combed back his damp hair, “The king isn’t so willing to take orders.”

[chiquitinchino]

【7:46pm】

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ꕥ Fluffy Puffy ꕥ

Yunho x reader  

Warning Too cute to be true    (AU)

Descr: You are making up extra credit for your art class, so you decided to take a pottery class. Based on the name that was given to you, you thought that the teacher would be an old man. Your Pottery class turned out to be private lessons with a stunning young man that was around your age. Oh what to do . . where is this lesson going?

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The professor from your art course is making you take lessons to boost your grade. Not that it was bad or anything, you just wanted an A to make your GPA look pretty. Your art teacher was a pain in the ass with her grades, “so stingy”, you would say to yourself. But pottery couldn’t be that bad. Every assignment was equally stressful as it was relaxing anyways. Best of both worlds I guess.

You chose from the list she had, “5 Ceramics/ Pottery lessons with Sir. Jeong” it was a weird last name and sounded old but you went with it. It was only 5 lessons and playing with clay how hard can it be? 

-

“Ugh It’s just 4:25 and it’s already so dark”, you said walking into your 4:30 class. Taking off all layers you sat comfortably on the stool. Right next to sign that said 4:30 class. No one was there. You were kinda creeped out. The lights were dim, the sun was already gone and all you heard was a person shuffling in another room. Not even a receptionist! “Oh these are private classes”, . . . “With an old maannnn. . .” You sat there wincing at yourself allowing your brain to wonder through 5 million different scenarios.

Thud! “Okay . . Class time”, you heard a voice say. It didn’t . . sound old. . Nor look 👀. A Tall handsome young man appeared in front of you. Black hair, very pink lips and soft eyes. Perplexed at what laid before you, the young man was . . Actually very very handsome.

“Sir Jeong???? He deserves the name of Mr. At least.”, you thought to yourself as the teacher walked towards you cleaning his hands from clay.

“So you’re my new student. Huh?”, he asked.

“Uhmmm, yes . . I guess”, you replied looking around.

“Haha alright let’s get started then”.

You were now so happy it was a private lesson. He was giving you a tutorial, and your eyes were just wondering his body. He face was full of concentration; body big for the little stool he was in; not lean, strong build; well rounded all around; his hands. . . Seemed strong. . You thought to yourself; his concentrated face gave him a different look than what he had when he walked in, but his cheeks squished your hearts with how soft and plushie they looked; and his black hair seemed so silky and soft; and his voice wasn’t rough or smooth or deep or high, but it was definitely sweet and full of patience and delicacy. “Like . . Honey, or maple sap”

WHIPPED IS WHAT YOU WERE

“Eehhhh, I would say more like dough, because it’s easier to structure than honey. But whatever makes you comfortable”, wide eyed you looked at his face. Blankly he stated back.

“Everything okay? You’re looking at me like I have 3 heads”.

Panicked you responded, “ah no no nothing Mr. Jeong, please continue”.

“Please call me Yunho, it’s weird to have someone around my age to call me that”

“Oh, okay then. . Yunho, please continue”.

After 30 minutes of Yunho talking and demonstrating you how to treat, knead, and play with the clay you were finally able to do it yourself. Excited you rolled up your sleeves. Sitting at the stool, Yunho stood in front of you watching you. He seemed taller and taller the closer he got. A little shy you dived in. You started off better than you expected. With enough confidence you entered the hard part, building your desired pot. Before molding your pit of clay you stood and took a few steps back. Thinking real hard on how you wanted it to come out. Like a light bulb it clicked. You went to work. Super concentrated you were building up your creation.

SNAP!

Just like that went your concentration as from the blink of an eye a ring of your clay was on one hand and the other places spinning on the wheel. You heard giggling from your side. Looking over you saw Yunho giggling. “No go ahead do as I showed you”, “Ehhh. . . Ha. . . “, you liked blankly at your mold not moving. Looking back over to Yunho he wasn’t there. Thud, you heard something behind you. It was a stool that wasn’t there when you first sat down, and it was reallllllllllly close. A rush of black flooded your sight. It was just Yunho sitting behind you.

“Come. look.”, he said wetting his hands. You turned around quickly, as your face flushed red realizing what’s about to happen. His chest bumped onto your back lightly leaning you forwards, his arms stretched forward towards the mold and taking the clay in your hands. Molding it into what it used to be. Extremely flustered you watched his hands.

“See ?”, He said standing up from the stool.

“You remember now ?”

“mhm”

Why are you so hot, you felt like sweating. UGGGHH what was thattt?! He was so warm and delicate with me. He might have sat behind me but he didn’t even touch you much. Is he really that big or am I just small. So many thoughts rushed through your head while you tried building your vase. Every few minutes your clay would flop, break, and bend too far. After thinking for too long you just grew frustrated.

“Ughh come onnn”, you talked badly to your clay. Putting it back and adding more pressure to your art. And SNAP.

The damn clay broke off.

Tensing up you squished the clay in your hand.

“Hey, heyyy don’t take it out on the clay now”, you heard a voice behind you say softly. His big hand brushed against your clenched fist. Feeling another hand on your other shoulder, you saw Yunho’s face pop on your side view.

“Let’s try again, this time let me help you, okay?”, he said slightly smiling.

Feeling something on your hand you looked at your hand. His hand. His though brushing against your hand to ease up. Looking back, how could you not calm down. Releasing the tension, you let the frustration fall off your face.

Yunho let out a cheeky smile, “great okay, now lets go back to putting it on the mold”, his voice was so . . Patient it was so sweet. He held both of your hands to the mold. And you both wet your hands in wet clay. You can feel his chest on your back. His breathe was calm. And his skin was soft. He was very warm too. You oddly felt safe.

“Done”, In an instant your bubble popped. “Huh?” You looked at the vase before you. It wasn’t the one you wanted to make exactly but it still was pretty. Popping up once again at your side you looked over your shoulder. It was a smiling Yunho. You quickly turned around flustered of the pretty boy.

He got up and placed the stool in it’s place. “I think that should be it for our class today, I am going to heat it up so then we can paint next class”, Yunho explained to you. It seemed like everything was moving so fast. You weren’t ready to leave him. He was too dreamy please don’t let the class be over yet.

The moment you laid your eyes on him, it’s as if time stopped. But in reality it went by faster than light you complained to yourself. Sulking you picked up your stuff.

He walked you to the door and you walked out “till next class”, he said

Looking back, you wanted to take a picture of this exact moment. His cute smile and the way he stood at the door. Little did you know this exact moment, was engraved in your brain, you just had to wait more time till you realized this night would be the night you always come back to thinking about him.

“Till next class”

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Authors note: I meeaannnn if y’all want more ain’t nobody complaining. Just let me know.

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[sp00kworm]

Kinetic Siphon

Ollmoch

Demon x Reader

~~~

~~~

A whole week free from work. You smiled as you gazed up at the old battlements of the castle. It was built during the Orc revolt and held many of the old designs of the time. Reinforced stone and steel hidden within the heavy stone bricks. Mortar had been used in recent years to try and keep the original structure together and preserve the natural history of the land. The revolt was a trying time, that resulted in many deaths on both sides. It was firmly engrained in history, but now the Orcs had come to be far more beneficial allies. Modern medicines for bacterial infections were based on many old Orcish root remedies where they’d worked to isolate the key components. Now the world was a much more accepting place. You looked at the old stone as you stepped through the portcullis. There was no longer a drawbridge, but rather a new heavy stone bridge, but the old metal gates were still in place, restored and painted to protect it against the elements. Still, it looked like something you saw in fairy tales. Gazing up at the stone, you tried to keep your mouth shut as you entered through the battlements and gazed at the inner building. It was made from the same stone with several French influences for the pointed tower tops around a central cuboidal shaped tower. The old windows were still intact from the modern occupation and you looked on in awe at the giant structure.

 A winding staircase led you up to the castle doors and you waited in the small line before being allowed in to see the beautiful rooms, decorated to resemble the time period and filled with relics from many years gone by. The hunting room was grand, around a large, old desk, used by the head of the family for many years. It was sad to see blank spots where the barbaric practice of hunting other races had once decorated the room. You looked at the information board. Once an Orcish clan leader’s head had sat on one wall and various Fae and Goblins alongside them. Magic, species and race were all greatly misunderstood back then. You offered a solemn look to the missing heads and hoped they had been returned to their families, where they rightfully belonged. Still, the dragon teeth on the desk apparently didn’t count as the same thing. You left the hunting room and continued towards the dining room, then through to the drawing room, where guests were hosted. It was full of overstuffed chairs and fainting couches. You marvelled at the tapestries on one wall and the depictions of a battle with the Orcs. It was history, however sad it was. The castle was large, and you spent a few hours looking at the information and the history inside before you took to wandering the enormous, well looked after gardens.

The stairs out the back of the main castle lead into a well-designed garden, full of the area’s flora and flowers from abroad, of which were not common. The greenhouse was the far side of the castle, and you wrapped your scarf tighter as you headed towards it. It was particularly windy as you headed towards the large greenhouse. The signposts pointed towards the battlements and the internal corridors that ran beneath them. You looked at the wall and frowned at the sign. It pointed into an unusual door. It was heavy and wooden with a thick metal latch. You opened the handle and peered inside. It was lit up well with new electrical lighting, and you shrugged, entering the hallway before making sure to close the old door firmly behind you. The hallway lights dimmed and flickered as you stepped inside fully, and you scowled up at the ceiling as they started to blink, the bulbs making a soft ticking noise as they snapped on and off. After a minute, the blinking stopped, and you continued down the corridor.

“I’m pretty sure this is the wrong way.” You hummed to yourself as you followed the long pathway to the end. A set of stairs sat before you, “This is definitely not where the greenhouse is.” But still, there was no key card access and no locks. Curiosity got the better of you and you walked down the stairs, spiralling lower into another dim room, closing another heavy oaken door behind you as you entered.

 The room was huge and filled to the brim with works that were in the process of being restored for the castle. Vanities and huge dressers were positioned in places of high airflow and covered with sheets and wraps. It was amazing to see even suits of rusted armour placed around the room, their hinges and metal plating underway to being shiny and brilliant once more. You tried not to gape at the room of antiques as you moved past the furniture and into the carefully lined up and ticketed pieces of history. There was a statue of a female goddess, her sword raised to the sky, and you smiled as you squeezed between it and the wall in your attempts to really gaze at the riches of the rest of the collection. The vast expanse of antiques was arranged around a great rack of catalogued swords. You eased your way towards them and avoided knocking over giant vases as you weaselled towards the more interesting antiques. It was glorious. Long swords, sabres and broadswords were positioned with knives and daggers, some handles made to be in matching sets to the swords. You looked at a small tomahawk before you looked at the end of the rack and to a cloth wrapped scabbard that was discarded on the floor.

 The cloth wrapping was rotten and musty. You carefully picked up the scabbard and eyed the jewelled hilt with a sceptical eye. The ruby set in the end was dull. You wiped the jewel with your coat and coughed at the dust as you unwrapped the sword. It was intricately patterned, a form of tanned black leather pressed with runes and swirling lines. You ran your fingers over the pattern and unclipped the wrap from around the hilt, gazing at the tarnished metal before you sucked in a breath and slid the great sword free from its scabbard. There was nothing. You gazed at the blade and huffed a bit under the weight, but held it out from your body, looking down the length before you turned it flat. It was then that a great rumble sounded, shaking the ground beneath your feet. The shaking started in the walls before soon the whole room was moving back and forth. Vases and pottery clinked and shuddered in place as you grabbed for the sword rack and peered up. A great, high pitched whining noise made you flinch as something tore open a hole above your head. You gazed up as a black slit opened in the space above you and two clawed hands pierced the space. The red hands wriggled before clutching either side of the hole and clicking. The space opened wider and you watched two arms slide through before you were faced with the face of a monster.

 There, staring at you from the space, slowly sliding free of the hole, was a creature with six, rolling viper eyes. The golden orbs investigated your face as a jaw opened along its cheeks, just beneath its slitted nose. Great pointed teeth dripped with saliva as it unhinged its jaw and stretched its arms further. The great horns caressed the sides of the hole before it twisted it’s neck and slid free. Three pairs of horns curled from its head, the front most pair, and the tallest, forms a chitinous plate over its nose, framing its sideways blinking eyes. With a growl, it tore the hole wider with another click and tear of his claws and placed its giant talons on the floor, sliding the rest of its body free in a smooth ripple of muscle down its back and legs. It perched itself on the floor for a moment, looking around, chitinous back plates facing any danger as a pointed tail swung left and right. The beast was covered in more spines and spikes, hardened and sharp to the touch. Your gaze peered downwards, and you tried to hide the fact you had gazed at his crotch, where he was hidden with a simple covering of hanging cloth. The face looked at you again, eyes open wide before a tongue dipped out to lick at your face, tasting the skin before he flicked it, tasting the air, mouth and nose open wide. The monster stood to his full height and you gazed at his back where the plates formed a neat, intricate row down his spine. He curled his feet and you looked at him as he curled the talons into the stone. Two great plates curled over his shoulders and you swallowed at the sight of more great spikes lining them.

 “For what have I been summoned?” His voice was like thunder, vibrating the very air around you with power as he stretched his body and turned, his tail snatching you from the ground, dragging you closer to his six eyes. They moved independently for a moment before they all fixed on your terrified face, the lids sliding over them in pairs, down his face in turn.

“I…” He leaned closer to your face, his hands gripping you as he crouched near to the floor, his eight-foot frame ducking down, “I didn’t mean to summon you.” You confessed quietly, but the demon heard you, his pointed ears flicking. You watched the bone that pierced through them shake as he drew back and laughed, his tongue out and teeth exposed.

“Such jokes with your family.” He gripped you tighter, “Come now, I have no patience for your games anymore. Your ancestors may have bound me, but I could still tear you open and die with you.” He threatened, looming over you with unblinking eyes, his hands constraining your waist tight making you wheeze softly, “It would only take a moment.” He purred in delight, “Now, tell me your desires, little one.” His talons grazed your hair, “I grow bored.”

 You took another breath and dropped the sword, gazing up at the creature with tears in your eyes, “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what you’re talking about but please, please let me go.”

The demon scowled, as well as he could with no real eyebrows and only plates covering his brow bone. He licked at you again and hummed, “I cannot taste a lie…” He mused as he stood up, his horns scrapping the ceiling before he properly situated himself, “Then…” Confusion clouded his face, “Where am I, human?” He asked as he crouched down with you in his grasp, “Why have the possessions been discarded here?”

“I… It’s the two thousands. This castle is owned by the last remaining members of the Hollack family but its open to the public.” You dared to look at his eyes, “When were you last, um, summoned?”

The demon tilted his head and licked at his lips, “Sixteen fifty-four.” He nodded and then took note of your clothes, “It…has been so long?” He questioned the air as he placed you on his plated thigh, “You are not of the Hollack family, are you?”

“No…I got lost. I’m visiting and I ended up here. I guess…I bit off a little more than I could chew?” You offered lamely as the demon anchored himself up with his tail, you perched on his leg as he idly set his claws over your legs, trapping you in place.

 The demon threw his head back and gave another round of thunderous laughter as his eyes blinked and closed in their downwards pattern, “Perhaps you have.” He confirmed before stretching up to his giant height. Carefully, he placed you back down on your feet and peered up at the cold rift.

“Where…where do you come from?” You asked quietly as you listened to the silence.

The demon ducked his red head and let out a rumble, “A pocket dimension…It is my cage, so to speak. I sleep until I am summoned…I feed only when I’m allowed out.” He offered quietly before his sharp teeth snapped together, “It has been so long. Even speaking is making me tired and ravenous.”

“You just sleep?” You offered before awkwardly shuffling, “Can you not break the contract?” You asked, feeling silly in the face of a creature so old.

He laughed again and you watched his tongue roll against his teeth before he reached to his chest and pressed one taloned hand against the skin. The red skin parted and revealed a great glowing eye. The golden eye blinked awake and starred deep into your own eyes before it began to glow. The demon snapped his fingers and wiped his hand over his chest again and the eye disappeared.

You suddenly felt tired, “What was that?”

“That was my power. It is weak. I consume energy, change it, or siphon it. My ability to control it is now tied to that…relic.” He hissed as you took hold of the sword again and peered at the metal.

 The length of the blade glowed with burning gold runes. It was a sight and the demon hissed at the word written down the length. You couldn’t read the runes and you frowned up at the demon.

“What are those?” You asked, “I can’t read them…”

The demon’s mouth unhinged in a maniacal smile, teasing you, “My name, written in the ancient mage tongue.” He hissed through his teeth again as he looked down at it, “The language is lost, little one.” He lamented, “No one has been able to read it since the dark ages.” He offered as he sat down on the floor and clicked his fingers again, the portal closing with a swirl and a great pop.

