#and then there’s the ones who are blessed with perfect skin but want to sell you skincare products that tooootally helped clear their acne

[fhrlclln]

Oh man I'd love to see like rockstar!eddie buy his first big mansion with her and him wanting to have sex in every room. I just think it's so cute that she's his high-school sweetheart. I can just hear eddie being like "come on sweetheart heart let me eat you out infront of this big fire place tonight."

rockstar! eddie x wife! reader

HE’LL MAKE HIS NO. 1 GOAL TO FUCK YOU IN EVERY ROOM IN THAT BIG-ASS MANSION. i fucking love him. 😵‍💫

nsfw/smut under the cut

｡･:*˚:✧｡

eddie couldn’t exactly remember the whole scenario when he bought his first mansion here in LA. the earliest year of new fame had him only remembering the concerts, parties, fans screaming and bombastic sex with his wife. but the memory was a very memorable one, it was the one he cherished the most. knowing he went from living in hawkins, in a little trailer park, selling drugs, trying to make a buck back then to now buying a mansion, his own mansion with his own earnings from his passion and career.

even though the memory of living in hawkins was a sour one to him, it was still an important one knowing his uncle was the one who raised him alone in that miserable town before he took off to pursue corroded coffin. and now he thanked wayne by buying him first a house in a nice neighborhood before the mansion, when he got his first paycheck after corroded coffin’s debut album skyrocketed to the charts of billboard’s top 100. he was feeling extra cheeky when wayne practically hugged him tight that day, crying on his shoulder. never had he seen his uncle cried like that. and a month after that, he bought the LA mansion. he could taste the memory of you right beside him that day, how much you two changed yet still the same old highschool sweethearts back in ‘86.

life seemed to be almost perfect until it cemented that very faithful day, when you two moved in the mansion—

“eds, eddie—“ you huffed, back arching, hands planted on the stone tiles. water splashing around inside of the indoor jacuzzi, steam heating both of your bodies as eddie thrusted roughly inside of you. hair in a man bun, sweat glistening as he focused his eyes on where his cock was disappearing inside of your wet cunt. he was focused, he felt yourself tighten around him as his other hand detached from your ass, gliding down to rub on your clit. you gasped, grasping tightly on the floor as you let out whines as your breasts giggled at how rough he is.

well, he did say he was going to fuck you in every room in the mansion, wanting to bless it and all. it was a silly idea at first, but now it had you gasping at how relentless he is. and he was dead serious on making you cum right now.

“you close, baby?” he leaned down, still pounding into you, breathless and tone darker. you nodded as he kissed your neck, nipping the delicate skin as he worked his cock into you. you felt so tired as his other arm wrapped around your waist, leveraging you as you felt yourself slump a bit, a little too tired after fucking in the movie room and kitchen a while ago.

“you tired, huh?” he teasingly remarked. “don’t go slacking on me now, sweetheart. we still have 8 more rooms to go. i promised you to fuck you in every single one.”

“fuck me.” you muttered at that, how determined he is as eddie let out a laugh, roughly rubbing your clit as his cock abused your wet pussy making you cry out his name.

“i am.” he joked, gripping your boob as your brows furrowed at him. he continued his relentless pace, not stopping until the coil in your belly snapped and hot white enveloped your vision, cunt tightening around him as he let out a groan, following afterwards with one sharp thrust to shoot his load in your womb. water splashed everywhere as he gently let you go, making you slump at the wet tiles, panting breathlessly.

“fuck, that was so good, baby.” he leaned down to kiss your cheek as you groggily nodded, the cool air of the room sending shivers down your spine as his cum leaked out to drip down your inner thighs. eddie marveled at the sight of it making his spent cock slowly get hard again as he tapped your ass, wanting to move on to the next room making you groan loudly.

“c’mon, next room.”

“e-eddie, fuck you. i’m tired.” you pouted, slowly standing up to sit down back into the warm water as eddie stood up from the jacuzzi, getting a towel to wipe himself.

“but come on, sweetheart!” eddie protested, leaning down to kiss your forehead as you pinched his tummy making him yelp. “let me eat you out in-front of that big-ass fireplace in the living room. pretty please, baby?” he begged, kissing your lips as his damp hair sticked to his sweaty skin.

you bit your lip, taking in the sight of his physique as he caressed your hot skin making you squirm. you hummed, rolling your eyes before getting up, water splashing, bare body in front of him as he groaned, making grabby hands at it as you exited the jacuzzi. crossing your arms, slightly annoyed yet turned on that he’s made it his goal to fuck you in every room in the house. you’d comply, knowing how fucking lucky the two of you are to be living in this million dollar mansion. you’re proud of him for how much he’s now earned and had worked for, how could you say no to the love of your life and that pouty face he has on? you could almost get started in here again.

“fine. you better eat me out. i hate that fireplace.”

｡･:*˚:✧｡

[forthechubbies]

Mafia! BTS! x Wife! Chubby Reader

Being Korea's deadliest kingpins made seven men into untouchable demons, yet their little wife is made out of sugar and spice?

Our little Wife . V

Sex Sells.

Strong language; Jimin’s a drunk asshole, fat shaming, Intense name-calling, sexual assault, puking, violence, man-handling, and bondage. I did say spicy

Jimin’s Past. IV

How else would the brothel remain untouched by the ever-growing society we live in today? Hiding in the dense shadows of Busan, The Brothel’s sign ominously blazed in a firey feisty crimson tint. Yes, for tonight, their god has returned as a return to bless their dreams once more.

Jimin.

Feeling numb through the high alcohol consumption, He smiled for the first time tonight. At what? Himself. He felt foolish for falling hard for a slut like you.

He snickered.

Jimin detests the persistent feeling of worrying about you. Unbelievable, Right? Not really, The sweetness of your warm squishy skin ghosted over his cold limbs due to the building's poor condition.

Autumn’s chill rattled the windows. You love autumn; He fell in love with you genuinely in the autumn-That day, the temperature played in his favor causing you to cuddle up to him as the orangish leaves crunch under their shoes. A plain walk through the park to the outsider but to Jimin, it was pure bliss.

Now, Look at him, Miserable, Heartbroken, ... Bitter.

May how far Jimin has fallen.

Bringing the pint glass to his puffy pink lips tilting his all the back to realize it's bonedry.

Jimin scoffed. “Tapped out.” sitting the glass bottoms up, He gently slides the glass to his collection on his table. “ Three.Four?....Eight! Come on, baby!... 13!-Damn..” His excitement died down at coming to realize a minor yet annoying error.

“That's an odd number...I wouldn't say I like odd numbers...I w-will have just one more.”

Jimin rushed to the stairs leaving in nothing short of pajama pants and its matching top open for the world to see...He forgot to button up after taking his shower.

Freezing mid-sip, Jimin focused solely on you- your shy and flushed expression made his eyebrow twitch-

“ You are by far the prettiest woman I have sight ever.” She leaned in. “You should work here. You would make a gold mine.” She laughed at your bewildered innocence. “ Yep, Korean men secretly worship chubby women like you. There's this young pervert who always comes in asking our chubby girls to sit on his face.”

Your mind is anywhere except on earth. How did your night end up like this? You should be at home in a hot bubble bath melting away the stress of today. Instead, your god knows where with women who have a one-track mind.

Fuck.

Jimin crept several steps over towards you. You looked healthy and as plump as a peach. He found it humorous how much you looked like an actual businesswoman. Slutty tight skirts and blouses ready to be ripped off, and those high heels that would look perfect in two places, and neither of them is walking, at least not straight.

Jimin clicked his tongue. Calm down. Calm down. It's probably what she fucking wants..She’s just an attention whore. Old habits die hard, they say.

The feeling of unknown eyes tracing your figure made you squirm in discomfort.

Ping

Whether it was your desperate need to excuse yourself or your phone pinging off the hook; had Jimin seeing red. Who the hell were you so eager to run off to? Sure as hell wasn't any of your husbands!?

Then who?! Who!

A face full of boiling rage fueled by a dangerously drunken state was a recipe for disaster. Jimin slammed his pint on the bar shattering the glass entirely; he followed you out front and was hot on your heels.

“Yah!” His voice boomed through the quiet red, lit streets.

Startled, You spun on your heels, and the shock of seeing Jimin made the blood in your veins run cold. “J-Jiminie?” You shuddered at his death glare.

Jimin scoffed, tucking any blonde stragglers behind his ears. “ You don't get to call me that after what you did to us!” His chest heaved with sorrow. “You threw away the only people willing to love you forever; what an ungrateful little whore you are. or Are you doing this for attention?” He truly got a kick out of that one.

You stood silent on the brink of tears; He wasn't worth your tears or your time. You turn on your heels only to take two steps before being manhandled by your arm.

“Yah! Don't walk away from me like I'm not fucking talking to you!” Jimin's anger took the physical form of tears. His throat burned so did his nose from the chilly early morning air.

Morning air? Is this correct? 5 am was rapidly approaching, and you had yet to close your eyes to start a new chapter the following day. You want to go home- Your real home; maybe you were stupid for creating this strike. Perhaps you should go back home.

“Your right, Jimin.” Your tears fall onto your ivory blouse. “I'm sorry for being selfish.”

Jimin froze. “No-No, your not getting off that easy. You don't get to get off that easy!” He yanked your skirt, bringing you closer into his arms. “ I want you to take responsibility...You hurt me bad, Chimmy.”

It wasn't until Jimin’s hands started to wander, You recognized the libidinous tone in his voice. He wouldn't dare ravish his own wife, Right?

“Now, Jimine, Let's talk this-”

Jimin shook his head. “There you go, Using that honey voice of yourself. Fuck. You know how to piss me off.” He stole your lips in an instant, biting and pulling at your swollen lips.

Your face pinged at his highly flammable breath. He's drunk. “Jimin-Wa-Wait a min.” You put up a good fight attempting to crease his assault, but even though you're around the same height, his strength trumps yours.

You hissed at the freezing brick wall; Jimin slammed you against- “Jimin! Stop it! This isn't funny!” One of your little hits landed on Jimin’s face.

He froze. You did the same, desperately catching your breath. Jimin’s sweaty blonde locks blocked his eyes; his tongue glazed his irritated lips.

“I can get rough too, Cow.” Jimin lowly chuckled, untying his pajama’s silk belt. “Be a good girl and face the fucking wall!” Jimin spat, gritting his teeth. He yanks you around to face the wall by the roots of your hair.

You gasped in pain.“Ow! Jimin! Please-”

“Please?! Did you just ‘Please’ me?! I hadn't done shit to you yet, and you're already begging.” He groans, taking big steps forward to sandwich you between him and the wall. "Since you're so eager - I guess I should at least tease you..but first- "

You squeaked in pain as his brutally bondage your hands behind your back; you could feel the silk cutting off your circulation. "You're a despicable little monster, Park Jimin!” You spat in his eye when he give you a window. " and you always have been."

Your word choice was an additional shot to his manhood and the end result was a harsh smack sending you to the ground. "Pretty bold words for tied-up cattle-” He flashed an eat shit-grin. “-In a woman's clothing.” The cheeky bondage method Jimin displayed is one of his favorites, a technique used for his clients who seek thrill and lore as much as insane pleasure.

Yn’s arms were kept tight behind your back with no wiggle room.

“You talk big but look at you...at my mercy” He looks at you in amusement as he squats beside you. “You're ours, Yn! When you met that demonic bunny, you sealed your fate. You don't even know what a real monster he can be-

Your heart stopped an ink-like figure crept out of the darkness, inching closer. “Jimin! Turn around!” Jimin failed to heed in time, costing him a stone punch to the jaw, followed by the figure’s heavy black boot to his abdomen.

You were expecting Jimin to be in somewhat pain; however, He chuckled, signaling for a timeout between the figure. Lacking, Your extra set of eyes, thanks to Jimin; you couldn't get a good look at him.

“Come on. I barely touch her yet. You can't be that mad.” Jimin swiped the blood caked up in the corners of his mouth. “ Aish, Don't you think you hit me a little too hard-”

The figure remained silent but waited no time to send Jimin to the ground again.

“Ah! Fuck!” He coughed up the dirt in his lungs before finally puking up the ungodly amount of poisonous liquid he had consumed.

Your sniffs and whimpers didn't go unnoticed. You squeeze your eyes shut as its heavy boots stop at your shuddering body. You've managed to set up and have knees to your chest.

The figure had a great view of standing above you like this. You heard his shoes glide on the gravel; Is he gone? Oh please, please, god, please, please. You swallowed your fear and opened your eyes; you quickly learned how much of a mistake you had made.