“If I could read it, what would that do?” You asked as you took the scabbard in hand and stood by his knee, “Would it release you?”

The demon laughed again, “It would transfer my contract to you. My bindings would be shifted from the Hollack family to you, but I have never met someone capable of bearing my burden. I am old, it would take a great deal of power to break such a curse.” He grazed his talons over the stone in a great raking motion, “I am... ravenous.” He purred before you, his golden eyes squinted with glee at his mischief.

“You need a lot of energy then?” You asked.

“Mmm.” He purred, “I used to rip open rifts and portals and consume leaks of energy within the continuum, but that was how I was trapped. They created such a great energy rift that I was attracted, such was the greed of my youth, and trapped with that cursed thing.” The demon stretched his plates again and snapped his fingers out, snatching the blade from your grasp, “If I could tear apart the very molecules of this sword and be free, I would.” He snarled in anger.

 You reached towards his hands and held out your hand for the blade, “Where would your name be?” You asked, “Is the blade named after you?” You asked and he held the hilt out towards you.

He scowled, “I do not remember…” But his eyes widened as you rushed back towards the door with the sword in tow. With a howl he was after you, disappearing before he reappeared in front of the door to the way out. His talons snatched you from the floor again as he opened his mouth threateningly, “You will not have that sword!” He hissed.

“I…” You wheezed, “The catalogue book.” You pointed and wheezed again.

The demon looked at the desk behind him and plucked the big logbook from the table.

Suddenly, he was very sheepish, his ears back and his lips pouted as he sat down with a thump again and placed you on his lap. He handed you the book, “Ah, yes. I apologise, little one.” His shoulders twitched as you smiled up at him, rubbing your ribs as you opened the cover and peered at the numbers. Everything was catalogued by value and item description with a numerical identity code attached to the item type name. Sword. You looked for the code, SW and flicked through the book quickly to the section. There wasn’t that many, most of them on the rack behind you and the demon. You tried not to scare as the demon wrapped his tail over you, his eyes peering at the pages as you ran your finger down them.

 “Here. Look.” You held the book to his face, “There’s only three with names attached, all of them have been translated too.” With a cheer you watched him hold the book in his hands.

He frowned at the words, “I do not remember.” He lamented as defeat flashed over his features. The demon gave you the book back, “Perhaps if you read them?” Lamely he turned his hand and with a scared nod you climbed from his lap and watched him dip to his knees and stretch his back straight, so his horns sat like a crown.

“Do I need to do anything?” You asked meekly.

The demon nodded and placed one of your hands against his head, right on the hot skin between his curved, three pairs of horns, “We must be bound for this to work.”

“Wait…I can’t be a vessel for you!” You flinched away but the demon held your hand firm.

Golden eyes looked at you with sadness, “Please.” He whispered before growling, “I have spent seven centuries in agony!” He caught himself before his fury could truly boil over, “You don’t have to see me again…I will disappear and feed and never bother you, so, please, just release me.” His other hand clutched your own on top of his head, “I do not beg mortals lightly, little one, but please help me.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me after this?” You whispered back.

“I will be bound to your soul. It would be impossible.” He placed a hand over his chest, “If I did, I too would suffer the same death.”

 You took a deep breath and looked at the three names before you in the book. You curled your fingers against the chitinous base of his horns and spoke.

“Maelstrom.”

The air was silent, and the demon continued to breathe quietly underneath your hand, radiating heat and anxiety as he clenched his chest and waited. After a moment you continued down the list.

“Azar.”

Silence again. You looked at the stones, expecting a rumble from them, but they remained still. You took a final breath and looked at the final name. It was old, and you didn’t understand the meaning as you whispered the name and then repeated it into the open air.

“Ollmoch.”

With bated breath, you waited. Like a crack of thunder, you heard the demon’s claws slam into the floor as the sword next to you vibrated violently. With an echo of metal, it slid free of the scabbard again and burned gold with power, the runes searing from the metal as the demon gave a grunt and slammed at the floor again, his teeth exposed in a pained snarl. His chest heaved as the great golden eye opened between his pectorals. The viper pupil burned with light as it bled from black to a bright red. The light grew brighter and brighter, until you were forced to close your eyes. There was a violent flash behind your eyelids before you felt your hand fall from the demon’s head.

 “Little one.” You heard him whisper next to you, “You can open your eyes.” A hand brushed your cheek and with a gasp you opened your eyes to gaze into his golden irises. They burned with pulsing red veins and you looked at his skin as it gave off wave after wave of burning heat.

“What happened?” You asked him, “Wait, you’re called Ollmoch?” You felt the floor swim in your vision as you looked down, and you gagged as your swung back and forth on your own feet. Ollmoch was quick to catch you in his giant hands, holding you before he tucked you carefully in one of his arms, holding you gently.

“Quiet now, little one. You are exhausted.” Ollmoch rumbled to you as his fingers snapped and his tail swung behind him. The ceiling swam and you closed your eyes to try and get rid of the feeling of nausea, panting heavily as you felt the blood rush around you. There was a crackle of energy around you, and your hair stood on end as you planted your face against Ollmoch’s pectoral, your eyes rolling open and closed before you passed out completely to the delighted howl of the demon as he leaped for the portal swirling overhead.

 Sunlight burned your eyelids as you slowly felt feeling return to your fingers and back. With a small gasp, you bolted upright in bed and clutched at the sheets as you rubbed your tired eyes and looked around the room blearily. It was still daylight. You looked closer and did a double take. It was morning. The sunlight peaked over the horizon weakly, bathing your room in a barely-there warm glow. It was early but the winter mornings had been getting darker and darker recently. You slapped at your table for your phone before realising you were still in your jeans and you reached into the pocket to take out your phone and gaze at the time.  It was barely eight o’clock and you sighed as you tried to remember how you had gotten home. It was then, as you yawned, that a hand slid under your covers. With a squeal, you jumped away and watched as horns rose over the side of your bed and a great, red skinned demon hauled himself out of a chugging, black portal in your carpet. Six golden eyes appeared next as the demon’s hands curled into your sheets, tugging them away from you as he rose up and stood over your bed.

 “Are you well, little one?” Ollmoch rumbled as he curled his talons into the cotton and carefully eased his hands up towards your legs.

“What happened?” You asked as you crossed your legs under you, looking up at the half nude demon as he dragged his hands back and caressed his own horns, stretching with a hum.

Ollmoch tapped the middle of your forehead, “Your brain gave in. I believe you fainted.” He offered before he opened his mouth and sniffed, pulling air into his mouth, over his tongue and into his nose, “You were drained. It is good energy has returned to you.” He raised his hand and licked at his palm which had grazed your skin, “You are very lively. Full of energy. Untapped potential.” The energy demon smacked his lips before he licked at his fingers again and hummed, “Not enough to truly command me.”

“Why would I want that?” You asked with a scowl, “You wanted to be free, so you can do that now, right?”

Ollmoch nodded his great head as he hissed and touched his chest, “Yes. It is a good thing because I am starving.” He offered before he raised your hand to his face, licking the back of it before he kissed the palm softly, “Thank you, mortal.” He blew a hot breath over the skin, “I am in your debt, and I am at your call, as is the rules of such a bargain.”

 Your mouth went dry before you carefully scratched between his horns. Ollmoch’s bone jewellery jingled and clinked as he accepted the touch before he pulled away and tucked your hand back against your side. His chest eye opened with a growl and you watched as your wall distorted. A sharp click snapped open a hole which the demon stretched with another movement of his hands. Ollmoch gazed into the abyss before he held up one talon.

“If you need me…Say my name, little one. I will be here.” He promised gently before grinning his sharp, shark-like teeth. You smiled back at him.

“Good luck, Ollmoch.” You offered as your cheeks felt hot, “I hope you fair better than in that pocket dimension.” Lamely, you let your hands fall to your side. Ollmoch looked at you, one pair of golden eyes focused on your face. Sadness.

He flicked his tongue and tasted the emotion on the air before he grabbed at your hand again, pressing it to the hot skin beneath the bright, burning eye in his chest, “I will come back, little one. I must feed, but I will be here.” He promised as he grazed his talons over the back of your neck, “What you feel, I will feel.” He whispered as he scratched the back of your neck and flinched himself, “We are linked. Nothing can take my binding from your very soul.” Ollmoch grinned as his talons gazed their way over your face, “Call, little one. Call and I will come.” He promised before he melted back into the wall, his talons and plating disappearing into the void of the in-between.

Your cheeks burned as you flopped back against the bed, looking at the ceiling as you felt the ghostly touches of talons over your skin.  

[gisellelx]

Walls (new Cien Años short)

Walls Ashland, WI November, 2020

To live with Esme Platt Cullen was to live in a carefully ordered chaos. 

In more stable times, and in more stable homes, this chaos had been the chaos of their children, now six-almost-seven of them. Emmett and Jasper, enjoying a boisterous playfight. Rosalie and Edward snipping at each other in that odd way they did that was one part love, one part self-hatred, a third part disdain. Renesmee, when she had been younger, trying everyone’s patience and most of all her parents’. The way the house would eventually rise to a fever pitch like a thrumming beehive and Carlisle would eventually retreat to his study, simultaneously craving solitude and also intensely grateful that, these days, solitude was so hard to come by. Eventually, his wife would come find him, standing next to his chair and raking her hands through his hair as she pulled his head to her bosom. 

Solitude was, unfortunately, easier to find these days. With the children in Europe and the two of them alone in the house which seemed strangely too large without the omniscience of Edward’s gift, quiet was their constant companion. 

And the chaos now was different. Instead of the raucousness of their large family, this was the chaos of sawdust and century-old plaster, warped floorboards with haphazard nails—nails which couldn’t hurt either of them, of course, but which still seemed to appear out of the ether in places Carlisle could’ve sworn they hadn’t existed twelve hours ago. 

He’d retreated to their bedroom, or what was left of it. His body remembered the route more than his mind did, up the staircase and to the right, through the second doorway.  The footprint was still here; wall studs turned a deep brown with age and striped with the pattern of the lath boards which had been removed and carefully stacked in a corner. Esme had told him that he wasn’t to touch them; she’d salvage what she could. 

The house needed new systems. It had been built with only the most nascent plumbing, and while he’d run electricity, it was the electricity which had been able to be run at the time;; not what was standard now. Esme would restore it to its mid nineteenth century glory in the end, but first it needed bringing into the twenty-first. For now there were no walls, just outlines of where walls had once been, with bright-yellow conduit dangling like vine, and red and blue flexible plumbing snaking its way to what once had been and soon would be again the kitchen and bathrooms, making the house look like the anatomy textbooks Carlisle was more used to. Blue veins, red arteries. It made sense to him to think of the house like a body—helped him make sense of, and honor, his wife’s diligent work. 

Esme was on the roof when he arrived home and slid into the remains of their bedroom, shedding his briefcase, his pea coat, and his white doctor’s coat as he passed the foyer, the coat closet, and the hamper, respectively. She understood and honored his desire to live as humanly as possible, and so she had warned him that the roof was coming off for a few days while she brought the trusses up to twenty-first century building code. But that hadn’t happened yet, and for now, there was still this ghost of the structure of the home he had bought, when his only identity had been “sire” and sometimes, if he dared to think it, and Edward had allowed him, “father.” And so he stripped down to his scrubs in this odd shell of a home, and sat, cross-legged, on the floor of the furniture-less bedroom. The sound from above him was rhythmic as his wife worked through the existing structure. First the scraping of the wrecking bar, then the quiet ping of the nail releasing from the roof, then the resounding thwap of the shingle hitting the ground two floors below. 

Scrape. Scrape. Ping. Thwap. The repetition was meditative, and he allowed himself to get lost in it. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he missed the cessation of sound on the roof, the quiet sounds of tools being put carefully back into place, the opening and closing of closet doors in what was left of the frame of the house. 

He finally became aware when he heard the thunk of the tool belt in the foyer, the toeing off of the unnecessary work boots. The soft padding of socked feet on the bare, stripped staircase. A moment later, the light shading through the patchwork of lath which awaited replacement revealed a feminine silhouette, arms crossed as she regarded him coolly.  

“How much longer do we get to keep the roof?” he asked.

“I should have it off by tomorrow midday. I timed it with your long shift.” The socked feet padded across the room and then she, too, had dropped into a cross-legged posture behind him, and then her lips were at the base of his neck. “That is, if you don’t distract me too much while you’re home, Dr. Cullen.” 

He smirked a little. “Far be it for me to separate you from a demolition.” 

She laughed her clear laughter, and he twisted a little so that their lips could meet. They kissed for several seconds, the gentle, familiar kiss of the long-married, her hand finding its way to his hip. 

“You’ve had a bad day,” she said when their lips parted. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not particularly.” He looked toward the ceiling, or what once had been the ceiling. It was now, like everything else, bare beams, the odd mixture of new and very old, and he could see to the roof, where the removal of the shingles had exposed the places where the old roof boards had shrunk away from one another, letting in little slivers of daylight. 

“I’m looking forward to furniture,” he admitted. “How far in the future is that?” 

She laughed again. “I’ll get you some for Christmas. In the meantime…” She patted her thigh and, almost without thinking, he lay down, putting his head in her lap. In the same instant, her hands were in his hair, her fingertips against his scalp as she combed through it.

It had taken decades, this part of their relationship. He had been used to fending for himself, convincing himself that he was invincible. And Edward, as glorious as he had been, had only made this aspect worse, as every day, Carlisle had tried even harder to be Edward’s rock. And so when Esme had joined them, it had taken him years to admit to even the slightest crack, and even longer to reach this utter surrender.

He closed his eyes, letting his senses be overcome by the feeling of fingers in his hair, the sound of breath, rolling in and out, the cinnamon-lilac-honey of his wife’s scent—one part his own, one part her own perfect unique essence. 

“There were eleven today,” he muttered finally, not opening his eyes. One of the worst days yet. They’d moved because of the surge here, and he had steeled himself for it. Nothing he’d faced in the states held a candle to Italy, not even this, but the comparison didn’t make it any easier. Sometimes, he’d walked out of the room; let a nurse in full protective equipment, looking like an astronaut hold a phone in a gloved hand as family members on FaceTime looked on while their parent or grandparent slipped away from life. Other times, he stayed; he was the one to hold the phone, to flick the ventilator to the OFF position, to witness the deep, rattling, final breaths. 

His wife sighed sadly. “Eleven is so many, Carlisle.” 

He nodded. “Eleven is too many. One is too many. This whole year is too many.” One by one, the same progression, over and over. Ctyokine. Hypoxia. Multisystem organ failure. The same sequence, the same dread, the same point of no return. And if he thought too long or too hard, he could recall each and every face. 

Carlisle squeezed his eyes closed as the fingers made their way back into his hair. One hand in his hair made its way to his back, the other to his arm. He let his body go slack as he let the day’s pain slip away into her hands.

“Thank you,” he breathed several minutes later.  

“Thank you for letting me in,” his wife answered, bending deeply and pressing her lips to his again. 

He chuckled. “Well, it’s hard to keep you out when we don’t have any walls.” 

Carlisle felt, more than heard, Esme’s answering laughter. It was a tiny cough of a laugh, small against the all the world was throwing at them. 

But, he realized as he allowed himself to rest, it was also just enough.  

[littlefreya]

Lines in the Sand

Summary: She is one of the best snipers serving in Iraq, but she is also suffering from an attitude problem and ironically has a hard time following orders. After an incident in her former base, she is sent to join the Special Forces unit led by Captain Syverson, who requires a talented sniper. 

Unlucky for her, Captain Syverson is a hard man who likes things by the book and according to order. He ain't got the patience for troublemakers.  

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC (Jessica Gallagher)

Word count: 1,784

Warnings: Smut in future parts, some foul language and sexual content.

A/N: Please enjoy, reblog, like. The world needs more Syverson, and I think he is one of Henry's finest roles.

Tagging: @writingaftermidnight​ @centaine​ @sciapod​ (who encourage me to write)  Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 |Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Epilogue Chapter 1: Iron Maiden

Bad girl. 

That’s what they say she is; trouble, attitude problems. 

She heard all of it at psych evaluation. 

'Prodigy' is another word they use for her. 

And sometimes even 'asset'.

She likes this one the most. It strips her of all human notions. 

That’s the only reason to keep her around, and it’s not like she has any desire to go home anyway. Home is tough. Here in the desert, surrounded by death and horny virgins - that’s the easy part. 

“Killing is easy,” she said to the military psychologist who had her profiled from head to toe before being transferred to camp Warhorse.

“Gallagher?” a young soldier calls toward her, huffing and covered with a sheen layer of sweat as he runs toward her. She glares at him bemused, holding the fresh new uniforms which she just collected from the storage unit. 

“Yeah?" 

The boy's face is lightly freckled, his big doe eyes seem untouched by war and his freshly shaven buzzcut shows he only just arrived. 'More meat for the grinder'  she muses, just another kid who doesn't belong here, like the most of them. She knows the type well enough to write a thesis about it by now. If she thought she had any brain to do that sort of stuff. 

"Captain Syverson wants to talk to you.”

The kid looks her up, probably wondering why she even here. She got used to that type of stare a while ago.

“I just arrived here from another division” she explains, “didn’t even get into my uniform, what’s the fucking rush?”

The kid shrugs, looking slightly terrified as if she is supposed to be scared of Captain Syverson and shouldn’t be talking that way.

“Fine…” she sighs heavily, lowering the tip of her army hat and rolling her eyes.

As a soldier serving at the professional US army, Gallagher knows she has a shit-ton of issues with authority, yet she wouldn’t be in any other place.  

The Captain sits at his office, wearing his favourite red t-shirt and army shorts that cut at his knees. A small portable fan is perched on his desk, pinning from side to side and blowing tiny droplet of sweat from his ridged forehead.  

During that time of the year, the temperatures reach a level that won’t shame the fiery pits of hell. Even a southern-born man like him an effort dealing with the heat, but Sy suffers quietly, not even mentioning a word of the weather. Small-talk is a waste of time, and ain't nothing but the pretence that people care when they don't.

“Captain, Sir,” the kid walks into his room, saluting the Captain. “I have private Gallagher with me.”

The young woman follows, a blank stare on her face. She salutes toward the Captain, looking robotic and so indifferent he can tell already she had a great potential of pulling some stunt and getting detained. 

“Thanks, Private Holt, you may leave now," he answers in a heavy southern accent,  and voice low and rich like smoked Whiskey.

Holt leaves the room in a hurry, leaving Gallagher to stand quietly in front of the Captain. She has dressed in a plain white t-shirt and khaki field trousers while her eyes remain hidden beneath the tip of her hat. 

“Sit down, soldier." 

He commands, taking her file in his large dirt-stained hands.

She sits down quietly. Scanning the room with silence. It is yet another captain’s office, maps on the wall, guns and ammo. A "Slayer” labelled mug rests on in his desk with freshly brewed coffee, next to it is a deck of cards. No pinup girls posters apparent anywhere, not a perv unlike her former Captain, or at least he is hiding it in his bedroom.

He finally turns to look at her, manspreading on his chair with zero elegance or concern toward her. Why should she be treated any differently?

Captain Syverson is surprisingly a very attractive man. A big guy with broad shoulders and massive muscles. His cropped short hair does well to bring out his excellent bone structure while a few scars decorate his forehead and his upper left cheek. His strained face is covered with a thick, untamed beard which he strokes at his chin while thinking to himself. 

He takes one glance at her with his fierce blue glare, and then gives her his next command “Hat off, private.”

“Sir”. She replies with compliance, taking off her hat and placing it atop her folded uniform.   

One glance at her now exposed face, and he is forced to fight back a snort of laughter. He learned how to keep his emotions hooded in this job. She is petite, her arms may look strong yet quite skinny. And it’s quite a wonder that her skin is pale while serving in the middle of the fucking Iraqi desert. 

If this was anywhere else right now, he’d offer her a burger. This is the elite they’ve been speaking of? For fuck sake. Better be worth it. 

He is aware, of course, that she is pretty, they usually are. Chase and Annica for example. Sometimes he wonders if they send all the cheerleaders squad to his unit to fuck with him, since he can’t actually, fuck them.  

“That’s better”. He gives her a small smirk which quickly fades back into what seems like his usual grumpy face. 

“We’ll keep it short and honest, private,” he says, opening her file “You’ve been transferred here from your unit, they say you are a prodigy…”

“Take me out there, and I’ll shoot a rabbit between the eyes from 20 miles away.” she interrupts him, speaking coldly. 

“Did I give you permission to speak?” he asks her with slight anger. Never in his life, he had a young recruit dare to do so, especially not a woman.

She remains silent, knowing that’s actually the required response. For change, 

“Good. Your file shows amazing achievements” He throws her file in front of her with what seemed like an utter lack of actual interest “it also shows you have attitude problems.” His eyes meet hers as he says these words, his lips clasped to show some sort of severity. “Do you know what I want to know?”

Her blue eyes stare back into his with a dead gaze. 

He sighs, rolling his eyes “Permission to speak granted.”

“You want to ask if I’m going to cause any trouble.”

He nods, folding his arms together, his eyes travelling up and down her features for a mere second. 

“No, Captain.” She can’t promise him that even if a gun was pointed at her head, but she plays along. Everything in life is like her stupid video games anyway. Oh, she does miss those. 

“Good.” He gives her another hasty smile, the kind that doesn’t show any genuine care or affection and is just meant to move the conversation forward. “So you know why you’re here?”

“I’m very good with my sniper rifle, Captain." 

"It says you’re a fucking wonder”. He answers, not ashamed to curse in front of her, which she finds slightly refreshing. All the other men constantly apologize as if she doesn’t shoot people’s head-off for a living. As if women don’t see brutality as much as men do. Perhaps even more.

“Listen, I care about my men. Just live up to your name, be a good girl and you might just make daddy proud ”. He explains to her, not even regretting saying the finale part. It’s just how he talks and if she has a problem with that she might as well not be here. 

But she doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she replies with a small, nearly invisible smirk and nods. 

“Yes, Captain." 

The Captain’s eyes lit up with the charm of a child as he smiles widely for surviving yet another conversation with a new recruit and even though he has scruff all over his face she detects two large apparent dimples in his cheek.

Finally, he stretches from his chair and stands. She follows, noticing he is menacingly tall and seems to carry himself with sheer confidence and intimidation. 

"Come, I’ll show you your room." 

She follows him silently down the hall. He doesn’t bother with making any boring small talk which she is actually quite thankful for. It’s easier to not try to connect with people. The base is quite loud at the moment anyway, and she’d be unable to hear half of it.

"Men go here.” He points to one room by the end of the hall and then continues walking until they pause next to a closed room, “Ladies go here, you met the other girls?” he asks to which she shakes her head “Well you will. Girls get their own private shower in the room, in under no circumstances you are to use the collective shower room”

He pauses and turns to look down at her. Eyes growing sofer all of a sudden. “Anyone ever bothers you, says anything even slightly inappropriate, you come straight to me, you get it?” he asks her, managing to sound both severe yet still soft at the same time. 

“I’m just over there, by the end of the hall.” he looks to the other side, touching her shoulder without thinking, so she’ll face where he is pointing. His hand leaves her shoulder without any of them, giving it any attention. 

The Captain has his own little private kingdom at the end of the very house they turned into an army base, so it seems. She wonders if that’s where all the pinup posters are hidden at.

“Enjoy your stay, Gallagher”. He speaks, looking down at her face, wondering how long will it be before he has her in his office for some sketchy behaviour. 

“Thank you, Captain, I will.” she gives him another one of her forced smirks and turns away, walking into her new quarter. 

He takes one look at her as she turns from him, unable to resist his natural temptation to look at her ass. 

It’s small, tight, the way he likes it.

'Yes, she’s gonna be trouble.'

There are two girls in the room, sitting on their beds. A beautiful redhead with rather wide shoulders and strong arms. The other woman is somewhat petite as herself with tanned skin and beautiful dark eyes. They’re both looking quite curious to know her.

“The fuck is with your captain, walking around with severe big dick energy?!” she speaks out with sheer confidence.

The other girls look at her for a long moment, complete shock on their face by the content that came out of her mouth but then burst into laughter that can be heard all over the base. 

Clearly, she isn’t the only one who noticed.

[hybridequalist]

Thinking Out Loud (Part 4)

Okay, so I ended up lying. This is a few months late to the cross-post from AO3. (Link here) But in any case, here it is if you prefer to read on tumblr.

Previous Chapter (tumblr link)

Taglist: @nesli26, @manga-crazy, @venomemes, @galleyleelol, @makingtimemine, @jackie-sugarskull, @nightshade7117, @skysthelimit291, @randomshizzles101, @inumorph, @snow-massacre, @phantom-fangirl-stuff, @pixellated-sparks, @vsalamandor2, @otaku-mai, @snarky-badger​

You woke up slowly, feeling heavy from a deep, dreamless sleep. The apartment was eerily quiet aside from a faint scraping sound repeating over and over. Your psychic “hearing” took a minute to focus on the three minds in the other room, but once it did, you were overwhelmed by the internal conversation Eddie and Venom were having.

“I LIKE THIS FEMALE. WE SHOULD OFFER OUR PROTECTION TO HER. ”

“I don’t think that would go over well. Remember the last time we were tased? ”

“SHE DOESN’T HAVE TO KNOW. ”

“Consent is important buddy. Not to mention we don't wanna freak out the tenants either."

Lauren's thoughts were more structured--she was writing her words down and concentrating on that communication. However, that didn't stop her from sneaking glances at Eddie and sizing him up, trying to guess details about his life and personality. Currently she was sneaking glances at his biceps...for some reason you really didn’t want to dwell on too long.

"EDDIE, I HEAR HER," Venom whispered to his host. Like, actually whispered; his mental voice was somehow quieter than usual.

“She’s awake? That was faster than I thought. She seem ok? ”

“I THINK SHE’S LISTENING IN. MORSEL, IF YOU ARE, GO AHEAD AND KEEP RESTING. WE WILL OCCUPY THE COLORFUL FEMALE .”

The last two words were accompanied by a mental image of Lauren with an intense focus on her vibrant hair and current choice of large earrings. You also caught the tail end of a thought that was very distinctly non-human and carried traces of a predatory desire to grab the shiny, colorful things. Eddie’s thoughts quickly curbed it--a nonverbal suppression that Venom agreed with.

You slumped back into the mattress, turning your gaze inward as you stretched and assessed your body.

You were a little sore, especially in your chest. The hyperventilation from the panic attack really did a number on you it seemed. Your hands also felt a little stiff in the joints, but it didn’t hurt to move them.

Panic attacks didn’t always end up hurting after the fact, but it wasn’t wholly uncommon. Fatigue was usually the worst aftereffect, your body struggling to recover from your survival response to an imagined threat. It sometimes went away after a good sleep, but today was going to be one of those days where the heaviness settled into your bones and made even the smallest tasks far more tiring than they ought to be.

The once-over complete, you decided you were up for leaving the bed...but not the blanket, which dragged on the floor after you like a fluffy train. You gently pushed open the door and poked your head out, peering at the kitchen down the hall, catching sight of Eddie's leather jacket at the corner of the table.

A jolt of nerves coiled in your stomach and you pulled the blanket cloak around you a little tighter. With Eddie and Venom’s attention focused mostly on Lauren, their thoughts didn’t reflect what they thought of your panic attack. What if they thought you were pathetic? Or too fragile to be around? What if they had never seen a panic attack and thought you were somehow sick?

“EDDIE, SHE’S UP. SHE’S IN THE HALL. HER BREATHING WENT ALL FUNNY AGAIN. ”

Venom’s rumbling thoughts broke through the returning panic spiral. With effort, you stepped out from the hallway and into Lauren’s line of sight. Eddie caught your gaze, brow furrowed, but before you could properly react to him, your landlady took up your view.

Lauren looked you up and down, appraising your condition. While her face seemed only lightly concerned, her thoughts were at war: her motherly tendency to worry battled with her desire to give you space and the noverbal clash of feelings was giving you secondhand mental whiplash.

“Do you need something to eat? Or drink?” she signed. You replied with the sign for water and she bustled off to fill a glass.

“So, uh,” Eddie started, then paused, looking for the right words to finish his question. He finally went with: “How are you doin’ right now? Did your rest do you any good?”

You nodded and sat next to him at the table, reaching for the notepad he and Lauren had used before your arrival.

I’m achy, but otherwise fine now. Mostly.

“YOU WERE HIGHLY DISTRESSED. DID SOMETHING HAPPEN? CAN WE STOP IT FROM HAPPENING TO YOU AGAIN? ”

Venom’s concern felt...oddly directed. He didn’t fully understand what had happened and Eddie’s explanations hadn’t entirely cleared up his confusion. He was under the impression that someone had threatened you or you had some logical reason to freak out. He wanted to find the source of that stress and remove it, like pulling out a thorn.

Mindful that Lauren would probably read whatever you wrote down later, you set about composing your explanation.

It was a panic attack. Sometimes there’s a reason, but most of the time, I start thinking about something stressful and it gets so overwhelming my body reacts like I’m actually in danger.

Eddie and Venom conferred briefly about your explanation and suddenly the symbiote had a new question. You felt your gut twist as you felt the guilt his thoughts now carried.

“DID WE DO THAT TO YOU? DID WE FRIGHTEN YOU OR STRESS YOU? ”

Again, you were careful with your words.

It wasn’t anything you directly said or did. It was more about the prospect of being in a social situation at all. I don’t go out much, so I started overthinking the minor details. It spiraled really quickly from there.

Lauren put down a tall glass of ice water on the table in front of you. You signed your thanks, put down the pen and gulped the cool liquid, savoring the relief it brought your scratchy throat.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked Lauren.

“4 hours.”

“You’ve been talking to Eddie for 4 hours?!”

“He has to write really slow for me to read it. His normal handwriting is too messy. Plus, we took a lunch break.”

Lunch break?! You snatched the pen back up.

I’m so sorry I had to miss out on the lunch. You wanted to show me something and

Eddie’s hand intercepted yours, not grabbing it but rather gently holding you back from writing any more. It was only a moment of skin contact, but it made a jolt run through you and immediately snagged your attention.

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I’m just glad you’re ok and gonna be getting better. We can reschedule if you want. No problem.”

You instinctively glanced up, looking for his thoughts. You found nothing but sincerity from Eddie. Venom was....well, you weren’t actually sure what he was thinking. On a surface level, he agreed with his host, but underneath that there was some lingering frustration. The symbiote had apparently been really excited to show you something and this forced patience wasn’t entirely sitting well with him.

You carefully moved Eddie’s still-hovering hand and started on a new line.

What about the stuff you wanted to talk about? You wrote, uncertainty and guilt still gnawing at you.

“It can wait. Seriously. My buddy wasn’t even really ready to show off his new trick; he gets excited easy.”

“I SPENT ALL NIGHT PRACTICING! I AM TOTALLY READY! APOLOGIZE! ”

“You’re ready, Vee, but it’s my hands you need if you want to show her in public. And it’s a little soon to invite her to the apartment. ”

“SHE’S ALREADY BEEN TO THERE. I DON’T SEE WHAT THE HOLD UP IS .”

“Those...were extenuating circumstances. And besides, it was more you than me that brought her there. In any case, she’s still getting to know us and I want her to get used to us in public before we do any of your other ideas. ”

It was amazing how quickly they could turn the conversation internal and how much it resembled a verbal discussion rather than truly sharing thoughts. Was it because they knew you were listening? Or was it just their natural state when switching from direct talking to others to each other?

Eddie caught sight of you looking and gave an awkward smile.

“Sorry to keep secrets, but--”

He was interrupted by a ringtone blaring from his jacket. He sighed heavily and snatched his phone.

“It’s my boss. I got an interview in an hour. Sorry to say that I gotta run. I’ll text you later, so go ahead and take it easy for a bit. I’ll leave you to your landlady’s care.”

He waved to Lauren as he answered his phone, turning on his heel to leave. Venom mentally grumbled but gave a nonverbal farewell directed at you. You stared after them long after the door closed, uncertain what to think.

Lauren sat next to you and started signing.

“Well, now I know why you called him a hot mess. Emphasis on the hot.”

You hated how fast your cheeks flushed.

[scullydubois]

Only the Light Ch. 4

Description: Missy and Scully’s girls night gets interrupted by an uninvited guest.

Read on Ao3 here. Tagging @today-in-fic​.

A long--and fun!--part. Hope you enjoy!

-------------

The elevator doors part, releasing Scully into the tranquility of her hallway. She steps out, glad to be away from the bustling FBI building and the noisy street and the elevator so squeaky that she’s pretty sure she’ll find herself trapped in it one of these days. That’s a problem for another time. For now, all Scully wants is to take off her shoes, pantyhose, and bra. The simple pleasures.

She sticks her key in the doorknob and turns. The deadbolt clicks. She’s locked it. She sighs. Missy left the door unlocked again. She twists the key the other way and it opens. She enters and drops the key, her purse, and her badge on the side table.

“It’s me!” Her voice echoes through the place.

“I’m in here,” Missy responds from the kitchen.