He rudely had no disregard for your personal space. The tip of his nose grazed yours, and his eyes bored into-

Those big eyes...Jungkook? But his build is different; he's larger than my Kookie...It hasn't been that long, right?

He leaned into your lips to have you reject him. “ What are you crazy?! I'm married!” You extended your leg to his chest to keep him a bay. It worked until the bastard started feeling up your leg; he kissed your ankle.

The touch-starved stranger dragged his gloved hand down your battered stockings and tarnished soft skin. He clicks his tongue, pushing your foot off his chest.

Did he just roll his eyes at me?

He stood up before snatching you up by your silky bonds. “ Eep!” You felt nausea after being treated like a ragdoll for the past hour.

The last thing you heard was Jimin’s voice before blacking out.

...

The warm sunlight overwhelmed your sleepy eyes. Once your eyes adjust to the sunlight, The horror settles in-

You were cleaned, dressed, patched up, and placed in your princess room.

[tigirl-and-co]

Bone-White, Ch1

After the events of Chulip, Love Interest decides she wants to remain independent for a while. She’s now experiencing the consequences of that decision.

This is an angst fic. Keep that in mind.

This is a semi-polished draft, once I’ve had time to really work it over it’ll go up on AO3!

Criticism is okay since this isn’t a final draft, but please be kind! It’s been around a decade since I’ve tried to write anything with real consequences. Pointing out spelling errors is greatly encouraged, however!

In the spring and summer it had been fine.

Long Life Town was known for mild weather, perfect for her late-night stargazing habits. Sure, in the summer it got a little hot and she got a little sweaty, but it wasn’t bad -- not like this.

Things back home weren’t good. Her parents were working on it, trying to argue less, but it still wasn’t good. And the boy who had moved into town early that spring (they were dating now, the talk of the town!) had offered to let her stay with him and his father, but she was stubborn, and it was improper besides.

He had bought her a blanket, though. A birthday gift. It wasn’t much, but she knew he was poor, so he must have spent a lot of time scrounging around for stuff to sell to afford it for her.

She thought about that as spasms wracked her body. How kind he was. How he had gone around helping everyone in a thirty-mile radius just to apologize for making her uncomfortable that first time.

One measley blanket couldn’t keep winter’s icy hands away from her heart, but she was still infinitely grateful for it. For him. She was too cold now to go to his house and thank him again, though.

Policeman walked by on his nightly patrol, and she wasn’t stupid enough to call out to him for help, if she even could.

She hoped her boy would stop by tonight with some of her dad’s sweet potatoes.

She hoped she’d live that long.

~~~

When her boy snuck in with two hot sweet potatoes and a raggedy coat that matched his own, he found her cold but still breathing.

She wouldn’t respond to anything he did, and in a panic he set the tubers in the crook of her curled-up body and laid the coat on top of her in a desperate attempt to keep her warm before dashing off to get help from the closest place he knew.

~~~

Dr. Dandy was startled awake by violent shaking and hoarse yelling. In his drowsy state all Dandy could think was that the kid needed cough syrup, and fast. Once he was truly awake he realized how absolutely dire the situation had to be to inspire this sort of wild reaction from such a quiet kid.

As soon as he sat up his sleeves were being tugged at, urged to rush as fast as he could. Dandy slipped out of the kid’s iron grip just long enough to slip on a jacket and shoes before his hand was grabbed and he was yanked out the door.

The frigid air forcefully shocked his senses awake, and the full moon illuminating the bone-white snow made it easy to see.

...Easy to see the giant, unused drainage pipe he had been stopped in front of. He had walked past it every day and never stopped to look inside. Why would he? He’d just find more concrete.

He had, of course, noticed that Goro and Julie’s only child spent her days sitting on top of it, staring at the sky and daydreaming.

He hadn’t realized she was living in it.

Dr. Dandy had been the one to help deliver her, way back when he was still an understudy. He had been there for her first breath, and by God he didn’t want to see her last.

He got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the pipe, ignoring how cold it was on the exposed skin of his hands. He gently grabbed her, blanket and all, and as he picked up the bundle of girl and fabric, two cold potatoes tumbled to the ground.

He shuffled backwards out of the pipe and rushed her into the blessed warmth of Yabu Hospital. It wasn’t hard; his new patient was much lighter than she should have been, and it didn’t take a doctor to realize she hadn’t been eating well.

Some small part of Dandy’s mind noted that familiarity was good for the mental recovery of patients, and so while the majority of his brain was distracted by running down a mental checklist of what to do in this scenario, his autopilot directed him to the first room she had ever seen.

He had forgotten about the young boy tailing him until he stopped next to the doctor, not yet tall enough to keep up with Dr. Dandy’s long legs and purposeful stride. The doctor turned to look at him, taking in his wild, frightened eyes and ragged jacket.

“You probably saved her life tonight, did you know that?”

The distraught look on the kid’s face didn’t change.

“Go home and get some sleep, kid. You’ve done everything you can for her, and now it’s my turn.”

They both knew the kid wouldn’t be able to get any sleep, but Dandy hoped he’d at least be able to rest a bit. No dice, though. The boy turned his head to look behind him, but ultimately stayed in place, looking determined.

“...Listen. we’re wasting time she doesn’t have. I’m going to go into that room and do my best, and it’ll be a lot easier to focus if I don’t have another kid to worry about. Come back tomorrow during visiting hours -- if she’s awake, she’ll be excited to see you. If she’s not, maybe just having you by her side will help.”

And then Dr. Dandy did his least favourite thing in the whole world: he lied.

“It’s very unlikely she’ll die tonight. Coma at the absolute worst.”

With that, he rushed inside the room to begin taking care of his patient.

[willowmckinley]

FTH Practice

Hey, hey! This is my first ficlet as I gear up for @fandomtrumpshate. This was written for the prompt: Raylan/tim + verbal humiliation through scripture (it was originally supposed to be Boyd/Tim but I woke up at 4:30 am this morning so shh shshhh shhh shs hhh and I misread it)

Words: 575

I'll be writing more for the next three hours, if you wanna send me prompts!

Raylan props his feet up against Tim’s back. Tim moans, like the little slut he is. Raylan grins. The poor thing can’t help himself, can he? Raylan lets his boots dig into Tim’s pale, chartaceous skin. He bruises so easily, the sweet boy. Raylan likes it when the dirt rubs in, mixing well with the pink flush and mottling green bruises. His boy looks like a garden.

He flips between pages, fingering the dog ears and the ribbon bookmark that came with the Bible. He’ll start them off, ease them into this little game Tim enjoys so much.

“Look, I come like a thief! Blessed is the one who stays awake and remains clothed, so as not to go naked and be shamefully exposed,” Raylan reads. He grins. “They talking about you?” he asks in faux surprise.

Tim pants. Raylan loves the little tears in his eyes. So pretty. He’d go and lick them off, it wouldn’t be such a hassle to lean down. Tim’s already so worked up from Raylan wrapping him up in ropes. It’d feel like wrapping a gift, if it weren’t for the fact that Raylan’s just giving it to himself.

Raylan laughs. He winks. “Course not.” Raylan flips to another page that will suit his needs. “All because of the many harlotries of the harlot, the charming one, the mistress of sorceries, who sells nations by her harlotries and families by her sorceries,” Raylan reads. “Now that does sound like you, doesn’t it? A little harlot? I’m sure you think you’re so coy, doncha?”

Tim shivers, but he keeps himself up on his hands and knees. He’s come so far. Back when they first started this scene, Tim could hardly get through a verse without collapsing on his face. Yes, Raylan will miss the way he’d give himself a bloody nose, hitting the floor hard, but Raylan can lick off the blood in other ways.

Raylan licks his lips. “You like this, don’t you, you filthy whore? You want everyone to know what a slutty boy you are. Should I trot you out to the office like this? Put you in nothing but a collar, as I show you off? Nothing but your stiff cock to represent ya?” Raylan rubs his lips. “Yeah, I think that’d be nice. I think it’d be fun, having all those eyes on you. Everyone would be so jealous, huh? Of how nice and good you were for me?”

Tim trembles under Raylan’s heel. Raylan moves one of his boots, so he can lift Tim’s chin. He makes Tim look him in the eye as Raylan pulls up another one of his favorites. “Your nakedness will be uncovered. Your shame also will be exposed; I will take vengeance and will not spare a man.”

Tim’s exhale wobbles, because he’s Raylan’s perfect little slut. Raylan thinks about having him move, just to see his tiny pink cock all hard and twitching, but he’d be bereft to give up such a perfect footrest.

“A man is born naked. He comes into the world with nothing. And he goes out of it with nothing. He doesn't get anything from his work that he can take with him,” Raylan quotes. “So? Get to work,” he commands. He lifts his boots off Tim’s back and opens his legs wide for Tim to crawl in.

Tim undoes Raylan’s fly with his teeth. He opens his mouth wide and accepts Raylan’s cock.

[whimzeee]

Virtu

Name: Virtu Sean Thatcher Nickname(s): Tymora's Lucky Charm (self-imposed) Pronouns: he/him Age: 25 Race: Aasimar Origin: Tav (folk hero) Class: Monk/cleric Lover: Rolan Challenge: Virtu hates getting his feathers wet. Throughout Virtu's run, I have to avoid having him be submerged in water or walk through it. Also, he carries in his inventory a bag full of neat little curios that he collects, such as unique items there are only one of, but exclusively the ones with low sell value. He also can't equip necklaces; they get stuck in his little neck feathers.

Personality: In a word: lucky. In a few more: fun-loving, confident, irritating, impertinent, golden-hearted, and young. Virtu is the most annoying boy in the world and knows you love him anyway. He has a casual and friendly nature and, with a thick skin, doesn't anger easily. He may be self assured and cocky and bask in praise, but at the end of the day his moral priorities are in order. He loves to help people--though he'll tell you it's just because he adores the hero treatment they give him for it. He never sticks in one place for long, though, a free spirit with a flighty nature who gets bored easily. He never wants life to be mundane. Above all, he values the freedom to enjoy an adventurous life. He is secretly terrified of losing that freedom and lifestyle, which he thinks was granted to him by being an Aasimar. Nothing scares him more than the possibility of falling. Sometimes, when he is afraid of committing an evil deed and risking becoming a fallen Aasimar, he will abruptly shift from his easygoing demeanor into one of strict moral lawfulness.

Background: Virtu was born to human parents, and was entirely unexpected. They rejoiced at their good fortune and praised the goddess of luck, Tymora, for blessing them with a divine child. So he was raised in a glowing spotlight, treated like gold just for being born. Spoiled rotten. The village he grew up in was small and had long been a target for criminals--raiders and bandits and the sort. As soon as Virtu was old enough to throw a punch, he was on the job. He trained fighting skills with local retired adventurers, soldiers who passed through, anyone and everyone he could pester into teaching him. His skill for hand to hand combat and his maneuverability with his wings made him an excellent candidate for a monk. Physically. Spiritually though…well. He tried out a few monasteries, but never lasted more than a couple weeks. Virtu was too worldly, too self-centered, too… undisciplined, for most masters to put up with. So, he just continued collecting scraps of tutelage from all sorts of different sources, living his best life without a care. Until he learned that he could fall. When one of his monk tutors became enraged at Virtu's behavior, he cast him out with terrible words: "If you do not become a fallen Aasimar, it will be a miracle borne of all the grace fortune herself can offer!" Since then, Virtu's confidence cracked. Along with his appearance. Fissures would appear along his very skin every time he did something that he feared was black-hearted or unkind. He was terrified of losing his perfect, golden status as a hero and his very freedom. Losing everything being an Aasimar had given him. But Virtu had never served any god, and had no guide to follow. Breaking apart inside and out, he ran home to his parents for help. They taught him of Tymora. Goddess of luck, good fortune, a goddess less strict and more forgiving than most other divinity. The perfect fit for Virtu.

[vn-digital]

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[tenderenzymes]

I finally heard God again today | 1.4.21

Reposting this from nearly two years ago as a reminder of the power of my faith.

These past two months have been some of the worst emotional moments I’ve felt in a very long time. It was the perfect way to cap off a year with so many headaches-- a huge migraine of an ending. In four days, Nick, the cats, and I will be moving to the Richmond district, in a quaint apartment with those Victorian windows that I dream about, an hour’s walk away from the Golden Gate Bridge and three beaches practically in our backyard. There will be catharsis after all, and I really would not be writing all of this right now if I had not heard God speak to me today.

I am a very religious person, by my standards, at least. Sometimes I forget to pray, I forget to be a good person, I forget to live in the moment and give thanks for my daily blessings. But despite these flaws, I love the Lord Savior Jesus Christ with all of my heart, my mind, and my soul, and I have no doubt in my faith and its power. I woke up today with a heaviness reminiscent of my darker days, motivation lacking, my mind racing, and globs of doubt seeping into my membrane. I suddenly felt so insecure about not being able to sell my car amid my already rocky feelings surrounding leaving my family’s home for good. Something told me to persist, so I reached out to anyone I could who might know someone who needs a car. Luckily, an old neighbor of ours connected me with her daughter whose car is broken and she made a promising commitment to eventually purchase my car when we return to the Bay. 

Of course, I did not want to get too excited-- I’m very wary about counting my chicks before they hatch. But no more than two minutes of closing the potential deal with the daughter, I heard a knock on the door-- a package that I was supposed to receive last week, but for some reason never arrived despite its “delivered” status. I even received my refund already. If God was trying to whisper something to me, this was a reverberating bellow that was more than enough to make my skin crawl and dance with happiness all at once. He was telling me, as He has always told me time and time again, I am here with you always. You are never alone in your woes. Everything is going to be okay.

It brought me to tears because it had felt so long since I last heard God’s message. I never think that He abandons me, but maybe just that I’m not doing good enough to hear him. My faith is not restored because it was never damaged or lost, it is simply strengthened and energized.

---

I’m still feeling a lot of pain, though. This is the sixth week that my father has chosen not to speak to me or see me. That includes both Christmas and New Year’s. I don’t think I could ever capture just how hurtful his actions are, as one of the last things he said to me was that he would kill himself. It’s unimaginable that someone would treat their child, who has uprooted her life to support them with her husband, the way that he has. This whole situation makes me wish I was still able to see my old therapist. When I close my eyes, I can hear her calming, validating voice like a grandmother. Therapy helped me tremendously and guided me to see myself out of the dim and dark. I pray and hope that I don’t carry this weight with me as I progress with my ambitions and dreams.

[eldetech]

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[heartsofminds]

Pink Stripes

Jake rolls his eyes. “I need to come over.”

“Is that how you talk to your hook-ups? Cause if so, I’m still not seeing the appeal.” or Jake Seresin’s upbringing shapes him into the best Navy pilot there is and also the best dad ever. 

i. 

There’s something about watching a stiff ceiling fan turn in the middle of a heat wave while it storms outside in July. 

The soft “swoosh” the panels make can be mistaken for the subtle breeze outside as the rain taps on the windows relentlessly. The sound is extremely reminiscent of the knock of an annoying younger sibling wanting access to your room; the softness due to their developing muscles and the persistence because they tend to have one-track minds. 

Stained glass windows of the Southern Baptist Church hide the dreariness outside but if you had been attending there long enough (which most of its patrons had been; newcomers and visitors were far and few between) the overcast was extremely obvious. 

Webster, Texas was the hottest it had ever been and this fact proved evident to sixteen-year-old Jacob Michael Seresin who was sitting in a church pew with slacks that are way too big around his waist and a white button-down that is way too starchy for his liking. The shirt is translucent around his armpits and the small of his back; the wife beater underneath sticking to his skin like a shitty temporary tattoo. 

So much for thanking God for the rain and the cooler weather it supposedly brings. 

Jake liked to think that he believed in God, that he was a good enough Christian that if he died today he would find himself in the line that got him a seat in Heaven. But he knows that he falls short in comparison to the people who he goes to church with. 

He doesn’t read his Bible the way his mother and father had wanted him to. He cursed quite a lot whenever his parents weren’t around. He was an asshole to his sisters more often than not. He gets distracted when he prays before bed; oftentimes floating off into Dreamland before he can say “amen.” 

Worst of all, he thinks, is that he can’t stay focused on the sermon to save his life. 

His MeeMaw always used to tell him that his mind was fast; that he was always thinking so much and so quickly that it was almost impossible for everyone else around him to keep up. So when his thoughts start to drift off into what he’s going to eat for lunch or what path to run will serve him best as the quarterback on Friday night or even how he can avoid his obnoxious little sisters once he returns home, he lets it slide because, after all, he does have Meemaw’s blessing. 

Right? 

His grandfather, the Pastor of the small church that his family had been attending since before he was born, reads off a verse from the Book of Philemon and Jake studies the people around him. 

He sees Miss Mary Lou who is well in her eighties with her church hat on and her little paper fan that supplies a placebo of cool air. She used to sit with him and his sisters in the nursery when they were younger and spoil them rotten with butterscotches and those strange strawberry candies that stores never seemed to sell. 

She still lays on her blue eyeshadow thick and her red lipstick even thicker and although it may look cheap and tacky and so grandma-ish to anyone else looking at her, it warms Jake’s heart; good childhood memories brandished in the bow of vacation Bible school and “Jesus Loves Me” sang softly to him whenever he was cradled in her lap. He often pitched fits after his mother would leave him in the nursery (call him a Momma’s boy because it’s simply the truth) and that was the only thing that could calm him down.

He sees Bria Grace McLeod sitting all prim and proper with her perfect blue sundress on and her perfect white cardigan hiding her exposed shoulders. Her perfect blonde hair sits with clear butterfly clips holding up the front two pieces and she looks so angelic, but Jake knows it’s all a facade. Just the night before she was on her knees for him in the corn field that all the teenagers in Webster hung out in. 

He was leaning against his truck and she was going to work on his cock; sloppy and amateur as all get out but who was Jake to complain? Bria Grace was a bit of a biter and he was scared that if he commented on it she would bite him intentionally, so he stayed quiet, busted in her mouth, and drove her home. 

He sees the way her face softens at the mentions of “living like the world” and how the “world” is littered with sex and homosexuality and abortions. The sensitivity on her face shows Jake that she’s feeling remorseful. Shameful. Dirty, even, for what she had done with him last night. 

Jake wants to feel bad for her, wants to push her butter yellow hair back behind her ears and tell her that it’s alright, but he knows that it won’t change anything. He was a horny boy and Bria Grace was a horny girl. She’ll be in his backseat with her legs pushed up to her chest come Friday night. She only feels guilty in the moment, but it’ll cease to exist once church lets out and she gabs with her friends on the landline about who she blew last night.

Guilt.

It’s quite a humorous thing, Jake thinks as his eyes find his father, the assistant Pastor of Webster First Baptist, sitting on the stage behind his grandfather at the pulpit. His suit coat is unbuttoned and fat bullets of sweat stream down his face. 

Call it a sixth sense or a superpower or a gift (as MeeMaw liked to call it) but it never took Jake longer than a few seconds to drink someone in and see how they were feeling. And if he had a dollar for every time his dad sat on that church stage and looked guilty as fuck, he would have enough money to shove up the asses of those fuckers who had good ole Texas oil money and never seemed to shut up about it.

Jake always found himself equal parts confused and angry at how hypocritical his father could be. When his dad wasn’t ignoring him and his sisters, he was belittling Jake for coming home late and drinking beer in the cornfields with his friends; telling him how disobedience is a sin and how if he truly gave a fuck about going to the Naval Academy, he wouldn’t put that shit into his body. 

And Jake used to always repent and feel guilty. His old man was right, he used to think, until he realized that his dad was nothing more than a cheater who was routinely moaning the name of his eldest daughter’s nineteen-year-old roommate behind his children’s mother’s back. 

How drinking underage was a sin but adultery was fair game never seemed to sit right with Jake, but he chalks it all down to the fact that he’s no Aristotle or God or whatever the hell is more powerful than God. He just figures that if his dad were as much of a Godly man as he claimed to be, he would know that wrong is wrong no matter what. 

Jake Seresin doesn’t claim to be a righteous Christian, but fucking your daughter’s barely legal friend unbeknownst to your wife has got to get you extra hell points than underage drinking with your friends, he would assume. 

He doesn’t quite know for sure, though. 

God is funny like that sometimes. 

The choir director sitting beside Jake and his family catches his gaze and sends the boy a tight-lipped smile. Jake doesn’t return it; just sends daggers his way before moving his eyes elsewhere. He tended to do that a lot, nowadays. His eyes often swam in the ocean of his surroundings only to be met with nothing than dryer than dry Webster, Texas. At least with the pouring rain around him, he can pretend like the town he resides in isn’t a shitty mock-up of the movie Holes. 

Jake feels his mother pinch his side subtly. The almond shape of her maroon-colored fingernails paints a stark contrast to the shiny gold of his grandmother’s pearl ring perched on her pointer finger. He tries to ignore the wedding band that shines brightly even in the dreariness of the church. He doesn’t need reminders of his father’s infidelity. 

“Your daddy wouldn’t be happy that you’re noddin’ off during church, Jakey,” she whispers in a sweet tone. Her mouth barely opens and she remains looking straight ahead at his grandpa with her Bible in her lap and a tissue clutched in her other hand. 

Jake freezes; his breath catching in his throat and his mouth going numb like it does when he’s had one too many shots. If his mom told his dad that he wasn’t paying attention in church today, he would surely be in for an earful of hurtful words later. 

He likes to pretend that he’s big and bad and that words don’t hurt but he’s come to realize a long time ago that he internalizes everything; every utterance, every look, every vocal fry embedded in his book of ways to make himself less of a nuisance. It’s a survival guide to help him not look like an idiot, and even though he’s the coolest guy in school, can have any girl he wants, and isn’t too bad on the eyes (It’s cocky to think that, but from the way he hears his sisters’ friends giggling down the hall from his room, he knows it’s true), his father’s approval is the only thing he truly cares about. 

He can never put it into words; can never explain how he hates his dad so much but wants to please him so badly. 

Dads are supposed to care. Dads are supposed to love you unconditionally. Dads are supposed to have a hard time showing emotion and that they care, but somehow will always have your back. 

And despite that being what the norm is and wishing for it while blowing out his candles on his cake every birthday up until this past year, his dad always made him feel small. Inadequate. Hard to be around. Downright un-fucking-lovable. 

Reverend John Marshall Seresin is a hometown hero; the town’s golden boy before he went off to the Naval Academy like his father and his grandfather and generations upon generations of Seresin men before him. He was a carbon copy of his father, Marshall John, and Marshall was a carbon copy of his father, John Michael.

And with faces that told the story of a legacy crafted decades and decades before Jake was even thought of (he’s not even sure he can even begin to fathom how many years of difference are between his great great great grandfather and he) invited the pressure. 

All Seresins were Texas born and raised with Navy blood running rampant through their veins. Jake’s father (and grandfather, and great grandfather, and great great grandfather, and every other son of a bitch who shared the same last name as him) was the star quarterback of Webster High turned Naval Academy graduate turned Rear Admiral turned Southern Baptist Preacher. 

Jake’s just not so sure that “turned cheating low-life who steps out on his wife and four kids to play House with his daughter’s college roommate” is a life achievement that everyone in his family shared as well. 

The cheating was something that Jake found out by accident; sneaking in hours after his curfew and walking by his dad’s shed on the way to crawl into his bedroom window with shrieks and moans from a voice that was certainly not his mom’s. And he tried to ignore it; tried not to let the idea that his dad may or may not have cheated on his mom escape his mind but he kept finding himself in the same situation every Friday evening when he was sneaking back in from getting lucky in the cornfield with his hookup for the night. 

He pieced together that the mistress was his sister’s college roommate (Natalie, he thinks her name is) during Christmas break a few months ago; the hickies she had on her neck were concealed to the untrained eye but noticeable to someone looking for clues. Her voice matched the one he had heard screaming in the shed for weeks and her frame matched what would have fit into the baby blue bra he had found stuffed in his dad’s toolbox. 

The realization had made him physically ill. Fuck them for making him miss out on MeeMaw’s Christmas ham. 

The worst part wasn’t the fact that his dad was a cheater or that his mom was oblivious. The worst part for Jake was knowing that he was the only one who knew, and as much as he liked to hold things over people’s heads or revel in the fact that he knew a secret that no one else was even slightly aware of and the burden weighs heavy in his chest. 

How long does he let it fester? How would he even go about telling his mom? Would she even believe him? Would his father skin him alive if he knew that his son knew everything about his affair? If his parents divorced, where would that leave his sisters? Him, even? 

The questions filled his mind like a twelve-foot pool, yet every time he thinks he has an answer, he’s diving into the shallow end and screwing himself over. He guesses his theoretical spinal injury is significantly better than all the drama that would ensue from the word about his father’s extramarital affair. 

If he could just keep it buried long enough, he would be fine. 