Scully enters the kitchen. Her sister’s still in the hostess uniform for the restaurant job she just got. She flips mindlessly through an issue of Better Homes and Garden.

“You left the door unlocked again.”

Missy flips a page of the magazine so hard she almost tears it. “Oops.” 

Scully sighs and sits down at the table. Her sister has always been the dramatic type.

“How was training?” she offers.

Missy sets down the magazine as if she’s thankful to have an out.

“Pretty standard for an upscale eatery that calls itself casual but charges twenty dollars for a bowl of soup. Turns out, the East Coast isn’t actually that different from the West Coast.”

“Wow. Who’ve thought?”

Missy chuckles. “I know, right?”

“Speaking of the West Coast…”

Melissa groans. Her sister’s been trying to get information about her whereabouts ever since she moved in. She’s under the impression that everyone’s life is as interesting as working for the FBI, and while Melissa tries to make hers so, there’s just not much to report. Except for the one thing she’s specifically avoiding. She will tell Dana at some point, she has to, but for now she doesn’t want to add to the cacophony of things her sister has to worry about. Besides, it’s not anything bad. If anything, Melissa is looking forward to telling her. It’s their mother she’s worried about.

“I told you, it’s nothing juicy. I was out there doing odd jobs. Waitressing, mostly. There was a stint as a gas station attendant.”

Scully laughs. “A gas station attendant?”

“In Oregon you’re not allowed to pump your own gas.”

Scully raises her eyebrows. “Seems like it wouldn’t be a very safe job for a young woman late at night.”

Missy shrugs, then, with the dedication of an Oscar-winning actress, says, “It was a male dominated profession, but I made do.”

Scully smiles. She knows the feeling. She steps out of her heels and carries them into her bedroom. She shimmies off her pantyhose, then sits on the edge of the bed and presses her thumbs deep into the arches of her feet. Heaven. After a moment of bliss, she takes a pair of pink fuzzy socks from her drawer and slips them on.

She returns to the kitchen--“Have you had dinner?” 

“Just a bowl of salad,” Missy replies. 

“Am I to assume by your pitiful tone that you’re up for something else?”

“If you order something and tell me I can have it, who am I to say no?”

Scully chuckles. “How courteous.”  She pulls out a drawer full of take-out menus in various conditions. Some of them Scully has had since her Academy days. 

“The ones on the top are Mexican, the middle is Chinese and Japanese, after that is Italian, and the bottom ones are Indian.” 

Few things that Dana has said have surprised Melissa as little as this organizational structure. What she doesn’t expect is the sheer volume of her sister’s collection. Her eyes widen as she approaches the drawer. There’s literally hundreds of menus stacked in there. 

“Um, may I ask for the chef’s recommendations?”

Scully pulls a couple menus out like it’s nothing.

“Well, if you’re in the mood for curry, this one is great,” she slides a colorful menu toward Missy. “But this is the best Chinese takeout in the city.” She sets down a menu with the Chinese symbols for good fortune on it (yes, Missy knows some Chinese). Missy figures they could both use some good fortune, so she picks up that one.

“Do they have hot & sour soup?”

“I’m sure. I always have the fried rice and orange chicken.”

“Oh, that sounds good too. Can we do a bowl of hot & sour soup and two portions of rice with orange chicken?”

Scully picks up the phone. “Of course.” She dials the number from the menu. As it’s ringing, Missy whispers, “And fortune cookies?”

“They always give you some. They’re not very goo-” The restaurant picks up. A fast-talking voice buzzes in Scully’s ear. 

Melissa laughs at this slip. As her sister’s about to recite the order, she adds, “I don’t care, I just want to read them.”

Scully tells the woman the order, confirms that it’ll come with fortune cookies, and gives them her address and unit number. She thanks the woman, hangs up the phone.

“It’ll be 25 minutes,” she tells Missy.

“Perfect.” Scully can tell from the sound of her voice that she’s up to no good. 

“Perfect for whatever villainous plot you’re about to drag me into, you mean?”

“Perfect for us to get ready for the girl’s night we’re about to have,” she replies matter-of-factly. 

Scully opens her mouth to protest, but Missy beats her to it. “I know, I know. It’s Thursday, you have work tomorrow, you’re tired...but it doesn’t have to be anything grand. Just a little self-care and relaxation, okay?”

Scully frowns in her funny, ‘I’m not actually upset, I just can’t think of a good comeback’ way. 

“And besides,” Missy continues, “you don’t wanna be a party pooper, do you?”

Scully frowns for real this time. This unearths some childhood insecurities she had forgotten she had. It conjures up the image of teenaged Missy with a pack of cigarettes--their mother’s--begging her to sneak out the window and smoke them together, that it would be fun. How she said no until she couldn’t bear her sister’s juvenile belittling anymore. It figures that she has to be guilted into having fun. She bets that her parents would never have imagined that their little girl smoked a cigarette younger than their free-spirited daughter ever did.

“Come onnnnn,” Missy drawls. “We can get in our pajamas and slippers, and I have some avocado face masks we can do. Plus, I brought my box set of Golden Girls.”

Scully can’t help but smile at that. On nights before big exams in medical school, she would put Blanche, Dorothy, Sophia, and Rose on in the background to keep her company as she studied. She called it her golden good luck charm because she passed every test she did this with. 

“Fine.”

Fine. The Dana stamp of approval! Missy leaps into action. “Go get dressed, and I’ll grab the face masks.”

Scully does as she’s told (per usual). She chooses her silkiest pajama set because this feels like an occasion to go all out. A few minutes later, she’s sitting on the couch letting Missy spread the avocado paste across her face. 

“Is this just mashed up avocado?” she asks. “Could we eat this?”

“I think there’s honey in it too.” Missy scraps a dot off where it spilled over to Scully’s headband and licks it. “Not bad...Are you that hungry?”

Scully chuckles. “No, I was just wondering.”

“Well, if it does to your insides what it does to your face, then watch out.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that,” Scully remarks.

“Good choice.” Missy finishes Scully’s face and turns so that Scully can do hers. Scully dips a finger into the green paste. It’s cold and sticky, not exactly a desirable combination.

“Do you do this a lot?” she asks Missy.

“Usually once a week, if I think of it.”

Scully wouldn’t have the time to think of it, let alone do it. “That’s nice,” she says wistfully, realizing there’s not much farther she can take the subject.

“I brew some tea, light some incense, and boom. My own personal nirvana.”

“Mmm.” Scully’s feeling increasingly isolated by this conversation. Missy reads her mind in the typical way.

“You don’t take much time for yourself.” It’s a statement, not a question.

 “I just don’t have much time in general,” Scully replies on the defensive.

“And you certainly don’t allot what you do have to yourself.”

Scully lifts her finger off Missy’s face, dips it back into the paste. “I take care of myself,” she says.

“But you don’t spoil yourself.”

“Who am I to be spoiled?” And there is the fundamental ideological difference between Missy and her sister. Missy, who wants life to be overflowing with joy, bereft of nothing. Dana, who believes that nothingness gives her strength, and strength gives her character.

The delivery man's knock on the door eclipses any response Melissa was planning to make. Probably for the best. This is the rift the sisters cannot manage to pave over.

Missy grabs the food and pays the man. She knows her sister would be embarrassed to be seen with the mask on, and she’ll do anything to make Dana’s life that much easier. 

They dig in, eating straight from the cartons. Missy insists on using chopsticks, which works great for the chicken but not so hot on the rice. She doesn’t bother trying them with the soup. Scully doesn’t have the patience for any of it, so she sticks to the plastic fork that came with it all.

Between bites of chicken, Scully reaches for a fortune cookie. Missy swipes it out of her hand, sending it catapulting toward the floor. 

“What was that for?” Scully exclaims.

“Haven’t you ever heard that it’s bad luck to read your fortune before you finish the meal?”

“No?”

“Well, that explains a lot then.”

Scully smirks, sets the cookie back on the table with the others. “I think you just wanted that one.”

Missy feigns innocence, then shrugs. “I have a good feeling about it.”

-----------

A few minutes later, the girls have settled on the couch, empty cartons of take-out strewn on the table in front of them. The four fortune cookies they received are all wrapped up. They’re too full to bother with them just yet. They chirp bits of commentary about the Golden Girls episode they’re watching back and forth between each other.

“I see some Blanche in you,” Scully comments, “but mostly I think you’re Rose.”

“She’s my favorite, so I will gladly accept that,” Missy replies.

The episode’s laugh track nearly conceals a slight rap on the door. 

Scully looks toward the door. “Did you hear something?” 

Missy clicks the volume down on the remote. “Maybe. I’ll check.”

She heads for the door,  peeks through the peephole, then unfastens the chain and lets the door swing on its hinges.

“It’s Mulder!” she exclaims after Mulder has already stepped through the doorway.

It is, in fact, Mulder. Still in his work clothes and holding a manila folder. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Oh. Melissa.”

She smiles slyly. Evidently, he did not expect her nor her face mask.

“Hello, Fox.”

Scully pulls her feet up onto the couch and crosses her arms protectively over her chest, hoping that somehow, maybe, he won’t notice her here in her own apartment. Her first thought is that she’s not wearing a bra. She realizes that this is an unproductive thought to have because it’s not like she’s naked or anything, she’s wearing a pajama top, and he’s seen her in a pajama top before. Hell, he saw her in her underwear on their first case! Not to mention that he’d seen her on her deathbed, and is there anything more naked than that? Still, she hadn’t expected him, and she feels caught off-guard by his sudden appearance. 

For what it’s worth, Mulder is caught off guard by her too. She looks...soft. Relaxed. He very rarely gets to see her in casual circumstances. Even in the assortment of motel rooms he’d sat with her in, she was always keyed up, her mind trying to piece together the puzzle of whatever case they were on. This was new territory. 

“Hi, Scully,” he croaks. 

“Hello,” she replies sheepishly. 

Mulder can’t take his eyes off her. He’s endeared by the green face mask and all of its components. The headband pulling tendrils of her hair tenderly away from her face, the stray locks that have slipped out and stuck to the paste, the extra youthful look it gives her...he never realized how much he missed out on. How much she keeps from him. Suddenly, he’s certain: the woman sitting on the couch isn't Scully. It’s Dana, and there's nothing he wants more than to get to know her better. 

Remembering what he’s there for, he holds the folder out to her. 

“Uh, I just came to give you these toxicology results. I thought you might want to review them before tomorrow.”

She takes the folder while keeping one arm stationed in front of her chest.

“Thank you. I will.”

She plops the folder with the mess on the coffee table and returns both arms to her chest.

Feeling like the intruder that--in Scully’s mind--he is, Mulder glances at the TV.

“Golden Girls. That’s serious business, I’ll get out of your hair.”

Melissa mutes the TV. “Actually, we were just discussing what Golden Girl we think we are. We agreed that I’m Rose, but we’re still trying to figure out Dana.”

This is a challenge Mulder is more than happy to accept. 

“Dana…” He looks at her with a lop-sided smile, letting the word roll off his tongue in a teasing way.

Scully blushes. Oh how she wishes her body would not so easily give her away. Figuring there’s nothing to lose, she takes this opportunity to catalogue the colors in his eyes. She has an ongoing debate with herself about what color they actually are. She’s seen green, brown, and blue with such certainty that she’s pretty sure he has the ability to change them like a mood ring. She’s not sure she would want to know what each color means. 

She decides that they’re looking quite green tonight (is that good?) and breaks eye contact with him out of necessity. Call it self-preservation.

This silent exchange pleases Melissa, maybe even more than it does Mulder. She loves being right as much as her sister does. 

“I was thinking she’s a Dorothy,” Melissa pipes up. “What do you think, Fox?”

He flinches. Melissa scoffs. “Sorry--Mulder. What is it with FBI agents and insisting on being called their last name? That’s got to be some sort of psychological phenomenon.” Then, because she can’t resist--“You should open a x-file on that.”

Scully chuckles. Mulder just purses his lips.

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

“I know,” Melissa claps back in jest. “That’s why I said it.”

Scully looks toward the window. She could have sworn she saw a flash of lightning outside, but no thunder follows it. When she looks back, Mulder’s eyes are trained on her once again. Yep, still green. He pushes some of the cartons aside and perches on the table in front of her and Missy. If Scully put her legs down, their knees would touch. 

“Dorothy is the obvious choice,” he says. “But that’s too easy. Scully’s not easy.”

Scully flicks her gaze toward Missy, who bites her lip to keep the sarcastic comment in her mind from slipping out. 

“So what is she then?” Melissa challenges.

Scully’s eyes meet Mulder’s. She’s not sure what he’ll say, and she’s not too worried about it. What matters is that she’s looking at him, he’s looking at her, and her skin feels like it’s been warmed by the sun. This is not a normal reaction to another human being looking at you, she knows. She made a pact with herself early on not to think too hard about it. It’s moments like this that make her question the point of that.

She feels sated...she so rarely feels that way. Realizing that there is nothing worth keeping from him, not right now, Scully lowers her hands into her lap.

Feeling like he’s done something right, Mulder smiles. He answers Missy’s question without taking his eyes off his partner. Scully’s burning up.

“Well, she’s smart but not pretentious, curious but not unconventional, reliable but not naive, honest but not a curmudgeon, and diligent but not intense...so I don’t know.”

He looks to Melissa. 

“Are any of the Golden Girls as interesting as that?”

Scully’s breath catches. This is quite possibly the most romantic moment of her whole life...What does that say about her? She lowers her feet so that her silk pajama bottoms nuzzle his coarse slacks. Call it a gesture of goodwill. Meanwhile, Mulder wonders if Scully notices that their kneecaps are touching.

Missy smiles. She’s engineered a moment, and what a wonderful one. 

“I suppose not,” she replies lightly. “Dana’s one of a kind.”

“That’s for sure.” Mulder clasps Scully’s hand, and for a second, she thinks he’s going to kiss it. His fingers slip away and grab a fortune cookie off the table instead.

He rips the plastic off it, then snaps it in half. He sets a half in Scully’s open palm as if on instinct. She didn’t even realize she had turned her hand up. Her fingers close over the cookie. She couldn’t possibly eat it now that he’d touched it. Or was that all the more reason to eat it?

Mulder pulls the paper from his half, pops the cookie in his mouth, and crunches as he reads the fortune. “Depart not from the path which fate has you assigned...huh.” He crumbles up the plastic and sticks it in his pocket. “Never seen that one before.”

“Me neither,” Scully remarks dreamily. Melissa looks on, feeling like she’s watching a movie play out in front of her.

Mulder rubs his hands against his pant legs to extend the moment, then stands up, bumping Scully as he does.

“Sorry,” he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. She shakes her head to indicate it’s nothing. “You’re fine.”

As she looks up at him, Mulder finds himself struck with the desire to swim in those blue eyes of hers. He knows that his feeling for Scully--whatever it is--is different from the girls on his magazines and tapes. His thoughts about Scully are somehow both innocent and ridiculously gratifying. His thoughts about the other girls are neither.

“Well, I’ll get going,” he says, stepping around Scully and Melissa’s feet. He turns back to meet Scully’s glance one last time--

“See you tomorrow morning.” He winks.

Scully is so charmed by this all she can muster up is, “Uh-huh.”

Missy bursts into laughter as soon as Mulder closes the door. Scully lets her. She looks down at her palm and realizes that she has put so much pressure on the fortune cookie that it crumbled. She won’t read into this either.

[prolestariwrites]

The Wish [1]

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, Vergil, Nero, V, Lady, Eva, Sparda, OC  Rating: General  Tags: Family, Humor, Fluff, Angst, Typical demon hunting violence

Summary: A demon gives Dante the chance to have his greatest desires made real. When he finds himself in a seemingly idyllic life, all seems well until it starts to unravel. Will he sacrifice himself to save the family he lost, or will he choose to give them up for the truth?

A/N: Hooray for a new story! This story takes place sometime between DMC4 and DMC5. Thank you to @solynacea for reading and lending her OC for this fic. If you’re read Promise Me Forever you might recognize Lir, but she is completely different in this fic, so I hope you like it! I’ll be publishing about every week since I’m mostly finished. Your comments are always appreciated, and you can check this out on AO3 and FFNet too!

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Chapter 1: Be Careful What You Wish For

“Nero!” Dante’s voice echoes down the hallway as he peers through the rush of demons, swinging Rebellion as best as he is able as he scans for him. “You good?”

“Need help already?” The kid sounds nearby, but down a ways, and Dante snorts at the smart-aleck response. He bites back a response, remembering what it was like to be nineteen and feel invincible, to have power and stamina and enjoy the rush of killing demons.

It’s different now that he is older, the moves as familiar as breathing, the enemies mundane as paint drying. Meeting Nero and getting to know the kid, training him, especially with his suspicions all but confirmed, has breathed new life into the legendary devil hunter: but it’s still just a regular Friday night, clearing out another warehouse that houses another cell of demons for another client that’s just going to bitch about the holes left in the walls.

Dante continues pushing forward, slicing off arms and heads as he goes. There has to be a queen mother up ahead; no way this many slipped through a portal, these babies were bred. Maybe getting to the big bad will be interesting, and then he and Nero can stop before going into Fortuna to get a drink or six. Maybe he’ll even let Dante crash on the couch, now that he and Kyrie have set up in a house in town and have the room.

The drone of Red Queen suddenly cuts off, the lack of white noise catching his attention. “Nero?” he calls again, but this time instead of a snarky comment two shots ring out in response, followed by the entire building shaking as a roar goes up from inside. “Nero!” Dante shouts, slicing as he doubles his speed, actually trying now so he can find the kid and find out why the hell he needed his gun in such close quarters. Either he forgot one of Dante’s rules for demon hunting (“don’t shoot a gun in a tight space, dumbass”) or he’s in trouble.

Turns out it’s trouble—well, sort of. They are on the third floor, having been going methodically through each level to clear it out, and when Dante skids to a stop in the central part where the elevators are, he finds them gone. Instead, there is a huge hole where the elevators used to be, the concrete and iron in a heap below them where it had collapsed.

He looks up to see Nero on the other side of the giant hole, wiping his brow with his forearm. “You okay, kid?” Dante calls over.

“Yeah,” Nero shouts with a bit of a laugh. “I got them corralled but I guess the weight was too much. Just managed to jump out of the way.”

Dante shakes his head. “Stay there and I’ll come get you.”

“Nah, I got this. There’s gotta be a set of fire stairs at the end.” Nero points Red Queen towards the dark hallway behind him. “Let’s make sure that was the last of them. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

“Yeah.” Dante sighs as he watches Nero go, and then looks around at where the floor and elevators had broken from the supports and given way. No way the weight made this happen; you could probably park a semi in here and it would hold. The building is structurally sound, supposed to be anyway, and it would take more than a few dozen demons to knock a hole in it. No, something made the floor collapse, and his gaze goes upwards, wondering where the queen bee could be hiding.

Dante doubles back and finds his staircase, taking the steps two at a time upwards. The hallways are eerily empty after the deluge in the bottom floors, and he stalks carefully through, checking each office. The damn place has a thousand places to hide, so there is no telling where the big bad could be.

On the top floor, lucky number seven, he hits the jackpot. The second he steps out from the stairwell Ebony and Ivory are drawn as he picks his way through the nest that covers the walls and floor and even ceiling. The emergency lights give a weird glow to everything, but his demon eyes can see clearly in the dim light as he listens carefully for movement.

He finds the demon in the corner office, thinking it has good taste and laughing at his own joke. At first he doesn’t see the queen, but a shift in the air catches his eye and he fires both guns into the dark, smiling at the sound of bullets making their impact.

With a wail it emerges from the shadow, clutching its chest. “What did you do that for?” the demon yells.

“Eviction notice, numbnuts,” he says. “Time to head back to wherever the fuck you came from.”

“I can’t,” the demon argues. “I have my eggs to hatch, my babies to look after—”

“Babies?” Dante chuckles, scratching his head as he places his other hand on his hip. “Sorry, I think I killed all of ‘em.”

The demon snarls. But instead of threatening him, Dante is surprised when it asks, “What do you want?”

“What?” he blinks.

“What do you want? To leave me alone?”

Dante huffs. “Don’t work like that, sweetheart.”

The demon moves closer and he aims his guns again. It starts to unfold itself from its spot, and Dante’s eyebrows go up to see it’s probably almost seventeen feet tall, completely squished into the office. “My name is Veguaniel,” it says. “I am the demon of fortune.”

“Good for you.”

“How much do you want?” the demon asks. “How much are you being paid to kill me? I can double it. Triple it even.”

“Are you serious?” he groans. “I don’t do this for the money.”

The demon looks him up and down. “That’s obvious.”

“Watch it.” He points the guns at its head, and the demon shrinks back a bit.

“I want to pay you! I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams! You’d never have to slaughter the innocents like me again!” Dante snorts as it tilts its head. “You can’t possibly like doing this.”

He cocks the hammer on each gun. “Not about liking it. About paying the bills.”

The demon gives an annoyed huff. “This is what I’m saying. I can make you rich. I can buy you whatever you want. There’s got to be something you’d rather be doing than this. Would you like a mansion? A yacht? How about a palace?”

Dante chuckles to himself, but admits it’s almost tempting. Suppose this demon has some fortune granting power? He tries to think of himself as some fancy millionaire and fails. To be honest, all he would really want is a nice house and a nicer bike. Maybe work on engines, build things? Meet a pretty girl with a sharp wit and killer smile and settle down, like Nero and Kyrie have.

“This is stupid,” he says. “Not gonna happen.”

“So why do you do it?” it asks. “There must be something a god of fortune can give you for one tiny, little favor.”

Dante growls under his breath, his patience out. “I’m a devil hunter because I’ve been hunted by demons my whole life,” he snaps. “Ever since you fuckers came down on my house when I was a kid, killed my family, and then made my life miserable. Getting paid is just a bonus.”

“Hmmm.” A tentacle slithers out and taps on the demon’s cheek, as if it is thinking. “Did that make you sad?”

“What?”

“Did losing your family and all that make you sad?”

“What the hell? Of course it did!” Dante snaps. “But I don’t see why—”

“So you wouldn’t be a demon hunter if they hadn’t died, is that it?” The demon’s voice trails off, and Dante frowns. “I can grant you a fortune that has nothing to do with money. Would you like your family back?”

He grits his teeth, anger starting to bubble. “Shut the hell up.”

The demon bares its teeth in a grotesque smile. “Done.”

The floor gives way, and Dante shouts as he falls, firing upwards. He gets a glance of the demon waving to him just moments before he lands headfirst on the concrete and the world goes black.

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The squeak of the shower turning on wakes him. Dante opens his eyes and immediately regrets it, pain piercing his temples like an ice pick to the brain. “Damn it,” he sighs, reaching up to rub his forehead.

The ceiling is white, not the faded yellow of his place, so he figures he must be at Nero’s. Damn, did the kid have to find him and save his ass? He’ll never live this down, and as he stretches his stiff limbs he sighs and closes his eyes again.

He remembers the warehouse and the demons, and Nero getting separated. Then he had found the head at the top of the building and it had… asked him about his family? Dante frowns, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes. Demons are getting fucking weirder by the day.

He enjoys the few minutes of quiet until the shower turns off. Dante sighs, moving to roll over and sit up. Either Nero or Kyrie are in there, so he figures he’ll go downstairs and give them privacy, but when he sits up he notices two things. First, he’s in just his boxers, which is weird because that means Nero undressed him. Also, he doesn’t own boxers, preferring to let his junk ride free, knowing the ladies liked how it looked in tight denim.

Second, their bedroom is way different than it was. He’s been there a few times but he helped Nero paint the house and their bedroom was definitely green. Dante remembers this because Nero had bitched about the color to him because he couldn’t to Kyrie. But the bedroom is now a soft shade of blue, and he wonders if the kid finally confessed that the color sage reminded him of puke.

The door to the bathroom opens and a woman walks out wrapped in a towel. He blinks when it’s immediately obvious it is not Kyrie: this one is shorter, slimmer, her platinum hair almost white like his and falling in a trendy bob style at her shoulders. The woman takes no notice of him, moving to a set of drawers and opening the top one.

“Uh, excuse me?” Dante says.

The woman looks over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Who are you?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “Har har, very funny.” She goes back to pulling out clothes and says, “I know I said I’d never work on a Saturday, but Jenny’s kid is sick and I didn’t have the heart to make her come in. But I promise it’s only a half shift, and I’ll be home by two.”

That doesn’t answer his question at all, but before he can point that out she drops the towel. Dante spins quickly, his heart pounding as he yanks the sheet up over his lap, hissing, “What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m covering for Jenny. It’ll be easy enough for a Saturday. It’s a nice day out, nobody goes to the library when it’s sunny.” Dante peeks over to see her thankfully wearing a bra and panties, which he stares at for a moment before remembering he shouldn’t be staring. He looks down at his own lack of clothes and frowns, wondering if it’s her house he slept in. Does that mean they had sex? Maybe he and Nero made it to the bar after all and he got lucky?

Not bad, he thinks as he looks back to where she is shimmying on a pair of jeans. She’s cute enough at least, gorgeous even, although he wishes he could remember her name. “Hey, uh—”

“Don’t forget to be ready by five,” she says, rolling on deodorant. Then she glances over at him and frowns. “You okay?”

“No. Yes. Sorry, five?”

Dante frowns and she laughs. “Yes. Reservations are at five-thirty and you know if we’re a minute late your brother will start complaining.”

That gets his attention, and Dante feels the blood drain from his face. “My… brother?”

“Yes. It’s your parents’ anniversary. Remember?” Dressed now, she runs a brush through her hair as she sighs. “Please tell me you didn’t forget. This has been planned for weeks.”

Dante jumps up and stalks towards her, pulling the brush from her hand and grabbing her elbow to turn her. She only comes up to about his shoulders, and his expression goes menacing as he glares down at her surprised one. “What do you know about my parents?”

“Dante, what in the world? What is wrong with you?” The concern in her voice tempers him a bit, and she pulls her arm away to press a palm to his cheek. She examines his eyes closely as she asks, “Are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head or something? You look strange.”

“I…” I fell, he wants to say, but she brushes his jaw gently. “Why don’t you take it easy today? You’ll have the whole house to yourself. Get some coffee and just relax, and when I get home we’ll see how you feel, okay?”

Did losing your family and all that make you sad? Where did that come from? “What about my parents?” he asks again harshly.

She takes a steady breath. “It’s the thirteenth. Their fiftieth wedding anniversary. We’re all going out to dinner to celebrate.” Then she rubs his arm gently, and it’s then that he notices the band on her ring finger. His eyes go wide, and startled, he looks at his own left hand, where a matching gold band sits on his fourth finger.

His blood is pounding in his ears so loudly he barely hears her goodbye. “Just stay home and relax,” she says, and when she reaches up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek it pulls Dante back to the present.

He watches her walk through the room and grab her purse just as she reaches the door. Then he is left blinking as the door shuts, the sound of his raging heartbeat still thundering in his ears.

[contrivedcoincidences6]

SO this is a continuation on my missing moments from the comics series called “Dirty Hands” @otterandterrier has betaed each and every one of them and I couldn’t do it with out her.  You can read these stories on their own but why not just read all of them? 💁🏻 This particular story is verrryyyyy NSFW

This takes place after Issues #16-19 right after Leia has a run in with a former Alliance spy turned crazy bad guy. Eneb Ray was an Alderaanian survivor who, after a run in with Palpatine, loses his shit and decides he needs to teach Leia how to kill people. So he traps her in the Alliance’s most secrete secure prison and tries to force her to kill the prisoners. Han and Luke come and try to save her but are immediately captured and used as hostages. (Also because this does come up Han and Luke had to herd literal Nerfs in the Falcon after Han lost a bunch of Alliance money gambling. It is golden.)

***

The trip to the base on Horox III from Sunspot prison was mercifully short for the small crews of the Millenium Falcon and the Volt Cobra. At first Leia had naturally just walked over to the Falcon for her trip back, but she found the place covered in various mysterious substances and smelling like it had been filled to the brim with Nerfs, which was a definite step down from the usual mix of dirty socks and wet Wookiee. When she’d said as much, Luke had turned pink and mumbled something unintelligible while Han had become belligerent. So Leia flew back with Sana, glad for the extra time away from Han for her to think through her next step with him.

Before going to Sunspot prison with Sana, Leia had shared multiple passionate kisses with the smuggler and he had seemed to want to discuss it, and assuredly continue it, when she got back. She, however, was not as eager for such a conversation. 

They arrived at the outpost exhausted and wounded, and Leia went to find a quiet place to finish putting together her report on what had happened. Horox III was desolate, which was a big reason why it had been chosen. When the rebels had set up camp, they’d built a couple permanent buildings but for the most part the outpost was just temporary structures and tents.

Hoping to avoid Han, Leia was watchful and quick, and only when she was behind a wall and out of sight of the Falcon she started to breathe a sigh of relief... until Han’s voice sounded behind her. 

“You really should be heading to medical, get some bacta on your arm.” 

Leia stiffened and turned to face him. She was covered in all manner of scratches and bruises from head to toe but had little interest in being a captive audience for Han while she got fixed up. 

Glancing down at the long gash on her arm, she scowled. It was worse than she’d thought and looking at it brought the pain to the front of her mind. 

“Thank you for your concern,” she said flatly, and started to walk away. 

“Hey.” Han followed her. “Just wait a sec, okay? Sorry Luke and I kriffed up the rescue.”

She frowned at him, shook her head, and kept walking until he took hold of her arm and stopped her. 

After a deep breath, Leia forged ahead with a speech she’d been practicing ever since their first kiss. 

“I’m not sure what you are expecting from me but I can’t give it. The kisses have been… nice…” 

Han snorted at her choice of words and she paused to glare at him. 

“Han, I don’t have time or patience for whatever this is,” Leia gestured angrily between them, “so I would appreciate it if you could drop it. If that’s beyond your capabilities, then we will just need to start avoiding each other-” 

“Kriff, Leia, you’re acting like I proposed to you or somethin’!” Han waved his arms in his patently wild way and, despite her deep blush, she continued before he could ramp up his rant. 

“We work too closely for this to become an issue; it’s a distraction I can’t afford.”

“So your life just stops then until- what- the war’s over?”

“My life stopped when Alderaan was destroyed.”

Han’s face grew deadly serious and he moved in close to her. She felt claustrophobic trapped between him and the wall, and looked anywhere but his face until he put a finger to her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. 

“How long are you planning on punishing yourself for what the Empire did?”

“Get over yourself Han.” Leia was fuming but he didn’t back down. She could have gotten away from him, either kneed him in the the groin or just slipped away, but she didn't. Instead, she stared up into his eyes. Equal parts brown, green, and gold, Han’s eyes were a reflection of the man himself; all contradictions fighting to take over, changing to fit the situation. They were dark as she looked up to meet them. They reminded her of the forests on Alderaan, beautiful and untamed, and she felt her heart give way a little bit under his gaze.

She really didn’t mean to kiss him, but in that moment it had felt like her only option, like it was what she was meant to be doing.

The past few days-hell, the past few months-had been so frightening, that sinking into Han’s kiss did more for her than a bacta tank. He leaned her against the wall and Leia couldn’t stop the thrill that ran through her body when she felt him press against her. 

Static filled Leia’s ears when Han ran his tongue between her lips and she gripped his arms, holding herself in place. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her even closer.  

The man knew how to kiss, and she opened up her mouth to let him show her the extent of those skills. 

He pressed against her hungrily and lightly bit her bottom lip. Leia felt herself responding in kind, needing him more than air. 

The distant sound of laughter from a nearby hangar forced them apart. They were hidden enough but someone could easily come across them. 

“Not here,” Leia said roughly, and she pushed him away before continuing her path to the tent she’d been assigned. 

Han followed her wordlessly, a man possessed, but still wary of any onlookers. Leia, however, hardly noticed her surroundings. She felt more alive than she had since she’d been on the Death Star. 

Fine. She would give into her unrelenting want for Han Solo, she would quench that thirst and move on.  

When he entered the tent, they hardly paused to look at each other, instead just colliding in the middle of the small space. Han’s hands tracked burning trails up and down her bruised body causing a small eruption of lust to explode in her belly. He roughly grabbed her ass, pushing her hips against his and she felt him there, hard as iron and hot to the touch through their clothing. 

She suppressed her moan by biting his neck lightly which in turn brought up a choked sound from him. 

“Quiet,” she rasped and kissed him again. 

Han was unusually quiet and in some ways that made it easier for Leia to pretend it would mean nothing. It wasn’t really Han, the brilliant yet goofy smuggler who tried so hard to pretend he didn’t care. This wasn’t the man who had helped her off the Death Star and who had chased after Darth Vader in a stolen AT-AT, who questioned her relentlessly but always backed her up when it mattered. 

This was just a body, a hard, calloused, warm body, with hands that knew exactly what to do and when. Hands that were making quick work of her bodysuit. 

There was a wince and a sharp intake of breath when Han looked down at her body. She was covered in bruises from her fight with Eneb Ray. The thought of the former Alliance spy caused a pain that began inside Leia’s soul and overwhelmed any physical pain; she couldn’t take it. She chased it away by taking hold of Han’s inert hands and placing them firmly on her cloth covered breasts. The thin fabric of her bra made for excellent friction between Han’s mechanic’s fingers and her diamond-hard nipples. 