That’s how Seresins stayed afloat. 

That’s how all of Webster stayed afloat if he’s being honest. You let bygones be bygones and hope to God no one knows. 

But you know that you’ll be talked about ruthlessly by those sweet, old Southern ladies during their Wednesday night Bible studies because they tend to gossip and scheme and come up with scenarios that aren’t too far off from the truth. 

And they’ll call their kids and tell them and then said kids who are on the PTA make it school-wide gossip and before you know it, you’re the talk of the town in every hairdresser, barber shop, grocery convenience store, and small prayer group within a fifteen-mile radius, but it’s not like anyone really cares. 

Except they do. 

And they’re judgmental. 

And even though the downfall of his family hasn’t happened yet and if it did, it would be no one’s fault but his father’s, Jake doesn’t know if he could handle the aftermath. 

He knows he’s not ready to tuck his mom into bed after she cried so hard she blacked out. He knows he’s not ready to put every guy his little sisters bring home under the microscope with the prayer that they’ll be nothing like their shitty, cheating dad. He certainly isn’t ready for the freezer full of casseroles and the hushed whispers paired with the “bless their hearts” as he and his family walk by a group of women in the grocery store.  

The saying is sweet to an outsider, but it says all that Jake needs to know. 

“Well, aren’t they shit out of luck?” And he figures that at that point, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but agree. How lucky would he be to have to pick up the pieces of his parents’ messy divorce? How lucky would he be to have to scoop his sisters off the floor after being thrown away so carelessly by their sweet daddy who used to do anything for them? 

How lucky is he now to know something that no one but God knows, and feel like he has an atomic bomb strapped to his chest? 

Jake thinks the only lottery he’ll ever have the pleasure of winning is the shitty hand of cards he’s been dealt by being born a Seresin. 

Honor, courage, and commitment; “Go Navy” his ass. 

He feels his mother pinch the side of his thigh and a small puff of air signifying her annoyance in his ear. He can see her lips stretch into a thin line at the sight of her son ignoring her earlier request. 

Jake’s for sure in some deep shit with his father later. There’s no way his mom is going to let this slide. He can already envision his father’s glare from the rearview mirror on the way home from church; his dad’s ears bright pink from both the humidity outside and the pure rage that Jake seems to strike in him. 

His dad wouldn’t start yelling at him until he turned down the dirt road near Prickett Street where there were only longhorns, wheat, and longhorn shit for miles. Just miles upon miles of nothing; not even golden rod-colored paint marking the road for two lanes of traffic. 

John Marshall never liked for people to see him in any way that could be construed as negative. His dark side was a secret that was meant to be kept within the confines of their home (and his Chevy Tahoe, apparently). Jake’s scoldings often occurred on the drive home or in the sanctuary of his dad’s tool shed outside; outbursts of anger followed by apathy. 

His dad would damn near shun him after he finished giving him a stern talking to. The lack of attention, the lack of feeling like his dad even gives a shit that he has a son that wants to be loved and accepted by him; still makes Jake’s eyes water despite losing the ability to cry over his dad’s treatment years ago. 

There’s just something about a black hole of a heart that comes to mind when he cries; especially the skin-melting pain that was felt to rip a hole in the fabric of the universe (which in this case, is Jake Seresin’s heart). 

The lump in his throat makes him feel small again even though he stands six feet even and is the same height as his dad. It transports him back to the more than unfavorable moments in his life and his world is blacked out by flashbacks of his father’s disappointment. 

He’s six and being given the silent treatment after his first flag football game for not running the ball to the end zone. He’s ten and his dad lays into him about striking out during his travel baseball game despite hitting two home runs in the last three innings. 

He’s twelve and being told that he’s stupid; that he won’t amount to anything if he tried, and that he “Should’ve been a girl if you were gonna be this goddamn useless!”

Now he’s sixteen, sitting on the fear of being berated on the ride home later and trying to keep it all together. 

“And all of God’s people said.” 

“Amen!” 

The rush of people getting up to go to the back of the church can be heard and despite his entire family getting up, Jake remains frozen in place. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. His mind is moving faster than his body. 

MeeMaw waltzes past him. She puts her bony hand on his shoulder and squeezes it. 

“It’s okay to not want to get your hair wet, baby. Know you Seresin men spend so much time on it,” she teases, smile grazing her sunken in features and church hat perfectly placed on her head. 

Jake offers her a small chuckle, the apples of his cheeks rising and falling. “Is this the nice way of calling me conceited?” he asks, voice small but a teasing edge to it. 

MeeMaw laughs before pressing a kiss to his cheek. Her magenta lipstick is sure to leave a print on his face until he can use some of his sister’s makeup remover later. 

“No, it’s the Southern way of sayin’ it. Now, come help your MeeMaw to the car before I say something unkind to MaryLou about her eyeshadow.” 

Jake takes his grandma’s arm and catches his father’s gaze in passing before quickly averting his eyes elsewhere. His confidence dwindles significantly when he’s aware of his father’s presence. 

The fifteen-minute drive from the church to his home is always uneventful unless he was getting screamed, at which he’s sure is happening at some point.

He takes his seat between his two little sisters. If Anna Caroline was here, she would bully the youngest two to squeeze in the middle so she and Jake could have the two window seats. Being the oldest and the oldest sister seemed to always get you what you want. 

But with AC moving to college this past year and leaving him alone with two girls who could barely even be considered teenagers, Jake is outnumbered. Arguing with his little sisters is another losing battle he has to face regularly, and Jake thinks his time is better spent keeping his mouth shut rather than getting into screaming matches with people who had to look up at him to make eye contact. 

Sitting in the middle seat was torture though because Jake had a front row seat to his father’s eyes through the rearview mirror. Jake’s father is equally as introspective and knit-picky as his son. Jake’s entire personality is built around walking on eggshells around his dad. 

He wonders if in another life he would be less of an ass but quickly dismisses the thought. It’s hard to believe that his father can be nice to him written anywhere in his psyche; even a make-believe one. 

His mother sits with a scowl on her face. She’s made it clear that she’s upset with his father because he forgot to shut their bedroom window this morning like she had asked. There’s no way that with the storm being as harsh as it is that the carpet near the window is anything synonymous to dry. She also is pretty annoyed at Jake for not listening earlier and nodding off during the sermon. 

His mother usually handled him with grace. She knows her husband can be a lot and Jake is a momma’s boy to the max. But she does keep him in check and she’s not afraid to let his father deal with him if she has to. 

What she doesn’t know is how awful his father truly treats him. 

Jake will never say anything and his father sure as hell would never tell on himself. How he’s treated is their dirty little secret. 

“Your son wasn’t paying attention to the message today,” his mother speaks and Jake’s shoulders tighten at the sound of her voice. 

His dad has his right hand on the steering wheel and his left fiddling with the toothpick sticking out of the side of his teeth. “Hmm,” is all he says. His mom runs her fingers through her bleach blonde hair and she sighs. 

Her annoyance is obvious and he knows that she’ll go to their room and take a nap before they’re due back at the church for the evening service. “Are you even listening to me?” she whispers, turning her body to be closer to the passenger side door. 

His father shifts his stance, his right hand abandoning the wheel and resting on his mother’s thigh. “When have I ever ignored you, honey?” 

Jake has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He has to withhold a gag when his dad brings his mom’s knuckles up to his hand and kisses them. The only reason why the younger Seresin’s eyeballs aren’t looking at the tops of his occipital bones right now is the fact that his dad could see him. He doesn’t want to take the chance of his dad coming unglued on him.

All he can think about is how those lips were on another person; another woman (if a nineteen-year-old could even be considered that, of course) feeling the same facial feature in places way less holy and pure as his mom’s hands. 

He can hear the grunts and can see the subtle shaking of the tool shed in the backyard; the light beaming a soft yellow from some of the small holes in the wood and the indigo sky swallowing it like an abyss. 

Jake’s had his fair share of shitty feelings and, of course, evoking those shitty feelings onto other people but he knows for a fact that he could never live like this; the sneaking around and the lying. The crazed caution and the heavyweight in his chest of knowing that what he’s doing is wrong. Jake knows he’s a sinner, but he could never be a sinner like his father. And if he ever finds it within his poor, damaged, and disgusting soul to cheat on his wife one day? 

He’ll knock on hell’s door his damn self. 

Jake clenches his fists at his sides and grinds his teeth. He figures the best way to keep from violently outbursting and confessing his father’s sins for him is to tune out his surroundings. 

He focuses on the environment around him; how the pleather of the car seat feels against his church slacks, how his little sister’s elbow pokes into his ribs despite having all the room in the world near the window seat she so ruthlessly stripped him of. He focuses on the sound of small gravel stones being kicked up from the wheels of the car and flung to the side of the road. 

He thinks back to a time when this wasn’t his life; where he wasn’t the crypt keeper of secrets and things were fine and dandy and he didn’t have to worry about slouching or winning the football game or studying his ass off for his ASVAB and ACT so he could get into the Academy. He thinks back to when he was a kid and the harsh reality of life was banned from infiltrating his perfect bubble filled with Arthur reruns and lukewarm apple juice. 

Sunday afternoons were his favorite when he was little. His siblings would scatter around their house finding things to do and doing as they pleased. His parents would always take a nap; his mom on top of the duvet in their bedroom and curled up with a throw blanket and their dad passed out in the recliner, their family dog Chaps sitting at his feet and soft snores coming from both of them. 

He and AC would terrorize their little sisters; chasing them around outside with bugs and frogs in their hands. Sometimes when he wasn’t feeling like being a God-awful older brother he would bring out his baseball and play catch with them. He even taught them how to play Chess and Go-Fish. On the rare occasion when they begged hard enough, he would find himself in a ridiculous church hat of his MeeMaw’s that she “donated” to her granddaughters to play dress-up in, pinkie up and sipping imaginary tea on a small, pastel pink stool. 

Now Sunday afternoons give him the shakes. He knows that he has about fifteen minutes to hop in his truck and leave the house before his father came to find him and work his nerves. His brain doesn’t even process that his dad has pulled into the driveway of their home until his little sister, Maggie, closes the car door a little too hard. 

“God, almighty,” his mother sighs, shaking her head at her daughter’s roughness. 

The family treks inside and goes their separate ways. The creaky floorboards signify the movement in different spots in the house and Jake bolts to his room; taking off his church clothes at lightning speed and throwing on a sweatshirt and some shorts. He damn near breaks his neck running to the shoe rack by the front door with his keys in his hand before he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

Most people get that goose-pimpled feeling whenever they’re nervous or chilled beyond belief. Jake seemed to always get that feeling around his father; when it was just Jake, him, and God with no bystanders. 

The unthinkable always had a propensity to happen in settings like these. 

“Need you to come out back to the shed with me, son.”

Jake pushes his foot into his Nike. He feels frozen. 

“You not gonna say anything?” his father chides, loosening his tie and crumpling the object in his hand. Jake’s father meant business and he’s extremely curious to know what his deal is with him now. 

“Yes, sir,” Jake manages to speak and he hears the light tap of his father’s church shoes getting smaller and smaller as the distance between them widens. 

Jake pushes himself off of the floor, heart heavy with nerves and stomach tied in knots tighter than any Cub Scout leader could bear to manage. His feet feel like they’ve been forced into slabs of concrete as he grabs his rain jacket and heads to the Pandora's Box of secrets; his dad’s tool shed. 

His father is already in the back, the lightbulb sticking out of the ceiling lit and casting a golden hue across the small building. Jake can’t hear himself think. Moments like these, ones where it’s just him and his dad, send him into flight mode. 

His father stands with a tarnished yellow cloth in his hand; wiping down some part that was supposed to be put in MeeMaw’s car later this week. 

“Shut the door,” his father says, not once acknowledging Jake in the mere thirty seconds he had been standing in front of him. 

Jake nods and grips the handle of the shed with shaky hands. His mind is screaming at him to run and scolding him for not telling his mother he was going out back with his dad. He had noticed whenever he made a point to let his mother know where he was when he was to be alone with his dad that his father wasn’t nearly as harsh as he usually was. 

The silence is ominous; harrowing in the worst way possible. Jake almost has the nerve to speak up and ask what the hell his dad needed him here for, but alas, his mouth is dryer than dry and his words get caught in his throat. 

This can’t be good. This can’t be good. This cannot be good at all.

The frenzy of thoughts his mind sends him into is cut short by the slam of metal on the janky table that homes all of his father’s tools and “Honey, do” projects. 