He worked her body the way she’d watched him work his ship and countless pieces of equipment. Leia tried to ignore the way he looked at her, though; it was too tender to be coming from Han. His eyes would turn mossy and soft for moments between kisses and she preferred the dark desire that took over when she moved her hips against him in a way that made small fireworks explode all over her body. 

She tugged at his troublesome blaster belt until he finally grunted and pulled it off himself. Even the moment of lost connection felt like a blow to Leia, and she pulled him back quickly, letting one hand go back to her breast but moving the other between her legs. Han gasped silently into her mouth when his fingers touched her warm hot center, but he hardly hesitated. 

His fingers moved in different ways until he found exactly what she liked, and then he didn’t stop. 

Leia’s legs nearly gave out when he trapped her clit between two fingers and played with it there. God, it was almost exactly how she touched herself, how she’d touched herself just days before thinking of him, and that thought was overwhelming. 

“Cot,” she mumbled into his mouth. The one word was so mumbled, it sounded like an alien language, but Han moved to the cot without any further explanation. 

“Yes…” Leia breathed when he settled his weight on top of her and began moving his fingers again. His hips moved against her leg and the feeling of his hard cock was delicious and dangerous.

“Yeah, you like that?” Han asked gruffly. She squinted open one eye to see his sideways grin and wanted to argue with him, but the way he was moving his fingers was too heavenly and she didn’t want him to stop. So she just nodded. 

His smile took on a hint of playful menace and he took one of her nipples between his lips, lightly brushing his teeth against the puckered skin. 

“Aghhh!” Leia burst out before she could slam her hand over her mouth. She hated how vulnerable she felt, so easily read by Han and his-what had to be- Force-filled fingers. She wanted to push him off her and take control, but the waves of pleasure were stronger than her need to dominate Han Solo, so she let him have this round. 

After just a few more minutes, she could practically see her climax behind her eyelids; she bit down on one finger to keep from shouting as she thrust her hips against Han’s moving fingers in just the right way and she was flying through hyperspace to an unknown destination. 

Before the fuzzy feelings of her orgasm wore off, she was struggling to push his pants down. Han eagerly helped her and, after an eternity, he was in her hands. 

Leia had done this before and had been unimpressed. She’d been aroused by her boyfriend at the time and had enjoyed running her hands up and down his erection, causing him to lose it before he’d been inside her. Eventually they’d had sex, and afterwards Leia had wondered what all the fuss had been about. 

The boy at the time had been a secret fling, a way for her to privately rebel without truly being destructive, but this was Han, and the thought of having that kind of power over him almost drove her right back over the edge. 

She was starting to understand the hype.

Thanking the stars that the Alliance asked all people under their command take tri-monthly shots, Leia was about to pull him right into her when she realized how intimate their position was. He was looking at her like she was some kind of beautiful fantasy, and part of her soul lit up at that in a way that made her distinctly uncomfortable. So instead, she flipped herself over and onto her hands and knees. It would be better this way, not meeting his eyes. 

Han didn’t seem to mind; he practically growled as he grabbed hold of her hips and pushed in. 

Leia threw her face into the rough, Alliance-issued, probably used pillow and let out a silent scream. Han nearly bit into her shoulder, trying to control his own reaction, and he stopped moving for a minute as they got used to the feeling. 

It was such a good feeling, too. Leia pushed back against him, needing more, and he obliged. 

Within minutes they were moving together, totally lost to the world around them, only aware of each other and their own efforts to be as quiet as possible. 

Later Leia would thank the Force that most people had been busy at that time of day, and be grateful that the sound of running ships and equipment would have drowned out anyone but the closest bystanders, because she knew they were loud at the end. 

Han especially broke his silent streak with a string of Corellian curses as he came. He kept moving inside of her, seemingly determined to get her off again and, with one hand on the railing of the cot, he moved the other between her legs and swirled around her clit with his rough fingers until she came violently around him. 

They collapsed seconds later, sweaty, dirty, and sated. 

For a few minutes following the deed, Leia let Han collect her in his arms, but horror filled her when she began to gather her breath and understand her surroundings. 

“This won’t change things,” Leia insisted against his neck before she began to push away. He tried to hold onto her, but sighed in resignation and let her go when she kept moving. 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he muttered and wearily watched her as she began to dress. 

When Leia threw his pants on the cot next to him, he grabbed for them in a huff and was dressed before she was. 

She could see the frustration coming off of him in waves and knew he was trying to find the words to express it. 

“I need to find General Madine and turn in my reports,” Leia said, pointedly ignoring the awkwardness hanging in the air around them. 

“Sure. Have a good day, Your Highness,” Han snapped at her before he stalked out of the tent. 

After he left, she took one more look at the ruined cot and closed her eyes, wondering how much she’d regret this. 

Squaring her shoulders and collecting her data pads, she finally left the tent, determined to forget about this new tryst.

[exodusmc]

Prey

Genre: vampire au, smut 

Words: 3006

Paring: vampire Jin X human reader

Warning!:  Blood(feeding), rough sex, choking, unprotected sex, gore, overstimulation, manipulation(?), dirty talk

a/n: But like black haired Jin is superior :)

Gif is not mine 

He moved gracefully over the floor, eyes shing black and hair the softest of velvet. You stared openly at the handsome man, how his lips were so plush. Let’s just say you weren't the only one through heart eyes his way. He stopped before some girl, her eyes widening as she tried to look sexy. 

“Y/n!”your boss suddenly screamed at you, making you flinch and stop staring at the man.”Get to work!”

You started making coffee for the madame which was giving you an annoyed look, blushing furiously as you felt the handsome man look your way. It wasn't fun working in the food court but what wouldn't a student do for some more money?You would soon be going to college so you need every  penny you could get.

“Here’s your drink and sorry for the wait”you bow to the woman, stiffening at her scoff. 

“Start doing your work instead of staring”

“Sorry..”you mumbled as she walked away, eyes staring down at the floor just to not look anywhere else. You didn't mean to be so lost, he was just inhumanly handsome. 

-

Work ended later than it usually did, your body aching from cleaning the whole shop as punishment for your little slip up earlier. The mall was closed and it felt rather scary walking through it 11 pm but you were happy that you didn't have school in the morning or else you would be dead. You slipped out of the big building, shivering at the cold gust of wind which legit smacked you in the face.

“Oh god..”you ran to the bus stop, grateful for the little shed like structure which could hide you from most of the wind. When you saw the yellow vehicle coming, you realized that at least your job weren't the worst. 

Stepping inside the bus, warmth instantly made your body less stiff. You pulled a small smile at the man driving, which he didn't return, just drove before you could sit down towards the back.

“Rude..”mumbling you sent him a dirty look, deciding to use the seat belt incase he tried to kill you by driving of the road. You never liked being alone late at night but you couldn't walk home, so this was the best option.  

Music screamed in your ears as you stared out the window, seeing the same trees as you had seen for around 18 years. Autumn had really come now, the weather colder and duller. Halloween wasn't so far away either, which was fun. It meant no school and movies through the whole day. You smiled slightly at the thought being wrapped up in a blanket and having no worry in the world. Everything was so peaceful and you felt heavy, like you could fall asleep any second but the bus screeched, breaking so hard you flew forward, being caught by the seat belt but making a not so pretty sound. You took out one of your earphones, staring as the busdriver got out of the vehicle. Every hair stood on your body, an eerie feeling crawling over your skin. Something was wrong and the feeling grew the closer you got to the door. You saw the bus driver standing in the headlight, his back turned against you. A frown took its place on your lips, the song which you were listening to starting to sound like a running heartbeat. You swallowed hard about to call for the man when someone else appeared through thin air. His shoulders broad and he was taller than the driver. You stilled, eyes widening as the man grabbed a hold of the shorter ones throat, fingers piercing his skin and ripping his head of. You didn't know what to do, fear paralyzing you. The other one grabbed the headless body, putting his face against it and doing something you couldn't see, however he dropped the corpse and you could see him, who was too handsome and dripping in blood. You screamed, you had never screamed so loud before in your life. Stumbling backwards, panic growing when you realized you were stuck in the bus. The man snapped his head up at you, eyes staring at you, a predators red eyes. He moved with a speed no human could muster, standing inside the bus in one blick. You fell backwards, tears gushing over your cheeks, panic settling in your bones. It was the man you saw at the mall, the one with hair as the night, and now was he standing before you with his lower face covered in blood, fingers slick in the liquid. He took a step forward, instantly making you whimper. He was going to kill you, take all of your blood. 

“P-please d-don't kill m-me”you pleaded out, flinching when he leaned closer to your face, grinning down at you. 

“Oh..Why would I kill such a pretty little prey, before playing with it?”he questioned you, voice smooth and seeding shiver over your body. You cried harder, shaking when his hands reached for trembling limbs. 

The man grabbed you like you were a rag doll and you felt your world turn when you saw the fangs which pushed slightly against his plump under lip. You were so scared but could do nothing. He had caught you, his little prey. 

-

“Kim Seokjin! What in the world are you doing?!”Namjoon bombed through the mansion, eyes shining red. His anger was clear and Jin simply shrugged at the fuming vampire, a small smirk playing on his bloody lips. 

“Hm?”Jin answered bored, his hands holding your unconscious body. He couldn't care less about the leader and his irritation. Jin did what he wanted, even if Namjoon disliked it. 

“What do you think you are doing!?”brown hair stood everywhere on his head, evidence to him working late and running his hand through the locks. “You can't go kill people and take them!”

“But I just did”Jin looked smug and he realized that he was pushing at Namjoons patience, the latter having not fed in a long time. 

“ I know, I could smell her from a mile away and that means others could too!”Jin started to feel annoyance build in him at the nagging of the younger vampire. 

“You know what..my last feeding human died and I wanted a new one..”he hissed at Namjoon, who flinched back, his anger falling. 

“..You should have asked first, talked to me about it”

“It would have taken to long. She is mine now and I intended to keep her”Jin’s teeth shone in the lurky room, eyes like wise. 

He disappeared, leaving Namjoon biting his lip. He knew how much it hurt losing your human but Jin had never mention wanting a new one, refusing every time someone brought it up over the last century. So this was unaccounted for, completely random, and Namjoon feared because the humans had changed. Would everything go wrong and why was Jin so keen about keeping you?

-

It hurt, mostly because you felt stiff, but also because  your head spinned even when you had your eyes closed. What happened? You laid still, thinking that you were in your bed but the silk feeling and cloud like lightness made you open your eyes.. You had a nightmare filled with blood and a handsome face. Opening your eyes an inch, you wondered why you were in a different room when all you had was a nightmare.

“Good morning” instantly sitting up, chills ran down your spine when you saw your nightmare resting in an armchair, red as blood and velvet like his hair. “Slept well?”

He was beautiful and even more so when he wasn't covered in crimson liquid. You didn't know what to say or do. You were scared and all his attention made you feel small. 

“What are you?”whispering, you stared at him, taking in every feature. He wasn't human and that made him unreal. Skin slightly pale and shining. He had a gentle face but the way he watch you like a prey made him scary. 

“Oh I’m exactly what you think I am..A vampire” this can't be real. Vampires don't exist, which makes him just an imagination your head made up. Maybe it was  what you desire most but why would he be a killer then?You had a stare of, which you lost. He was powerful and sat with such grace you felt awful.

“Do you know what you are?”the question was weird, nonetheless making your blood run cold. 

“Human..”

“Right...My human”he got up from the chair, walking towards you as tears pooled in your eyes. Fright, chilling pure fright. It filled you, made you numb when he grabbed your chin with two fingers, forcing you to look at him, really look at him. Eyes shone bright red and fangs poked at the flesh of his lip. “My human...My blood”

He leaned forward, stopping to look in your pupils. You should have felt breath fanning over your face but didn't, because he was dead and didn't have to breathe. Danger swam in his glowing orbs, dripping in pleasure and  thrill. You lost a will to get away, relaxing into his grasp.  

“You’ll let me feed, right?”he mumbled, already scanning over your delicate neck, where his mark should be. You nodded, eyes dulling. Jin smiled down at your empty face, his hypnosis gripping you. “Thank you”

He kissed lightly against the skin, lips moving to coax blood to him. Licks made you shiver in anticipation, body reacting to him. Jin gave you one last kiss before piercing your skin, fangs burying down deep into you. Blood slipped from you, between his lips, hands holding you in place as your eyes widen. You felt warm and sensitive, small gasps leaving you, slowly turning to low moans. It felt great, addicting. You didn't want him to leave, to let you go. You wanted to stay in this feeling, drowning in him. Jin moved from your neck, chuckling at the whine which left you, fingers grasping to keep him close. 

“No, keep going..”you mewled out, trying to push his face back to your aching throat. 

“But I’ll kill you then��you whined louder, wetness pooling in your underwear, body burning under Jin’s grasp.  He could smell you and it was hard to control but he couldn't let go, not yet. 

Lapping lightly at your wound, you moan again , chasing after more. Jin kissed it one last time before moving from you, something which almost made you cry in desperation. 

“Don't worry my little bird, you’ll get what you want soon”tears flew from your eyes, body aching for more and sleep. You felt weird, light headed and horny to the point it hurt.

“No” Jin walked away, leaving you in despair and weak. You wanted more of him, all of him, but he left you to the darkness. 

-

“She smells too good”Taehyung groaned as Jin walked down the stairs, his head high, blood lingering on his tongue. 

“I know”

“Can I have a taste?”

“No”

“Why?”

Jin merely hissed at the younger one as a warning to keep away from what’s his. Your arousal still had a grip on him and he had to get away before he did something bad. Maybe it weren't a good idea to leave you smelling like that in a house full of vampires but he had to get away. 

“Touch her and I’ll rip your arm out”

-

Jin thought your hormones would have died down after four hours but when he stepped inside the mansion after a long run, he realized that it weren't the case. Your fermions laid around him like a hug, pleading for his touch of relief.  A small growl left him, mind fighting with his body if he should just walk out again or aid you. 

“You’re so stupid”Namjoon hissed, walking out from the right, his eyes shining red again.”You really left her like that with the youngest around”Jin knew it was stupid but he would have hurt her, so he couldn't stay. 

“Fix it”it was a command and it decided what Jin would do. He would go to you and he would help your burning body.

-

You tensed when the door flew open, hitting the wall with a thud and then closing a second after. He stood there, red eyed and  hungry. Your body acted on its own, begging for his touch. You whined out at the sight he was, dropped in a black silk shirt and the same color slacks. The items shoved of his body so well, following his broad shoulders and tiny waist. You wanted everything from him, every touch, every sensation.

“Please~”you whined out, leaning forward so he could see your neck, pricked with two faded marks. 

Jin hissed again, standing by you in a blink of an eye. He grabbed your wrists, pushing you to lay down on the soft covers, not really thinking about his strength. You squirmed, not caring about the force he put on you and how you would be bruised in the morning. Tongue dipped down on your jugular, licking a long strip up the whole body part, until he stopped by your jaw, he could feel your blood rush to his wet muscle, aching for him to take. Jin groaned at it, a hand grabbing both of your wrists and holding the over your head. You were on cloud nine and he hadn't even touched you. He made nothing of your shirt, eyeing your abdomen. Jin licked his lips, dragging a finger between your breasts, down your stomach and stopping by your jeans. It frustrated you, body burning in desire. 

“Keep your hand still and I’ll reward you”his purr had you drooling down there, fingers clenching to stay but begging to run through his hair. Jin smiled at your struggle, parting your thighs so he could roll down on you. 

He was hard and big, mouth watering. You let out a desperate sound, his hands dragging over your neck. Jin wanted to squeeze the part, to feel you struggle. Hair hung in maddening eyes, a predator catching his prey. 

“We can't keep these any longer..”the vampire mumbled while grabbing at your pants, putting a little more force on your hips.”They're in the way”

He shredded the fabric, having to close his eyes at the increase of your scent. The mix of your arousal and blood had him moving faster. Jin couldn't wait and he knew you couldn't either.  You never got to see him take of his clothes because he moved too fast, bare and in his flesh in a second. Your gaze wandered down his abdomen, gushing at how erect he was, pussy clenched at the mere glance of his cock. 

“Please please”chanting, you grabbed a hold of silk sheets, which were your only anchor. You needed him now. Jin smirked, ripping of the last pieces of clothing on your body, staring at your dripping cunt. You were so ready, he didn't even have to prepare you. 

“What do you want? Hmm? Use your words”whining and trashing, your body burnt at his tease. 