“You wanna tell me why David McLeod is runnin’ round my fuckin’ church? Knockin’ on my goddamn door sayin’ that he caught my son bending his sweet daughter over in their front yard two nights ago?” his father’s voice booms. 

And there it is. 

Jake bites his lip to keep from laughing. His dad has quite the nerve when two nights ago, he caught him screwing AC’s roommate’s brains out. Who the hell is he to be screaming at him for enjoying himself? 

Jake shakes his head and continues to bite his lip; his eyebrows pent upwards to withhold the smart allecky comment he has brewing in his mouth. 

“You not gonna say anything, kid?” his father throws down the rag and stomps closer to his son, “I’m fucking talking to you!” 

Jake swallows before he lets his comment loose. He knows he shouldn’t; knows that disobeying your parents and talking back is a violation of the Ten Commandments or whatever (Baptist Christians are batshit crazy, he’s determined a long time ago). He knows he shouldn’t, but he does. 

“Just think it’s funny you keep saying your church when it’s Papaw’s.” 

John Marshall Seresin, does in fact, hate that answer. 

“Listen here and listen fucking good, kid,” his father spits, grabbing the shirt of his collar and pushing him up against the door. “You better not go ‘round here fucking that girl and lettin’ her daddy catch ya. They’re a bunch of low lives anyway.” 

The way his father is so easily ready to demean someone else; to talk down on them as if they amount to nothing yet be a smiling plastic figure in their faces come Sunday morning strikes a match in the flame that resides in Jake’s stomach. 

Jake shakes his head, a sarcastic laugh sitting on his lips and falling off his lips faster than he can register. 

“What’s so fuckin’ funny, Jakey?” his father sneers. 

And Jake knows that he should stop. He knows that speaking his mind isn’t the brightest idea he’s had. But Jake chalks it all down to the fact that he’s smart. Wise is something that he never claimed to be. 

“It’s just hilarious that you’re calling them low lives for what?” he pushes his father off of him before backing his old man into a corner, “Because they’re poor? Because they’re not “Navy” bred? David is a piece of work, but at least he’s not fucking his daughter’s friend.” 

John Marshall’s eyes widen the size of a full moon at his son’s admission of knowledge. He knew that someone had noticed and he had figured it was a matter of time until one of his children (preferably any of his children that weren’t Jake) would find out. 

“You don’t know jack shit, young man,” his father demands, face as bright red as the tomatoes in his mother’s garden. 

Jake is beyond terrified. He knows that he’s in for some deep shit and that his father’s words will cut deep. Despite his brain screaming at him to diffuse the situation, to walk with his tail between his legs and carry on as if nothing happened, he ignores it. 

Above all else, he’s angry. He’s angry that he lets his father talk to him the way that he does. He’s angry that his father gets a free pass to act however he wants with no one there to check him. He’s angry that his father will inevitably tear the family apart that Jake’s spent the better half of fifteen years attempting to keep together. 

So he doesn’t bite his tongue this time around. He doesn’t shy away from being the true smart-ass everyone in Webster knew him as. He rolls his shoulders back and clenches his fists at his sides. 

“What I do know is that this is awful and mom doesn’t deserve that,” he calmly speaks. He braces himself for his father’s touch bulldozing him through the wall or a punch to the gut. Jake’s dad very rarely put his hands on his son, but on the handful of occasions that he had, Jake always walked away with some kind of bruise that his mother would pester him about until it healed. 

The push or smack or punch doesn’t come and Jake almost relaxes before he jumps out of his skin at the sound of his father’s hands slamming on the metal table. 

“You’re just fucking stupid, aren’t ya?” His dad shakes his head and laughs, a deep chuckle coming from his belly as if Jake had just told him the funniest goddamn joke in the entire world. 

“Stupid enough to nod off during church. Stupid enough to fuck that no-good tramp. Wonder if you’re stupid enough to ruin your mama’s life, son,” he gripes. “If I go down, so does this whole family.” 

And Jake thinks that his father is wrong about a lot of things, but he has to give him credit where it’s due. The revelation would tear his family to absolute shreds. MeeMaw and Papaw would be judged for raising such an awful son. His mother would be laughed at behind her back with the embarrassment hanging over her like a raincloud. “How could she not have known?” being thrown around every hairdresser and nail salon in the area. AC would lose her mind, he’s sure. He can’t even be somewhat delusional with himself and think that she wouldn’t do anything slight of going fucking bananas. 

“But it’s your move, Ace. If I were you, I’d keep quiet. Especially if you want a shot of getting out of this hellhole like you told Bria Grace.”  His dad fixes the tools haphazardly on the table; trying to make it look as uniform as possible; as perfect as possible. Just like his family on the outside. 

His father walks to the door before stopping and turning to his son whose blond hair looks white in comparison to how pink his face is. “That bitch ain’t as good of a secret keeper as you thought she was. How the hell do you think David found out?” 

The door slams before Jake can even react and for the millionth time in his life, Jake feels small. All he can manage to do is hold his cries in until he starts to hiccup and the flow of his tears streaming down his face match the rainfall gracing dryer than dry Webster, Texas. 

So much for thanking God for the rain and the blessings it was supposed to bring. 

ii. 

Today is Jacob Seresin’s eighteenth birthday. 

Although he thoroughly believed that birthday wishes were a scam and that people treating you slightly better on your “special day” was bullshit, some part of him still enjoyed the fact that it was his birthday every year. 

He can’t decide if it’s the overwhelming amount of love his mom and sisters gift him on the morning of his birthday or if it’s because he’s one year closer to distancing himself from his father’s wrath. 

And as Jake’s alarm clock sounds and he’s formally shaken awake by his mom and sisters busting open his door, his heart aches for moments like these that he’ll miss once he moves out of the house. 

There’s just something about waking up on the morning of your birthday at home and having happy birthday sang to you before you can even blink the sleep out of your eyes. The small moments like these make his life not so much of a living hell and he can almost gaslight himself into not wanting to go so far away; to defer his acceptance into the Naval Academy and to stay at home for another year. 

His mom would always make her infamous banana walnut pancakes and pair it with an awful rendition of “Happy Birthday.” She would joke that God didn’t bless her with good vocal cords but did bless her with good cooking. And with one bite of her pancakes, Jake decides why he loves his birthday. 

Simply just because of his mom’s banana pancakes. 

He loved the cards his sisters would hand make him every year too. They would corral his bed and wait with their eyes wide open as if they hadn’t been born with eyelids to see how he reacted to their cards. AC’s always having some cartoonish drawing of him that was slightly offensive and Maggie and Rosie are always having words misspelled in a stew of comically large vowels and consonants. 

He can never figure out if they actually enjoy making him cards or if it’s some sick, twisted, girlish game that they play to determine which card he likes the most that year. 

Jake almost is a good brother and plays into it, before he decides that his job as a brother is to be annoying, and dutifully says that he loves them all equally even though they all know (him included) that he’s lying straight through his teeth. 

If he had to pick, he would always pick AC (though he does admit, Rosie has been giving her a run for her money as of late). 

And because of these festivities and because of the unconditional love his mom and sisters give him, he almost would be content staying in Webster for the rest of his life. 

He dreams of having a big house with a big dog and a big yard and a wrap-around porch down the street from his parents’ house. He dreams of Saturday night football being watched with his pretty wife and his precious babies and then those precious babies growing up and making him a grandpa and he and his wife growing old. 

The fantasy he creates in his head is almost perfect and he almost considers it until he waltzes into his kitchen to find his dad reading the paper in his pajamas with a solemn silence surrounding him like a plague. 

And it’s then that Jake realizes why he longed for this day since he was eleven and why the only college he applied to out of state was the Academy. 

He tries to tiptoe around his dad like an utter dumbass and he knows that he isn’t tiny or quiet in the slightest and when his plate and fork clatter in the sink louder than he anticipated, he’s met with the quick rustle of newspaper and the sunken in green eyes of his father peering back into his identical ones. 

His dad clears his throat before taking a sip of his coffee. Jake wonders if his dad is stalling if he was planning on avoiding his son just as he was planning on avoiding his dad today. 

“Anna Caroline is coming in tonight for your birthday dinner,” his father speaks barely above a whisper. 

Jake nods before turning on his heel to head back upstairs to get ready for school. “Noted, sir. Thank you.” 

His father offers a straight-lipped smile before turning his attention back to the paper. The creaks that shadow Jake’s movement toward the stairs seem louder than any fighter jet or rock concert even though they could barely be heard between Maggie and Rosie’s arguing and Chaps’s barking. 

“Happy eighteenth, Ace,” his father manages to say before dumping the rest of his coffee in the sink and resorting back to the master bedroom to get ready for the day. 

Jake just nods and feels an eerie sense of calm run up his arms. He just had a feeling; something in his gut telling him that something wasn’t right, that something really, really bad was set to happen but he boils it down to the Calculus test he had later today during fourth period. 

Only girls got gut feelings, he remembered AC saying to him once. So he shrugs and heads up to his room before hopping in his truck to make the ten-minute drive up the road to stroll into Webster High School.

Jake can’t shake that eerie feeling all day. It makes it hard to eat, to think, even to write. His hand shook horribly whenever he went to write the sign for a derivative during his math test and he erased the goddamn thing at least five times until he was sure one more fuck up would leave a hole in his paper.  

He ends up leaving the question blank. He has a ninety-seven percent in the class and already got into all the colleges he applied to anyway. It’s not like a measly three points is going to be the end of the world for him. 

Jake still feels the knots in his stomach as he hops into his truck to drive home after football practice and no matter what he does, he can’t exactly put his finger on what would make him feel like this. He almost has half the mind to whip out his cell phone and call AC to talk about it, but he knows that she’ll go into older sister mode once she hears any slight indication that he’s in the car and will go off about texting and driving and how immature her brother is even being eighteen years old today. 

He can practically see her caramel brown hair pulled up in a ponytail and a summer dress on her body while she shouts at him through the phone about any and every grievance she has ever had with him because once Anna Caroline gets started, she never stops. People who think that Jake is a firecracker have never been in the same room as AC because she was a goddamn nuclear bomb compared to him. 

He grins when he sees her white Jeep Cherokee in the gravel of their driveway with a sorority sticker embellishing the back window. 

Jake damn near sprints into the house to hug his older sister before he stops cold in his tracks and sees her. 

Anna Caroline brought her roommate home to celebrate Jake’s eighteenth birthday with his family, and it’s then when he determines that life could not fuck him forwards, backward, upside down, and right side up more than it currently is with his dad subtly trying to eye her tits and Jake trying to bite his tongue. 

The freckled, teeny, tiny strawberry blonde who was the owner of the light blue B cup bra Jake had found in his dad’s toolbox and probably the owner of a magenta thong he had found tucked in the driver’s pocket of his dad’s car a few weeks ago. 

And as she waves to Jake and gives him a slight hug and an even slighter, “Happy birthday,” attached to it, Jake decides that the girl is pretty. She’s certainly not a stranger as she’s been to the Seresin home a multitude of times since rooming with Anna Caroline freshman year of college. She’s sweet, friendly, and a tried and true friend of his sister’s. In another world, Jake thinks she would be his type, but only if that other world is one where she’s not fucking his married fifty-five-year-old father behind his eldest sister’s back. 

“Jakey!” Anna Caroline hollers, running towards her younger brother and wrapping her arms around his neck like a boa constrictor. Jake swears she does this shit on purpose; playing “nice” but torturing him so secretly that he could never say anything without being called a drama queen. 

He chuckles before forcibly unclasping her hands from cutting off his breathing. “Don’t choke me out. I’ll punch you in your throat if you do.”  

His mother gasps and hits his shoulder with a dishtowel. “Jacob Michael! That is no way to talk to a woman.” 

Jake and AC share a conniving grin before his dad clears his throat and starts his journey toward the dinner table. The soft squeak of the wooden oak chair sliding across the floor signifies that his father was ready to eat, which means everyone should be ready to eat. 

The awkward silence fills the gap of what should be a happy birthday; a day spent celebrating Jake and his last year at home and stories of his growing up to this point in his life. But it’s far from being about Jake at all, he realizes, as he catches his father’s gaze; his sea glass eyes throwing the stone in to the river of possibilities that Jake very much could blow the roof off of his house of secrets.

After his father blesses the food, a regal quietness plagues the table; the sounds of forks and knives on his mom’s good Chinaware mixed in with the quiet giggles of Rosie and Maggie and the eyes of Natalie who looks like she’s about to throw up at any second. 

And Jake wants to turn his brain off, wants to rid himself of that stupid skill he has of reading people like a goddamn People magazine headline, but he can’t. 