“Please fuck me~”it started to hurt, the feeling of arousal in you. Pressure only built and the second Jin pushed himself in you, stars took over your gaze. 

You gasped, back arching at the feeling of being filled. Jin moaned, your pussy clamping down  on his sex. Adrenaline flushed his system and he lost himself. Jin moved fast, pounding into you like no tomorrow. His hands gripped hard at your hips, scream like sounds ripping through your throat. 

“Scream for me baby, scream my name..”you gasped out, searching your mind for his name, realizing you didn't know it. “Jin. Scream it”

His name left your mouth like a prayer, hands letting go of silk sheets and grabbing velvet hair. You screamed and screamed, head turning. Jin kept his gaze on your neck, not being able to control the want to hold it. He pushed you down by putting pressure on your throat, choking you lightly. The loud sounds from you turned to stifled moans, making your pussy tighter. Jin smirked at it, growling while he moved. 

“You’ll stay forever, right? Give me your blood, right?”he panted out, face close to yours.You merely nodded, too out of it to speak. He hit the right spot every time he fucked into you, eyes rolling back. 

Jin felt his orgasm come fast, thrusts becoming sloppy. You were gone already, the euphoric feeling washing over you in forms of shaking and gasps. But the vampire didn't slow down, driving your body to overstimulation. Tears dropped from your eyes, choked out sobbs leaving your dry mouth. It hurt and felt so good at the same time. Jin growled out a moan as his hips snapped against yours, cock twitching in you before cumming in long spurts. He took deep breaths even when he didn't need to, while you panted lodly, hand formed bruises decorating your neck. He pulled out of you, landing besides you as your body shuddered. Sleepiness came over you mere seconds after your second orgasm. Jin glanced at your heavy eyelids, your screams of pleasure echoing in his ears. 

“Sleep my little human..Dream of peace”his voice was so soft, luling you so slumber. You had no grip on real life while Jin watched you disappear. Something between a smirk and a smile tugged at his lips. He lingered by your cheek, wanting to kiss it but choosing not to.”And stay by my side forever”

-

“Why Jin?” Namjoon asked the second Jin walked through his doors, hair still messy.”Why her?”A frown developed on his lips, his undead heart beating for the first time in a century. 

“Because she is her in another life and this time I am not letting her go”

[exxar1]

Episode 11: New Believer, New Faith, and a New Vow

2/7/2021

- 1 -

Good morning! It’s a beautiful Sunday here in Las Vegas. I have much to talk about so I’m just going to get right into it.

           It’s hard to believe we’re already a full month into the new year. This year for me has been very rewarding thus far. For starters, I have had no trouble keeping up with resolutions 1 and 4. (For a refresher, you can scroll back through my previous posts to the one from New Year’s Eve.) I have found time each day to read my Bible and pray, and I have had little difficulty in maintaining a pleasant attitude and a smile in my daily encounters with my co-workers and customers. As expected, though, that latter one has been tested a few times by the occasional sour apples that woke up on the wrong side of the bed. But I’ve surprised myself every time by my patience and my ability to keep a calm and pleasant demeanor. (Those of you who have known me for a long time will understand how truly remarkable that is for me.) It’s simply another testament to the power of God to change our basic attitudes when we are willing to let Him.

           I’ve also made great strides in resolution #3, and that’s where I’m going to spend the bulk of my time on this post.

           Have you ever sought something – therapy, a particular medication, advice from a friend or colleague – thinking that it might help with one problem, only to be pleasantly surprised that one, the result helped in many other ways you hadn’t anticipated; and two, that the change/outcome/counseling exceeded your initial expectations by such a great magnitude that you couldn’t believe you hadn’t sought this help long ago? That feeling has been with me for over three weeks now, and it’s only getting better with each session.

           One of my first tasks in tackling resolution #3 was to consult a pastor on this issue of homosexuality and the Bible. I needed to know what God really said in His Word on this controversial topic, and since I have yet to find a home church here in Las Vegas the only pastor that I am casually acquainted with is Mark Sjostrom of the church in which I was born and raised back in Twin Falls, Idaho.

           For those of you unfamiliar with Twin Falls or this particular church, allow me to forge a brief rabbit trail here to give you a short history. Grace Baptist Church was founded in 1975, and, back then, it was just a one-story, oblong, red-bricked building, its main auditorium forming a bubble at one end, at the intersection of Eastland Drive and Falls Avenue on the eastern edge of town. It’s still that same building today, only now there’s a massive, two-story gymnasium/classroom on the other side of the back parking lot, and a third, smaller, two-room annex that sits behind the gym. The first of those latter two structures was needed in the early eighties when the church launched its own private school, Twin Falls Christian Academy. I was in kindergarten when the gymnasium was under construction. I have many memories of watching my dad and some of the other men in church up on the scaffolds, putting together the walls, while I waited for my mom to pick me up after school, which was held in the various Sunday school rooms in the church. A few years later, I would be attending high school in the classrooms above that gym.

           In the years since I have grown and left Twin Falls, I have come back to that church on the occasional Sunday morning worship service when I’m home for a vacation visit. I’ve always had mixed feelings every time I set foot beyond the threshold of its main doors (see my previous posts about my struggles during my teen years.) It’s the same feeling you get when you come back to something that is at once familiar and strangely comforting, but also brings with it unpleasant memories and the pain of old wounds that have never quite healed.

           Grace’s pastor since 2005 has been Mark Sjostrom (pronounced ‘shos-trum’), and I didn’t know him that well when I decided to consult him on this issue. Our only interaction thus far had been a brief handshake and a greeting after those sporadic Sunday morning worship services, and I wasn’t sure he would even remember me when I nervously texted him a brief ‘Hello’ a month ago. He responded within a few minutes, and I re-introduced myself and then gave a short explanation of what I needed. We agreed on a time and date for a phone call, and I emailed him the next day with a longer explanation of what I needed to talk about with him.

           That letter was a  somewhat detailed account of what most of you are already familiar with: my struggle in high school with keeping my secret of being gay while trying to fit in socially and eventually declaring myself an Atheist after being expelled from school my senior year a month before graduation. It was probably about 2 pages, and I was now very nervous after clicking the ‘Send’ button. I suppose now is a good time to tell you something else about me.

           I have been one of ‘those people’ for all of my adult life. You know who I’m talking about: the people who silently judge the other customers in the book store who pause to browse the Self Help section; or the people who quietly scoff when anyone talks about their latest therapy session with their friends or coworkers at lunch in the break room. I’m glad I don’t need self-help or therapy, I’ve always thought. But, then again, good for them, I guess. I’m glad I have all my issues worked out, and I’m a stable, normal adult. I’ve never had any issues that were so bad I needed to get help from an armchair counselor’s latest best seller or a psychiatrist’s couch.

            Hhmmm. My life, lately, has been chock full of irony.

           When the time came to dial Pastor Sjostrom’s number my level of nervousness was up to a ten out of ten on the anxiety scale. I hadn’t felt like this since high school when it was opening night of our Agatha Christie play, and I was one of the main cast. I had prepared a detailed outline of what I wanted to discuss, and, after a few initial pleasantries, Mark quickly put me at ease. I was pleasantly caught off guard by his relaxed, casual personality. I found immediately that he was very easy to talk to, and my anxiety level dropped to a ‘three’ in the first five minutes. Pastor Sjostrom is definitely one of those people who has found the right calling. His warm, personable demeanor made me feel like I was talking to an old friend over coffee at Starbucks, and after about ten minutes of getting to know one another, he brought the conversation back around to my letter.

           Here’s where my second surprise occurred. Mark was bluntly honest. I had told him that I believed I was saved in 1985, when I was seven, after the evening service of one of our church’s mid-summer week long revival meetings. “Neal,” Mark said rather pointedly, “after reading your description of your life after high school, I gotta say that it doesn’t sound like you were saved. Your behavior and your atheism doesn’t reflect the change that is described in the Bible.” He went on to explain that salvation is a change brought about the presence of the Holy Spirit in the new believer. There is a desire to learn more about God and His Word. There is a desire to serve him and to live one’s life in surrender to Him.

           I had to pause and think about that. And, doggone it, you know what? He was right. And the reason I knew that was because I had only to look at the last four months of my life, even more so since I had returned from Christmas vacation. That desire – that hunger – to know God had never been present in my life until September 17, 2020. That was the night I surrendered to Christ in an awkward, fumbling prayer on the way home from work. Ever since, I have had nothing but a desire to read my Bible and change my life. I told pastor this, and he agreed. It was evident now that I was truly saved. That evidence was lacking in my youth and my adult life up to this point.

           My third major surprise of that initial counseling session – yes, that was what is was – was when pastor told me he was assigning me homework for our next weekly conversation. He wanted me to read the book of 1 John. He explained that we would eventually get to the issue of homosexuality, but that we needed to cover this ground first. I agreed  to the assignment, and we hung up. I glanced at the clock in the upper corner of my computer screen. We had talked for almost an hour. I immediately reached for my Bible and opened it to 1 John. I read the whole book in about ten minutes.

           1 John is a primer for the new believer. John states clearly and succinctly what makes a Christian a Christian. Chapter 1:9 was immediately familiar to me from my Sunday School days: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” So was chapter 2:9: “He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is in darkness, even until now.” John goes to say in chapter 5:2: “By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God, and keep His commandments.” And, finally, verse 20 of that same chapter: “And we know that the Son of God is come, and hath given us an understanding, that we may know Him that is true, and we are in Him that is true, even in His Son Jesus Christ. This is the true God, and eternal life.”

           Yep. All of that book made perfect sense. Part of that was because I had absorbed so much of God’s Word in my youth that it had sat in the deep recesses of my brain for all of my life, and much of it had begun floating to the surface in the last several months – like debris from an ancient wartime submarine that has been recently dislodged from its ocean grave. Except that these artifacts – Bible verses, fragments of sermons, some of Mr. Walker’s proverbs from Bible class – were not dirty, soggy, disgusting relics. They were bits of priceless treasure, and I’ve been rediscovering them in dribs and drabs ever since.

           I have had three sessions with Pastor Sjostrom, and they are each the highlight of my week. I very nearly broke down after hanging up from our first talk. I felt a combination of immense relief, peace and calm. Not to be overly melodramatic, but it was if something had dislodged in my very soul, like a sliver of wood just beneath the skin that has never quite come all the way out. I realized with immediate clarity that I was getting far more than just a pastor’s opinion on a particular issue for my book. I had stumbled on to something else, something I needed far more: spiritual counseling and guidance for my new life as a child of God.

           I am a new believer.

That seems so strange to say out loud. I was raised in the church. I had at least a third of the Bible memorized by the time I was twelve. I knew all the major stories from the Old Testament – the creation of the world; God’s covenant with Abraham; Jacob, Esau and Isaac; Joseph sold into slavery into Egypt and God’s eventual deliverance of the Israelites from their captivity there; the introduction of the ten commandments and the Mosaic Law; Esther, Ruth, King Saul, David, the Book of Psalms, the prophet Isaiah – I knew all of it by heart by the end of my days in elementary school. Same for the New Testament – the birth of Christ; all of His teachings and parables; His death on the cross; His resurrection after three days; the founding of His church after His ascension back to Heaven – it was all as familiar to me by the time I walked away from high school as the mathematical precepts of basic addition, subtraction, division and multiplication.

           I had assumed all this time that I was still saved. I thought I had really, genuinely believed in Jesus as my savior that long ago night in 1985 when I was seven years old. And maybe I did. But, for whatever reason, the Holy Spirit had not come into me back then. I was not truly saved. (This is perhaps worthy of a more detailed discussion and analysis later on down the road.) Whatever the case, I am most definitely a new believer now. The Holy Spirit is alive and well within me, and I have only a single desire and purpose: to know the God that created me, and to serve him with all my heart, soul and mind.

           Pastor and I did discuss my homosexuality issue in our second talk, and that, along with the extracurricular reading I’ve been doing on this topic, has enabled me to finally reconcile what I couldn’t in my teen years when I first fought with this problem.

 - 2 -

If I am gay, and God – through His written word – has condemned what I am as a sin, how can I be His child and serve Him as he commanded me to do? That’s the question I’ve been wrestling with anew for the last few months. I began this new journey in last September with the premise that I was born gay. I’ve believed that my whole adult life. I proceeded from that assumption through all of my reading and research these last few weeks. But if God made me this way, why would He then condemn as an abomination the very thing that I am? Is He not contradicting Himself? How can this be?

           Pastor Sjostrom asked that very question in our second talk. He then went on to answer it by explaining that my unnatural desire for the same sex was a cause of the Fall, when Adam and Eve disobeyed God and ate of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. This is what led their descendants to the sins of idolatry, fornication, sexual perversion, and many, many others. Yes, I was born gay. But that’s not how God made me. There’s a very distinct difference.

           His explanation corroborated what I have come to discover in the last couple weeks as I’ve read Two Views on Homosexuality, the Bible, and the Church from the Counterpoints series. Author and editor Preston Sprinkle gathered four prominent Christian authors, scholars, and theologians to discuss this issue – two for and two against. I will not go into great detail of what these authors debate and discuss, mainly for the sake of page and time, but also because this issue is not anywhere near as complicated as it seems.

           All four of the contributing authors to the Two Views book have used the following Bible verses/passages as the foundation of their arguments:

1.)   The creation story in Genesis 1 and 2.

2.)  Genesis 19:4-11 (Sodom & Gomorrah)

3.) Leviticus 18:22 & 20:13

4.) 1 Corinthians 6:9-11

5.) 2 Corinthians 5:17

6.) Romans 1:18-32, emphasis on verses 26-28

7.) 1 Timothy 1:9-10

Those authors have also drawn from extra-Biblical material such as the writings of Philo, a Jewish historian who was a contemporary of the apostle Paul; the Apocrypha; the writings of Saint Augustine; and various other books – most written in the last 50 years – on sociology, sexuality and anthropology in the ancient world.

Here’s an example of one of one of the arguments for the church’s endorsement of homosexuality. One of Two Views’ contributors, Megan Defranza argues that there were many people in Biblical times that were born with no distinct male or female genitalia or other defining sexual characteristics. These “intersex individuals” were often referred to as eunuchs by the people of that time, and many of them were used as sex slaves. Megan claims that Genesis 1 is “…a theological account describing creation in broad categories, not an exact scientific inventory of all of God’s good creatures.” She goes on to say that Adam and Eve were not the exclusive, ideal models for all of man and womankind. They were, rather, just the broad categories; that the birth of eunuchs and other such of types of intersex people prove that God would welcome the church’s acceptance of gays, lesbians and transgenders since they have been born that way, and their sexual desires are natural to them. She claims that God was not condemning the eunuchs and other similar people in those verses/passages I listed above. Those condemnations were for the ones who had turned deliberately turned away from God to worship idols and indulge their sinful lusts.

There’s a lot more detail to Megan’s argument, especially regarding the eunuchs and their forced sexual slavery to their male masters, but it’s not worth going into here. The other three contributing authors give similar arguments, citing external sources in addition to scripture, to support their particular view. Wesley Hill and Stephen Holmes, the two that are opposed to the church’s condoning of homosexuality and gay marriage, give the stronger of the four arguments. Two Views opens with Megan’s and William Loader’s essays (the other author who falls on the affirming and open acceptance side of this debate), but by the time I reached the end of their arguments, I already knew which side of this issue I was going to fall on.

Wesley Hill and Stephen Holmes – as well as Pastor Sjostrom – present a much stronger, sounder case for why the Christian church, no matter the denomination, should be condemning ALL forms of homosexuality as clearly as God does. My own Bible reading and prayer showed me this after only a few weeks. I don’t really need to read all the other books on this topic to know the truth. To be completely honest, I had a pretty good idea of what the end of this journey would look like before I even started it. All the verses from Genesis, Leviticus, Romans, 1st and 2nd Corinthians, and 1st Timothy that deal with this specific issue are quite clear. It is stated over and over: homosexuality is a sin in the eyes of God. Paul stated it best in 1 Corinthians 6:9-11:

“Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you: but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of our Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God.”

That word “effeminate” in the KJV is translated from the original Greek word that Paul used: arsenokoitai. This is a compound word: arsen – male; koite – bed. “Male bedders”, in other words; those men who sleep with other men. In the NIV translation, the word “effeminate” is replaced with the phrase “men who sleep with other men”. The only other passage that Paul uses that word is in 1 Timothy 1:8-10 (NKJV):

“But we know that the law is good if one uses it lawfully, knowing this: that the law is not made for a righteous person, but for the lawless and insubordinate, for the ungodly and for sinners, for the unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, for fornicators, for sodomites, for kidnappers, for liars, for perjurers, and if there is any other thing that is contrary to sound doctrine…”

The meaning of these two passages is quite clear: those that practice any or all of those sins listed will not inherit the kingdom of God. They are not true believers and followers of Christ. And thus, any church that not only allows its homosexual members to remain in their sin, but also performs gay marriage, is not a true church of God.

And such were some of you.

God has commanded those that follow Him and declare His name to turn from their wickedness and be transformed. Those that believe on His name and repent of their sins will no longer practice those sins listed in the passages I quoted above. That’s the meaning of the phrase, “…and such were some of you.” Well, I have definitely been transformed. I can feel the Holy Spirit working in me. And, because of that, I have no other choice. If I am to be faithful to my Lord and Creator, if I surrender myself completely to His will, I must take a vow to turn away from my sin nature. I cannot indulge in the “lusts of the flesh”, as Paul says in Romans, if I am to call myself a true Christian. I am now a child of God, and His will alone must govern all I say and do.

But, even more important than those passages I listed and quoted above, is the book of Genesis, chapter two. God created Adam first and then He decided it wasn’t good for man to be alone. So God made the woman out of Adam’s rib, and he called her ‘Eve”. Then, in verse twenty-four, God said, “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.” This chapter, more than any other passage in the Bible, clearly and explicitly demonstrates what God had intended from the very beginning. The only natural desire of the flesh was for the opposite sex: man for woman and woman for man. That was God’s original plan.

Unfortunately for us, Adam and Eve did not resist the serpent’s temptation to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. After the Fall, their perfect, pure natures were corrupted by sin, and that corruption was passed unto their children, and their children’s children. Part of that corruption was the perversion of the natural, normal sexual desire. Men lusted after men and women for women. Even though the subsequent passages in Genesis which describe mankind’s deplorable state before the Great Flood never state it specifically, it is not unreasonable to assume that more than just homosexuality was a problem. Bestiality, pedophilia, rape and incest were very likely abundant among the first few generations of man, as well as the worship of false idols and complete rejection of God. Why else would God have felt the need to punish his creation by wiping them from the face of the Earth, save for Noah and his family?

As the old saying goes, ‘God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve’. I’ve always hated that pithy, snarky retort whenever I had to defend my sexuality to anyone who tried to tell me I was living in sin. But it’s true. God created only Adam and Eve; not Adam and Steve; not Melissa and Eve; not Adam, Eve, and some other non-gender, non-binary person.

Just Adam and Eve.

Man and woman were joined in holy matrimony and, until the Fall, they lived in perfect peace and union with their Lord and Creator. Anything that deviates from that original, holy standard that God still demands of His children today, is a sin. That includes homosexuality, bestiality, pedophilia, incest, idolatry and devil worship, to name a few. Anyone that willfully practices or engages in any of those things and does not repent cannot call himself a true believer in Christ. Nor can any church that not only openly endorses homosexuality but also performs gay marriage can call themselves a true church of Christ.

So then, what now? If I accept that my sexuality is a byproduct of my sin nature, and that God, in fact, did not make me this way, how can I best serve Him? I’m still gay. That hasn’t changed. (And, yes, I’m sure. I’m watching last week’s episode of The Resident as I write this. Matt Czuchry and Manish Dayal are among the best male eye candy on TV right now.) I still desire a physical relationship with another man. (Either of the aforementioned actors would be especially nice.) But that desire – as well as the act – is a sin. God has made that clear in his Word. After some more talk with Pastor Sjostrom, I finally came to an answer – or, at least, part of one.

 - 3 -

I mistakenly assumed that after I asked Christ into my heart, after I surrendered myself to God, that my sin nature would be transformed. I thought what many torn, conflicted gay Christians and their family have thought: with enough prayer, genuine repentance, and strong faith I would no longer be a homosexual. God would change my unnatural desire, and I would be sexually attracted to women instead of men. I would throw out all the symbols of my gay pride that I had collected over the years – t-shirts, bracelets, baseball caps, the rainbow colored Apple watch bands – and I would begin my new life as a heterosexual man. 2 Corinthians 5:17: “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” Yes, it would be hard at first, but God and I would make this work, glory hallelujah amen!

But that’s not how salvation works. Yes, there was a transformation, but not quite the kind that I was expecting. It’s hard to put into words exactly what I felt in the weeks and months following that quiet prayer on that car ride home from work late the night of September 17, 2020. I knew for sure that something was different. To begin with, there was an almost instant peace and calm that settled over my entire being. All the anxiety, the fear, and the worry about the state of the world around me that had been plaguing me for many weeks melted away. In its place was a quiet, firm assurance that, no matter what happened from then on, I was in the hands of God. He would take care of me.

And then, in the days and weeks that followed that moment of salvation, I began to feel more than just spiritual peace and tranquility. The first was a hunger – an insatiable, ravenous desire to read my Bible. I had only the app on my iPad, and I started with Genesis 1. Every night, before bed, I would read two or three chapters. And then I would pray. It was awkward and nothing like the prayers that I heard time and again from my dad or my teachers in high school or my pastor back then. I stumbled over my words, I repeated myself, I kept forgetting what I wanted to say. And I still felt weird doing it. It was like I was talking to myself. But I kept praying nonetheless.

Gradually, as Christmas loomed closer and closer, and the more I read my Bible and talked to God, I felt something stronger inside of me. But it wasn’t anything physical, like an emotion. It was…something else, something in my soul. I imagined this new feeling as a few drops of red ink falling into a bowl of clear water. At first, the drops fall straight down, coloring only a little bit of the water. But then the ink begins to slowly spread, crimson tendrils that stretch outwards, eventually turning the whole water into the color of blood. That’s what it felt like was happening inside of me. My soul – the very thing that made me me was being changed from the inside out. And it felt damn good!

It was after my Christmas vacation, after ten days of rest and relaxation with my family in Idaho, that I noticed an even bigger change. When I returned to the daily grind of my two jobs, I realized that my whole attitude – and, by extension, my whole outlook on life – had been transformed. I was no longer the angry, anxious, frustrated, fearful man that was always pissed about something – usually the people who were my customers. Before, I was short tempered, impatient, always inwardly complaining whenever those around me were being difficult or annoying me in some way. Now, however, I was at peace. The difference in my new attitude from the old was as glaring as night from day. I greeted my customers with a smile. It was no longer an effort for me to be patient with the difficult ones. Nor did I feel the need to rant and rage on social media about the problems of the world, as I had been doing practically non-stop before I became saved.

It was like being wrapped inside joy, as if joy was something tangible – like a big, soft, warm blanket fresh from the dryer. I had to constantly check my reflection because I was sure I had a giant, stupid grin on my face all day long. And that feeling only got stronger the more I continued to read my Bible – now an actual book that I had bought from Amazon – and pray. That, too, was getting better. I no longer stumbled over my words or forgot what I wanted to say. The hunger to know God, to build a new relationship with my Creator, overshadowed everything else in my life. I lost interest in many of the things that had once taken up all my time, like watching TV or playing video games. All I wanted to do every night when I got home from a busy day was to open God’s Word and keep reading.

But there was one thing that didn’t change during all of that wonderful transformation. I’m still gay. The desire for that sin is still there, as strong and lustful as ever. Everything else about me seems different. I am, indeed, a new creature in Christ. So why am I still gay? Why is this particular thorn still lodged firmly deep in my flesh?

I still don’t have an answer. But I do have a theory. The transformation of the new believer in Christ is not like wiping the old operating system of your ten year old iMac. With a computer you can install a whole new operating system that’s free of the bugs, viruses and malware that plagued the old system. The hardware is still the same old hardware, but the software is brand new. Your computer has been transformed. It performs and operates like a new machine.

But we humans are not machines. We are creatures born of the Fall. Being saved in Christ has made us like new, but the old self – the old, corrupt nature – is still there. The old operating system hasn’t been wiped away. Rather, the new OS is now installed, and the two systems are at war with one another. Why is that, I wonder? Why doesn’t God simply transform our sin nature by wiping it way when He fills us with the Holy Spirit? Wouldn’t that be easier – and more complete – than  forcing us to constantly battle our old selves in order to remain faithful and obedient to Him?

The honest answer is, I don’t know.

What I do know is that God, in His infinite wisdom, has chosen not to remove this particular thorn in my flesh. I am still gay.

           The thorn in my flesh. Yeah, that phrase sounds familiar. In fact, it’s been rolling around in the back of my brain for several weeks now.

In 2 Corinthians 12:7-10, Paul writes of the “thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan sent to buffet me.” Those four verses, more than any other Bible passages that I’ve read and also read about, have continued to echo within me ever since the beginning of this journey. Many pastors and scholars agree that that the thorn Paul speaks of was of a spiritual nature, not a physical. Paul says that he “…besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.”

The thorn in my flesh.

What if I am in the same seat as Paul? What if my sexuality is the ‘thorn’ in my own flesh?

I think that part of the reason that God doesn’t just snap his fingers and wipe away our old self is because, without those old, sinful desires and temptations, we wouldn’t continually come back to Him for mercy, grace and forgiveness. It might have taken a little longer for me to surrender if the outside world hadn’t melted down last year, but I have no doubt now that God has always been working in my life, and He wants my love, worship and obedience. My homosexuality is a reminder from Him that I have a choice: I can give in to my sin nature and indulge my own desires, or I can turn from the flesh, take up my cross daily, and follow Him.

God knows us better than we know ourselves. He knows our sin nature, and He knows that when times are good, when everything is going our way, we often forget Him – just as the Israelites did over and over in the Old Testament. We get wrapped up in our daily lives, turn away from Him, and give our worship to false idols instead; or we just pay Him our weekly rituals and sacrifice on Sunday, and then put aside our Bibles until the following week. But it’s during the times of adversity, when God allows the trials and tribulations of life to afflict us, that we come to Him. We seek Him because He is our only source of comfort and peace. The storms in our lives remind us that God alone can save us, can heal us. Our afflictions draw us closer to Him. And, if we remain faithful to Him, there is much reward for our devotion and service. When the storm has passed, we often find a rainbow.

The rainbow was God’s covenant with Noah and his descendants that God would never again destroy the world with a flood. In our modern world the homosexual revolution of fifty years ago took the rainbow as a symbol of pride and diversity. When I entered my adult life as an out and proud gay man, I, too, adopted the rainbow as a symbol of pride in myself. I vowed to live my life on my terms, and I wouldn’t be cowered or ashamed into silence about who I was, of what I had been born as. But, of course, I have renounced all of that since becoming a new child of God. It is NOT my life, but His as a gift to me. I live now in complete service to Him, and Him alone.

But I’m not quite ready to throw away my rainbow bracelet that I wear on my right wrist every day. It is still a symbol to me – and to everyone I meet in daily life – but not the one that it used to be. I have found a new place beneath the rainbow created by God in the aftermath of that flood in Genesis. The peace and reconciliation I have long sought has been found at last, and the rainbow is a symbol of both my old life and my new one in God’s service. I don’t find that conflicting at all, just as I have no problem calling myself a gay Christian. Until such time as God, in his perfect timing and wisdom, decides to change my unnatural desire completely, I will always be a gay Christian, and the rainbow will be a sign of my personal covenant with Him.

The process of reconciling this issue, the spiritual traveling and soul searching that I have done over the last few months, has shown me clearly that God is my Lord and Savior. He has allowed this affliction so that I would do the work that I needed to reconcile what appeared to be a crisis of faith. I wouldn’t have experienced personal growth in my life – and my faith – without this conflict and pain. Yes, it has been painful. Peeling back the faded scars of old wounds wasn’t not all pleasant. I had to go back to that fifteen-year-old kid and have a long talk with him. (See section 5 of this post.) I wrote letters to my parents and my three brothers, apologizing for the way I treated them all those years ago. I have recognized how selfishly I have been living my adult life, and the pride of my old nature has screamed fiercely whenever I bow my knee and my heart every morning in prayer. There is now a fight within me – the old nature vs. the new self – that will never let up until I die. And, sometimes, that fight will be painful. And yes, I already know that there are times when I will fail, when I will give in to the temptation to break my new vow with God. But that failure is not as important to God as whether or not I stay in the fight. And I will stay. I’m in this for the long haul, and I know without a shred of doubt that God is on my side. He wants me to succeed.

Hallelujah, amen!

 - 4 -

           Most of you have seen my post on Facebook from three days ago. My only answer from God to this twenty-four-year-old conflict has been a call to celibacy. Until such time as he chooses to change my sin nature, to change my unnatural desire into a natural one, I have made the following vow to Him:

           I take a vow of celibacy before God; that I have surrendered my life and my will unto Him; that I will not give in to the temptations of my sinful flesh; that I recognize my homosexual desire as a sin in His eyes, an abomination caused by the Fall; that He has saved my soul from eternal damnation, and I owe him nothing less than my whole heart, soul and mind.

           I take this vow on the 3rd of February, 2021.

           Amen.

 - 5 -

           I read a long time ago – probably in a textbook somewhere in college – that one of the tools therapists and psychiatrists use in their counseling of patients is to have their patients write a letter to their past selves. As I mentioned earlier in this post, I wrote letters to my family to apologize for how I had wronged them in the past. After some more thought and deliberation I decided to write one more letter, this time to that fifteen year old kid that used to be me.

           At first, I thought this a stupid idea. I mean, how much more clichéd can one get? Plus, I’ve already treaded into dangerously melodramatic waters in this post. Is yet one more emotional, sappy passage needed?

           Ehhhh…yes and no. Turns out, I had a lot more to say to myself than I thought at first, and, son-of-a-gun, I did feel remarkably better afterwards. Guess there was some genuine, therapeutic value to this little exercise after all.

           So…here it is.

 Hello.

It's been a long time.

Yes, I see you. You've been there all along, but only recently have I begun to really see you. You've been with me my whole adult life, affecting me, shaping me in ways I never realized until now. I thought I left you behind when I left high school. At various times in my life since, I've judged you, shunned you, tried to erase you, or just simply ignored you. I could never understand why you never had the courage to speak up, to ask for help. There were a few adults – or even your friends – who would have very likely sympathized and tried to help you. All you had to do was say something! But you didn't. You kept your secret, protecting it, guarding it like Gollum with his precious ring. I was the one who eventually had to reveal the secret to those around me when I was old enough and no longer ashamed of what I was.

           But now I realize that instead of judging you and blaming you, there's one thing that I should have done long ago. I never said, “Thank you.” Thank you for giving me the strength and courage to step into the world as a confident, independent adult. It was because of you, what you went through silently as a teenager, that I developed the strength and resolve to live my truth as an adult. It was because of you that I knew what I wanted in life. It was never my desire to just go with the flow, to blend into the crowd and do whatever everyone else was doing. I did my own thing. And yes, it would have been better if I had been living that truth within God's will, but God, in His infinite wisdom, decided not to work His will just yet. He chose to wait while I forged my own path.

           Part of me wishes that I could go back in time and be the adult that you needed. I would have embraced you, told you that you weren't a mistake; that God loves you just the way you are, including being gay. And, deep down inside, you knew that you were loved. Your parents told you that every day. But you always had that sliver of doubt in the back of your mind.

“Would you still love me if you knew my secret? Would you still accept me if I was gay?”

I, the adult looking back at you across the gulf of years between us, know the answer to that is a resounding “Yes! They have always loved you, no matter what!”

           Part of me also wonders how our life would have been different if you had reached out to the one person that understood what you were going through; the one that knew your pain – and your secret. It was He that made you, after all. What I can see so clearly now is that it never occurred to you to reach out to God. You only knew Him through the church, through your teachers, through your parents, through all the endless rules, and restrictions, and demands that they all placed on you. That's what you rebelled against. God, to you, was just a system, an institution that governed every corner of your life. That institution would never understand your secret, would never accept you for the real you.

           But He was there all along. He was there on those nights when you cried yourself to sleep. You were struggling to understand your pain, to understand the turmoil inside you, but you didn't have the words or the wisdom or the experience to fully realize it all. All that you knew was anger, frustration and fear. But God understood you, and He was there in the darkness, crying with you.

           I want so badly to be there now, to wrap you in my arms and wipe away your tears and tell you that everything will be okay. Because it will be. You can’t see it now, but things will get better. You will find a way through this, and you will emerge on the other side with a strength and resolve that you never knew you had within you. The rest of your life is an as-yet-unwritten map of joys and blessings, failures and setbacks, triumphs and successes that will make all of this suffering worthwhile. You will know happiness that you couldn’t dream of – most of it found within the family that you don’t understand or get along with now. (There are 10 nieces and nephews that think you’re the greatest uncle ever, for example.) God has a plan for you, and, like the father of the prodigal son, He will be there with open arms when you finally come back home. He will accept you, just as you are.

           But all of that is for later. For now, just know this: the storm will pass, and there will be peace.

           You will find your rainbow.