All it takes is one look and Jake sees in her what he sees in his dad every Sunday sitting behind his grandfather on the stage. 

Guilt. 

And if this was on one of those shitty sitcoms his sisters liked to watch on Wednesday nights after church and in between homework time and bedtime, he would almost laugh and plead with someone to change the channel. 

But it isn’t an episode of Gilmore Girls or One Tree Hill, and he can’t even fool himself to pretend like it is. The ten-pound heap of bricks of his father’s infidelity sits on his chest and ruins the ability for him to even imagine that completely. 

Jake is lost in his train of thought as he mindlessly chews on his steak before his arm is haphazardly knocked off the table by AC. His fork clatters on the ground and she sends him a shit-eating grin; one that older sisters only have the capability of sending with just the right amount of childishness but also holding an heir of authority. She holds in her giggle before answering their mother about her boyfriend she has back at A&M and Jake is sent shaking his head before lowering himself beneath the table cloth to retrieve his utensil. 

Although being tall was something that most certainly worked in his favor more often than not, Jake wishes his height didn’t make small things like this so difficult. He holds in a grunt as he gets down on the floor beneath the tablecloth and stretches as far as he can go to retrieve the fork that falls in between the chairs of his father and Natalie. 

His eyes catch the slight glimmer of his dad’s wedding ring and he can see his father’s hand rubbing Natalie’s bare knee. He sees his dad’s hand slide farther and farther up Natalie’s leg and Jake feels his face getting hot; the weight of the secret he had been keeping for two years now choking him. 

His head catches on the table with a loud thud and the dishes and silverware clank as a result. His mother gasps and his sisters laugh as he rubs his temple harshly, his fork gripped in his palm like a vice.

“Came out screamin’ and you’re still making a ruckus. What am I gonna do without you here next year?” his mom comments, her manicured fingers coming across the table to pinch his cheeks like how she used to when he was little. 

“Jump for joy and pray he never comes back,” Anna Caroline remarks, purposefully biting her fork and letting the metal scrape her teeth. She knows the sound grinds Jake’s gears like no other.

“You know, there was a time when you weren’t a bitch,” he says quietly, hoping that his mother and father don’t hear the curse word slip from his lips. As far as they’re concerned, he’s never smoked, drank, cursed, or had sex before in his life. 

His father straightens in his seat, his hand still hidden underneath the blue gingham table cloth covering the dinner table. He shoots his son a knowing look; one that has “Watch your mouth” written all over it. 

He cowers in his seat and tries to cover his uneasiness with a cough.

The table falls silent once again before his father decides to perk up and start a conversation. 

But the problem with that is that no conversation is ever truly a conversation with John Marshall. Every speaking point somehow turned into a lecture or a gloat or some kind of pointed remark that made you feel small inside, and Jake’s not sure how he got through the Naval Academy with an attitude like that or how he was so well-liked, but for some reason, he always made it work. 

“You ready for this week’s game, Ace?” he asks and Jake’s face pales because he knows that he’s soon to be met with confrontation. 

The pause before his answer is pregnant and as he opens his mouth to say something, his dad beats him to fill the air with his voice. 

“You and this delayed speech. Would think I was raisin’ a Helen Keller the way you go about ignoring adults.” 

Jake was told that he was a very calm and mellow baby and despite his asshole-ish nature that’s developed alongside his God complex the older he’s gotten, it still remains somewhat true. And he knows that what his father said wasn’t even the worst of things that have ever been said to him and he knows that he has no right to blow the lid off Webster, Texas’s new cover story (especially at his eighteenth birthday dinner over steak and potatoes), but something in Jake snaps. 

He thinks about not saying what he’s about to say; about not breaking the dam of tears that will flood his house, but he ignores the caution sign anyway and forces the comment out of his throat instead. 

“Yeah, well, at least you ain’t raisin’ a cheater.” 

He can see AC raise her brows at him in a “what the fuck” manner. His dad chokes on his water before clearing his throat. He sends his son an aggravated look before sighing and rubbing his temples with his hands. Natalie looks pale completely; her hazel eyes wide with guilt and fear as if she had seen God himself in front of her and turning her away from Heaven. 

His mother purses her lips before clutching her napkin in her hands. “What do you mean by that, Jakey?” 

And Jake really should stop. He knows that this is unfair. He knows that he’s being unreasonable. He knows that this will be the end, but he can’t bring himself to give any less of a fuck than he does right at this second. 

“Oh, you know. Just think it’s nice to know that you and your husband aren’t raising a guy who cheats on his wife and fucks his daughter’s roommate every Friday night, is all.” 

The silence around them crafts a bubble of disbelief. 

No one dares to say anything. No one dares to move. No one attempts to look anyone else in the eye. 

The world has officially stopped turning. 

The tears in his mother’s eyes freeze and create an ocean in her sockets. She sniffles before sliding her chair back and escaping quietly to the back bedroom. The door slams shut and click with a lock before Jake is really aware of what he had done. 

Natalie runs to the nearest bathroom, the sound of her retching into the toilet echoing through the house like a tornado siren. 

His dad kicks the kitchen table and he and his siblings jump at his action. His face is bright red and the veins encasing his temples bulge out like a warning. 

“Good job, Ace,” he says, patting his son's shoulder with the force of an anchor before grabbing his keys and speeding off from their driveway to God knows where.

His youngest sisters sit at the table shocked; not quite old enough to understand what Jake was implying with his words but knowing that whatever just occurred in front of them at their dining table was bad. AC shakes as she gets up to usher them to their room. 

One look at her pink ears and the hairs at the base of her neck sticking to her skin with angry perspiration makes Jake wish he could take it back; that he could hold the secret in for a few more years until it eventually came out. But what’s done is done, and he can’t even really believe the avalanche of what he had done with just a compound statement. 

He sits at the table in disbelief for what feels like hours before Anna Caroline rounds about the corner and places her hands on the chair furthest away from him. Her head is bowed as she sniffles, gray mascara tears running down her face and stopping at her chin. 

“Do you have any fucking clue what you just did?” she asks weakly, her voice nasally with sadness and betrayal. 

Jake shakes his head slightly. He’s never been good at being guilty. “It just came out.” 

Anna Caroline whips her head up, her face back to bright pink and her eyes narrowed as sharp as daggers. 

“It just came out? It just came out my ass! You fucking knew for two whole years,” she screams, stepping closer to him to where Jake can feel the blistering heat radiate off of her body, “Two whole fucking years and you didn’t think to tell me about it?” 

Now is Jake’s turn to be pissed off. “You weren’t fucking here! You went off to college and got to pretend like you only had a family when you weren’t too hungover to drive home!” His chest heaves up and down and he has to take deep breaths through his nose.  

Anna Caroline gets in his face; her anger is reminiscent of their father’s when he was really pissed off. “I know for a goddamn fact that you’re not calling me selfish when this whole fucking episode of yours just imploded our family from the inside out,” she spits, her forehead damn near touching Jake’s, “All you ever seem to fucking do is think about yourself, Jacob.” 

Jake pushes himself backward in his chair to create some space between himself and his sister. “Think about my- Anna Caroline, you were the first person I fucking thought of!” 

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, her nostrils flaring slightly to allow more air into her lungs before she explodes. “Obviously, you didn’t think enough because while you’re away at the Academy this summer, I’m gonna be sitting here in this hellhole with a fucking civil engineering degree playing Mommy Homemaker until our parents’ divorce is finalized.” 

Jake opens his mouth to shoot back a charged comment, but he closes it. He’s done enough damage tonight. 

“You were “thinking” about me, yeah. You were thinking about how somehow you were gonna make this my problem while you get to do fuck-all in Annapolis,” she accuses. 

“Why are you-” 

“And did you think about how unfair that was to mom? To Natalie? To our fucking little sisters?” she puts her hands on her hips as she paces back and forth near their kitchen table, “No and you know why? Because Jacob Seresin can’t stand having dirt on someone and not humiliating them for the sake of his own entertainment.” 

“AC it’s not even-” he starts, but his sister’s nuclear bomb-like anger beat him to it. 

The guilt-ridden expression Jake wears on his face makes Anna Caroline even angrier, as she moves toward him to push him back in his chair. 

“Just,” she shoves her finger in his chest, “Like. Dad.” And her palm lands flat on his chest before forcibly pushing him back farther in the oak seat than he had sat before. 

The wind is knocked out of his ribcage before he can even process what’s going on. She stomps her way up the staircase before pausing halfway and leaning down to scream at him once more. 

“You’re fucking dead to this family, Jacob,” she seethes, “And you’re fucking dead to me.” With that, she turns on her heel and like their mother hours before, slams the door of her childhood bedroom shut. 

Today is Jacob Michael Seresin’s eighteenth birthday, and is also the day he tore his family apart. 

iii. 

Jake Seresin always dreamed of being a dad, but he had never anticipated that he would become a father as instantaneously as he is right now. 

Jake is thirty-two years old and is a man who has had sex. A lot of sex, may he add, and being deployed and single as one of the world’s greatest naval aviators was a dangerous setup for him to limit the number of hook-ups he currently had tallied. 

There were some pretty great ones that he can recall and even though he was raised by great Southern women and with sisters, he can’t help but fall into the misogynistic trap that is the military every now and again, and he’ll find himself getting into the nitty gritty of who he last fucked with his friends after a couple of straight whiskeys at whichever bar was accessible to them at the time. 

And Jake’s not disgusting with it; never says anything demeaning but he’s sure that if the girl he had hooked up with heard how he was describing her flexibility or how she was able to give him some of the best head of his life, he knows her face would be flushed bright red. 

Although getting married and having kids is a dream of Jake’s, he thought that for his age and for his status, it was a pipe dream. 

That is until one fateful morning a full week and a half before he’s due to report back to Lemoore from sunny San Diego he hears a knock on his door. 

Jake gets up off the floor from doing his morning ab workout before he checks the clock on his stove. 

“6:21 AM,” it reads. 

And although the neighborhood he was staying in was filled to the brim with families that had young children and older people (who had certainly been awake for at least two hours now), he can’t think of anyone he had encountered that would knock on his door at this hour. 

He peeps through the peephole to see if he can catch a glimpse of a girl scout or a teenager who happened to accidentally hit his car with their bicycle on the way to school or something, but he’s met with the absence of a person on his front porch. 

He figures it must be a package he had forgotten he ordered or a newspaper that was to be delivered to the people next door, but his eyes damn near pop out of his skull once he peels the door open. 

There’s a little pink car seat with a baby that couldn’t have been more than five months old; purple nubby binky plunged in between her lips and a pink onesie adorning her slim torso. 

This can’t be one of those things; one of those plots to those TV shows where a guy fucks around and gets a girl pregnant and she leaves a baby at his doorstep when he’s least expecting it. He rubs his eyes ferociously with his hands to see if his knuckles would make the kid go away, but as he blinks away the white spots in his vision, the baby is still there. 

She blinks up at him with sea glass eyes and a face that looks just like his. Her tan skin and the soft caramel curls tell Jake who the counterpart of his creation would had to have been and his mind instantly flips back to a girl he had been casually seeing at USC a year ago. 

Her name was Talia (he thinks) and she was a graduate student who could’ve put any US Olympic gymnast to shame by how goddamn bendy she was, but alas, Jake wasn’t looking for anything serious and the distance between Lemoore and LA proved itself to be too far to keep anything sustainable besides a few quickies every couple of weeks. 

And while Jake was always careful and more than cautious with girls he was hooking up with, he can remember taking the riskier side a couple times with this chick which is why he’s looking at a tanned and curly-haired reincarnate of himself sitting in a goddamn baby carrier wondering how the hell she got dropped off at this dumbass’s doorstep and not someone who was capable of actually taking care of a kid. 

Beside her is a manila envelope with a brief note from Talia explaining how she couldn’t take care of her anymore, a birth certificate, a social security card, and a shot record. 

Jake can’t pretend like he isn’t somewhat surprised that for a girl who isn’t a day over twenty-three, she had all of these things together and was able to track him down and leave before he even noticed. 

Jake picks up the car seat and drops it into the doorway of his home before doing what any sensible person would do. He whips out his phone, scrolls through the millions of contacts he has, and starts to dial the kid’s mother. 

He almost grins to himself because he’s a genius and is calm, cool, and collected. He rehearses his lines for what he’ll tell her; that he’s about to get stationed somewhere in Florida and that he can’t take care of a baby by himself. He even puts a mental note in the back of his mind to meet with a lawyer about child support and setting that up before the dial tone sounds and all thoughts he has of this possibly working out the way he wants it to ends. 

“The number you are calling is no longer in service. Good-bye.” 

Oh shit. 

And the panic starts to kick in. He starts to pace back and forth before doing something he would’ve never thought to do ever in a million years before a few days prior. 

He dials Bradley Bradshaw’s phone number. 

“Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up.” 

Bradley answers his phone with a slight grunt signifying that he was just now rolling out of bed. “What the hell is it?” he asks, and it’s no secret that despite being called Rooster, Bradley was anything but a morning person. 

“Bradshaw, I have an SOS. I repeat, I have a fucking SOS,” Jake says, a sense of urgency plaguing his tone. 

Jake can hear bedsheets rustling on the other end of the line. “Jesus, Hangman. What did you do? Do you need bond money or something?” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “I need to come over.” 

“Is that how you talk to your hook-ups? Cause if so, I’m still not seeing the appeal.” 

“Bradshaw, you know that I would take you up on any opportunity to brag about my bangin’ sex life, but right now, I really need your fucking help,” he sighs, fixing his gaze back to the baby sitting in the carrier, “Can I please come over?” 

Bradley lets out a pensive sigh before finally giving Jake the answer he wants. “Sure. I’ll see you in ten.” 

Before Jake can thank him repeatedly, Bradley hangs up. 

At the sound of the dial tone, Jake pulls up a YouTube video on his phone about how to buckle in a car seat and he’s about eighty percent sure he did it wrong and is one hundred percent sure that he has no fucking idea what he’s doing at all, but he’s sliding into the front seat of his truck and racing down the street and around the corner to Bradley Bradshaw’s childhood home. 

He slams the door shut and grabs the baby with lightning speed, his fists banging on the door and almost knocking Bradley dead in the nose as he opens it with an irritated grunt. 

“Why are you knocking like the goddamn poli-” Bradley pauses, hand still on the door and eyebrows raised in disbelief, “What the fuck is that?” 

Jake rolls his eyes before pushing past the sandy-haired pilot and plopping down on his living room couch, the baby carrier taking a seat next to him. 

“It’s a baby, Bradshaw,” he rolls his eyes, “God, I thought you were smarter than this.” 

Bradley scoffs before closing the door and leaning on the wall in front of his living room. “Well I thought you were smarter than having raw sex with all your random hook-ups, but clearly I’m seeing evidence that you’re not.” 

Jake shakes his head and rakes his hands through his hair. ‘That’s so not the poin- I’m screwed here, Bradshaw!” 

Bradley lets out a slight laugh that he didn’t know he was holding in. “I mean, yeah. But you came to the right place. I love babies.” 

He makes his way over to the blond sitting on his couch and touches the car seat holding the baby and before he can move his hands down to the black plastic securing her chest, Jake slaps his hands away. 

“My baby,” he says and Bradley rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, but my house,” he retorts. 

“But my baby,” Jake reiterates and a purple binky is spit out and a loud wail fills the space of Rooster’s living room; her little voice so loud that it echoes. 

“Jesus, she’s definitely your kid,” Bradley jokes, “Loud as hell and doesn’t have any interest in shutting up just like her dad.” 

Jake takes her out of the carrier and cradles her to his chest, his finger holding the silicone pacifier to her lips before she takes it out of his grasp and continues sucking on it. 

Bradley watches in awe because in the past three days, he’s seen more character development in Hangman than he has in the past twelve years of knowing him. Bradley and Jake are snapped out of their own respective worlds at the sound of a knock on his door. 

“Who the hell did you invite over to my home?” he asks and Jake shrugs. 

“Well, I did text a few people about coming over here because I had news.” 

Bradley sighs before opening his front door to see the entire Dagger Squad before him and stepping aside to let them in without a greeting. 

“What the fuck!” they all yell in unison, and Jake doesn’t even look up because he’s too busy staring into the eyes of a little girl whom he had fallen in love with in only fifteen minutes. 

Jake Seresin was certainly not ready to be a dad when he woke up this morning, but he feels more than ready now. 

[i-am-the-avatar-of-idiocy]

demon slayer isekai MC (not plot MC)

intro

When you appear out of nowhere and pull a sword they are shocked to say the least

and lock eyes with all the demons and ignore everyone else

You seem confused when they aren’t attacking you or anyone else and they get confused when you say ‘they only half smell of demons’

then Levi’s face lights up as he yells

‘oh my god, you’re MC! It was never explained where you went… OH MY GODDDD You're favourite demon slayer character!’

You ask what he means, turning away from Lucifer, giving him the perfect opportunity to knock you out

Levi explains while your hands are tied and you sit slumped on the floor

they decide to watch the series to understand you

when you wake up, the situation is explained to you

you seem shockingly calm

‘I have heard that demon sends away its prey to disorientate them but I was never sure’

Lucifer confiscated your sword while you were there, seemingly burning his hand on it in the process

you got to know them for a while

Lucifer

When he took your sword from your unconscious body, his skin seemed to tear around it, it left a nasty scar and he wears gloves to cover it now

when he asked, you answered simply ‘wisteria poison, I wonder if it would affect you demons like our demons…’

he doesn’t want to ask what that means

hes kind of intimidated by you but don’t admit it to himself

after watching the anime and seeing what you can do, he knows not to annoy you

he evens ponders Diavolo or Barbatos skill against yours

he hides your sword from you and better after mammon gets his hands on it and also burns himself

he will work to get you home if you want, he thinks this muzan demon is disgusting and deserves to die

he likes it when you explain things about your universe to him and he slowly finds himself falling for you

Mammon

Terrified of you

fair enough, considering your occupation is killing demons

and you were wary of them, always on edge but calm

You warm up to each other after a while

but then he tried to steal your sword for you, claiming your abilities would decline

he didn’t want to upset you so he tried

but his brothers harassed him for trying to sell it and no one will believe him that he was trying to help :(

then you stand up for him

He thinks you’re so cool now

youre kind of his guard dog I’m sorry

he is scared of the anime when he puts it into perspective that all of the people that die there die for real for you

he wouldn’t want you to go home and risk your life again, but if it’s truly what you wanted he would help

Leviathan

He is asking lots of questions it’s kind of overwhelming for you

all about your ability, to your family, to ‘is it true that you and (character name) are dating’

he thinks it’s cool how you defend people, in the manga and in real life

he feels blessed that you spend time with him willingly

he even prefers you to Ruri

he will drop hints to help you in future

the others have only watched the anime which led up to your disappearance and the others looking, but he has read the manga

He knows you go back

so he tries his hardest to help you and do whatever you need, he’s enamoured and hopes when you go back to meet the other characters

the demon who sent you away never appears again so he hopes it’s killed

Satan

Intrigued

you have successfully piqued his interest

asks questions, has a field notebook of sorts

a page on everything you tell him and a page of sketches of you

he finds your universe unforgiving and is impressed by humans adaptation to it

he thinks you are incredible and tells you things to help with your healing

he also thinks the anime is interesting, he’s sad you aren’t the main character and feels bad for all your friends and oh my god you have a fiancé/é

wants to help you

Asmodeus

Wonders how you can look so pretty while doing what you do

like how are your hands not a mess and nails shorter than short

he works on a beauty routine even though you can’t carry on after you go back

which reminds me he never wants you to leave

he doesn’t care about the others to be honest

jealous about your relationship

he thinks you deserve better than the cards you were dealt in your universe

Beelzebub

Beel thinks you’re cool!

he’s interested in your universe

can you teach him your method of fighting please?

he’s infatuated with you

he thinks you are chill and don’t deserve what you are going through

Likes when you cook him your favourite food-it looks the same as in screen

hes nice and you get along well

he hopes if you go home that you stay safe

Belphegor

Won’t admit he thinks you’re interesting

but he thinks your swordsmanship is good

He finds your calm nature rather soothing compared to the buzz of him brothers

will nap with you

he’ll try to get through the anime but falls asleep often so he has a run down

he wants you to be safe but also knows you can defend yourself

part 2!

[gothchickwriting]

The Breath of Winter (Part Six): Akaza x Reader

Summary: Akaza seeks out the worthy opponent whose journal came into his possession. He doesn’t find the man whose adventures and battles fill the pages. Instead, he finds a woman who has endured despite the chill of an uncaring world.

He clutched the cloth he’d folded up neatly tight. The men here were weak, hardly worth eating, but the fighting ring had given him more than just a meal. He took every coin he found after he’d eaten them all.

Akaza was blessed to not need money. But he wanted it now. For you. He entered your room at the inn to find you writing. The book you’d started before your journey with him was neglected as you worked on a new job. A florist paid you well to write out a couple of poems so she could sell them with her bouquets.

You looked up from your work and smiled at him. Such a genuine feeling had been foreign before this. He didn’t have a home, but seeing you greet him so warmly? He’d build one for you.

You’d gotten up with some shakiness but he didn’t stop you this time.

“You were gone for awhile. Did you find those lilies?” He watched as you adjusted his vest before your gaze fell to the folded up haori in his hands. The way your hand moved to cover your mouth, how you tried and failed to blink away your tears. It all had his heart beat just a little faster. It felt… Good. “Akaza.” His name fell from your lips shakily as if he’d gifted you your weight in gold.

He smiled and unfolded the haori. “I think I found something a little better for you.” Akaza helped you put it on and let you cry. The feeling of wanting to wipe your tears was alien, but he did it. His fingers stroked over the tears that warmed your cheeks.

You sniffed as your thumb smoothed over a golden daffodil. “Thank you.”

A thick finger lifted your chin to look at him to see how he shook his head. “No. Thank you. I’ve been-“ His brows knitted together as he tried to sort his own feelings. “I’ve been assigned this task for some time.” He admitted softly. He felt like a failure. Part of him wondered if his Master had made such a flower up. “But you’ve made the journey much more bearable.”

He straightened his shoulders and adjusted your haori one last time, making sure you had another layer to try and keep you warm. “As lovely as your name is,” He began firmly. “When you wear this outside with me, you’re Ichiro.” His words, despite how he spoke them as if they were law, were desperate.

He tried to convey something unspoken to you and all you could do is nod. Assure him. “I can do that.”

He cupped your face just below your cheeks and pressed his forehead against your own. Your heart picked up from how close he was. A sigh of relief blew against your face. His eyes were closed as if he was praying and you couldn’t help but place your own hand on his cheek.

Your thumb traced one of the lines along his perfect porcelain skin, wondering what crime he committed to have been marked in such a cruel way.

“Grab your things.” He moves to stand, letting the moment of weakness end there. “We’ll get what you’re due before we leave town.”

You did so without a question. When you pass the front and Kanako’s eyes linger on your form, you feel bigger. Not only with Akaza’s arm around your waist as he guided you out, but with how the weight of your haori rested on your shoulders more comfortably than you pictured.

[eunjidrabbles]

Hi, I'd like to request Forever, Sweet version with Dreamcatcher Jiu for the Bitter/Sweet Series. Thanks! :)

Forever Sweet Ver.

How long is forever, when forever means a different thing to everyone? What more is forever to someone who has an eternity to live? Blessing or a curse, may the fates bring us together each time.

Word count: About 2.9k words

-

They say that art is a thing that needs time to develop and grow. It is time, that add colors and depth to your works. For Kim Minji, she literally had all the time in the world to be absorbed and devoted to perfecting her art. She has sold a good number of paintings since she started her journey to perfection but alas, having to change identities just as you were getting famous can’t help but put you in a slightly poor state. Her love for art however never stopped no matter what condition she was in. She had once lived in a mansion where she covered the walls with canvases until she found her muse then did her art blossom each time with a portrait she did of them. Through her art, she found love for her subjects and that was one thing that never changed. Moving through the different cities through time, her collection of portraits slowly grew, but living forever meant watching your love die, with the only thing remaining being memories and a portrait.

Time honestly passed her by with just a blink of an eye, art meant so many things through the eras. Yet Minji still stayed true to her medium and chose to open up a roadside shop to sell her works to the general public. It was interesting to draw inspiration from every fresh face that was nice enough to stop by to have a nice chat and occasionally bring a cup of warm coffee along. She didn’t exactly earn much through it when it came to monetary terms, but she heard the stories of lives in exchange to fuel her paintings even more so.

That was how she first took notice of you. It had been a calm morning as she sat in front of a blank canvas, eyeing the tubes of paints in their respective labeled containers. It pained her heart when none of the colors called out to her the way it usually would until she caught a flash of a disastrous mixture of colors that could put the memory of an old friend's fashion sense to shame. Quickly flicking her gaze up to watch the fading figure running further, her fingers twitched. Her hands moved to pick up paints to apply onto the palette even before her eyes finally left the empty streets of the park and onto her mixture of colors. Huffing as she found the same unpleasant shades staring back at her again, she pouted and pick up her brush to let inspiration do its job and let the strokes of the brush be directed as her soul desired.

It wasn’t until the sun’s rays heated her skin uncomfortably and she felt a set of eyes staring did she tear her attention away from the canvas. Setting her palette down, she gently stretched her arms and back and casually looked around. Her curiosity was sated with a cautious gaze that snapped away the moment eyes met and she turned herself away from her work. With a soft smile, she waited for you to give in to the temptation to look towards her again before giving you a gentle wave over. Looking around the place, you hesitantly approached the artist when you realized you were the only person that was admiring her art from a distance while everyone else rushed around through the park to get to their lunch destinations. Shuffling around on your spot under her attention, you redirected it back to her work. “That’s an interesting choice of colors that you are using.” You watched as her eyes darted from the canvas over to you and down your clothing as if checking you out, but her giggle and radiant smile lowered your guard slightly. 

“I could say the same for you.”

Stunned, you opened your mouth, wanting to give a comeback but ended up chuckling and smiling along with her when you looked down at your dressing. Raising your full hands up in mock surrender, and shrugged.

“To be fair, I was running late for work this morning. I just grabbed whatever I could get my hands on.”

Nodding understandingly yet with that mischievous smile on her face, you couldn’t help but play banter along with her with a soft stomp of your feet. Bursting out in laughter at your reaction, she stood up from her stool and put a hand out between the two of you. Glancing down at her hand and back up to meet her eyes, you transferred your bag of pastries to the hand holding your coffee and slid your free hand into a handshake with hers as she introduced herself. 

“It’s nice to meet you, I usually go by Jiu but you can call me Minji. I hope to see you around more often?”

After that faithful morning, you had changed your route to and from work slightly just so you could stop by daily to have a chat with Minji before, and after work, and even have time to get a few extra sweet treats to have lunch with the artist after you found out how much she loved them after offering to share one with her during your lunch break. You also learned that she had been painting for as long as she could remember and that she usually doesn’t stay too long before moving to search the world to perfect her art. Hearing that got you a little down when you understood that Minji would probably be moving off whenever but she noticed and reassured you that it wouldn’t be anytime soon. 

It was about a month after you included Minji in your daily routine did a sudden change shocked you. It had been a habit to wake up earlier now just so you could share a coffee and a few minutes of conversation in with Minji before going off to work. Or at least that was what you expected that morning but standing in front of the closed pushcart store in confusion, you looked around the park in hopes that the artist was just running late. Anxiously watching as time ticked down, you sighed and shot her a text asking if everything was alright and that you were going into work first. There were just a mere few hours before your lunch break but you couldn’t help but constantly check your phone for a reply that never came.

You might have let your thoughts drift when the last half hour came about before your break and you have yet to receive a reply from your artist friend. Was she okay? Did something happen? Did she leave without saying goodbye?

As the seconds tick down, you jolted out of your workspace the moment you could and rushed out of your office. Checking your phone yet again, you frowned when you see that Minji has yet to even read the messages you sent. Worry and concern soon took its hold around you as you skipped your usual routine of grabbing two sets of lunch and beelined straight to the usual hangout.

You couldn’t explain the relief you felt when you spot her slowly setting up her shop at a snail’s pace and it was only until you got closer did you notice the blank somber look on her face. Worry started creeping up again as you slowed in your steps to watch how lifeless she was. Softly calling her name as you neared, she jumped in her spot and slowly turned over to you. Her eyes were puffy as she tried to give you a small smile, and her voice cracked as she greeted you. Stepping forward to help her set up her store, you sat her down on her usual stool and pulled the extra seat she kept in the storage for clients but was mostly occupied by you.

Through a shaky and weak voice, she tells you that she went home yesterday to find that her small apartment had been broken into. It took a whole night at the station before they told her that they couldn’t help with a safer place to stay and that she would either have to head back to her apartment without a lock or spend to stay somewhere else. Minji chose neither and instead spent the rest of the night till dawn wandering around. When questioned on why she didn’t contact you, she sheepishly told you that she didn’t want to disturb your rest and that when morning came around, her phone had run out of battery. Huffing you nagged at her for always putting everyone else before herself even in such a desperate situation as she fiddled and peeled the drying paint on her easel.

“So what’s your plan now? Do you have anywhere to stay?”

Her silence told you everything you needed to know and before you can comment on it, Minji looked back at you with a small smile. “I’ll be fine, I’ll just rent a small place for now.”

Frowning, you weren’t convinced with her words. “With what money? You told me that you just bought groceries for the week and you were running low yesterday.”

Caught in her lie, her eyes widened as she attempted to find an excuse.

“I have a spare room, it needs to be cleaned up a little but I think that’s better than roaming the streets.”

At the start of the sounds of her protesting the thought of you offering up a room, you reached your hand out to take hers away from the constant motion of scratching at the easel.

“How about this, you paint me, and I’ll take that as rent for a room at my place. This way you don’t have to feel bad about anything. At least I know that you’ll have a safe place to return to.”

You could almost hear the cogs in her head turn before she nodded. Looking at your phone to gauge the time, you told her to wait for you before bolting off and running back with a bag full of food for her. Panting as you pass the bag over to her, you can’t help but feel your heart melt as she gave you a smile that rivaled the sun’s brightness. You explained the plan that you would come to her after your work so you could accompany her to her place to take whatever essentials that she needed for at least the first night and bring her up to your place before saying your quick goodbye and running back to your workplace. You went hungry for the rest of the day until you went to pick Minji up where she held up a convenience store rice ball for you to hold off the hunger stating that she realized you didn’t get time to have lunch. That was worth it.

You didn’t realize how much materials were needed as an artist but helping Minji with her move brought everything to light. It was a simple routine that you both fell into every day. On the weekdays after dinner, you would be seated near the hallways leading to the rooms, and on the weekends when you were both free, Minji would have you seated at noon right after cooking you a nice lunch all the while she sat across you with that canvas. You had pestered her a couple of times to let you take a peek at the progress but each time she reassured you that the reveal of the completed work was much more satisfying to see. Of course, that would earn her a whine each time and you would both share laughter at the joke you shared with one another. It was honestly awkward at the start, having someone stare so intently at you while you try to busy your mind with random thoughts to stop yourself from fidgeting, but you grew to relax around Minji’s gaze. In fact there were times you caught yourself staring right back, tracing each of her features with your eyes.

It happened once as a passing thought. Then again and again till each time she looked away from her canvas while she studies your face, Minji would find her thoughts drifting. You were quite literally the perfect muse to be etched into a painting for the rest of history. A piece of art, to be preserved, to be in a place more than just her heart. Wait. Her heart.

Hearing you call her name, she shook out the thoughts in her head before focusing on you, prompting you to continue with a hum of acknowledgment. “Are you okay? You’ve just been staring and not...” Gesturing slightly with your hand, you continued. “And not painting. We don’t have to do this every day, you know. I’m sure you’re tired too.”

Shaking her head, she gave you a soft, reassuring smile and went back to painting. Every day you would get some breakfast with her and then walk together to her store before going off to your workplace, and pick her up after work for dinner. It was almost like the perfect domestic scenario Minji once had in her long life that got her yearning for a connection yet again.

With each stroke of paint, her feelings for you grew more than just a friend, and although she knew not of your own growing feelings, she reasoned with herself that you were both mature enough to talk things out if anything were to go wrong.

It wasn’t long before the portrait was completed. Before Minji was willing to show it to you, she had requested for you to follow her into her room. Standing outside her door, you watched as she nervously fiddled with the door handle, a habit you learned to know if there was something on her mind. You had always given the artist her privacy, not touching any of the painting covers even when you helped her move into the room and never entering it after, trusting for her to be able to clean up well so when she took a deep breath before swinging the room door open, you weren’t sure what to expect.

On the walls, held up by the removable hooks were gorgeous portraits of what seemed like a walk back through time. Each canvas was roughly about the same size, but the medium was slightly different to match the era the subject was in. You weren’t too sure what you were supposed to be looking at, nor did Minji say anything when you looked over back at her before looking at the paintings yet again until you noticed a small detail. At the corner of each delicately detailed painting was a small signature, not of a name but a sunflower and a heart, and date under it. Hearing footsteps go out of the room, you quickly sorted out the dates in your head and pieced together the timeline of all the works before Minji stepped back into the room and called for your attention.

“I like you.”

Taking another deep breath, she continued. “But before you say anything else, please listen to me.” 

Nodding at her to continue, you took a few deep breaths as you set aside your assumptions and waited for her. “I am an immortal.” Minji paused to observe your reactions and when you gave none, she cautiously turned the canvas of your portrait in her hands to face you and continued. “As you can guess by now, these are all paintings done by me though my time alive.”

Your eyes were caught by the painting and how Minji captured and brought out every single essence of detail of you through her style. It was one thing to take a photo of yourself, but it was another to have a portrait done where you see yourself through the eyes of someone else and you could tell that every stroke was painted with heart. Flicking your eyes back up to Minji, you started to think through the implications of her telling you the information.

Through simple deduction, you could guess that the portraits were of her lovers through time and that she outlived all of them. Mortality was a topic you wouldn’t have thought much of, knowing you had a whole life ahead of you and knowing that everyone eventually would meet their end sooner or later but immortality would mean that there was no such end. That you would have long faded into a faint memory even before Minji would come budging under the weight of time. Yet you couldn’t deny the pull you had to the artist from the start. You understood the risk Minji was taking, knowing she would have to watch as wrinkles crowd your face and how your hair would turn white before you eventually move on from this life; as she loses yet another person she would come to love but would it be too much of you if you were to want the same as she does?

“I don’t have much to offer in this life, while you have forever, but can I be selfish to call you mine for the rest of my lifetime?”

Watching as the first tears roll down her cheeks as she gave you the warmest smile in relief, she nodded. It wasn’t too much.

[folkloreguk]

an angel for a demon (3)

A/N: Here's the last part of this small series! You don't necessarily need to read all of them to understand this one, but it does probably make more sense if you do. As always, feedback is deeply appreciated! Have a good day x

genre: smut, optional bias (m) x reader (f), demon!bias, angel!reader, unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), reader gives her first bj

words: ~ 6.7 k

PART1 (M)

PART2 (M)

“I’m going out to pick up some food and stuff, do you want to come along?” you heard him ask. You had your legs up against the wall, your back on the bed, and a magazine in your hands. The women on the pages had you gushing, on the verge of hypnotization. You swore if you looked at those infatuating pictures one minute longer, you’d be swallowed whole by them.

When you had worked your way through some science books and were still hungry for more to read, H/N had brought you some magazines, mostly about fashion but also gossip and lifestyle tips. Turns out letting a clueless angel read about what’s supposed to be good for women was not a smart idea. Up in the clouds, from where you used to watch earth’s women, they had all looked equal to you – beautiful, intelligent, and capable. Now, down in the reality of it all, things appeared much more complicated. Which angel could have known it took diets, workout routines, anti-aging creams and the perfect outfit for your body type to be viewed the same way you had always looked at women from above? And most importantly, how did any woman manage to uphold all these expectations the magazines named? It was all too much and seemingly impossible. Abruptly, you were pulled out of your train of thoughts.

“Y/N? Did you hear me?” he asked, peaking his head through the door. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, putting down the magazine on your chest. “No, I’d like to stay here.”

“Alright,” he said, “Would you like me to bring you anything from the store?”

He walked over to you and sat on the bed. His hands softly brushed over your hair, down your cheek and neck, barely touching your collarbones. He was in his black, intimidating clothes, per usual, but his eyes held nothing but fondness for you.

“Actually, maybe there is something,” you said. “Look.”

You picked up the magazine and pointed at the page.

“Can you buy me a dress like this one? They say it would fit me best. And could you get some makeup for me? I don’t know much about it, but maybe you-“ you said. Usually, he was one to listen carefully to every of your words, as if you were the most interesting person he had ever met. This time, he interrupted you.

“Stop. Where is this coming from?” he asked. “I want you to forget all those things you’ve read in those magazines, okay?”

You were confused, thinking you were learning by reading those articles. Gently, he caressed your face. “You know I’ll buy you anything in the world, right? But only if that’s what youwant. Everything they tell you to do, everything they tell you to buy, it’s brainwashing. You will wear whatever dress you find pretty, and if you want to wear makeup, that’s fine. But you will only do those things if you want to do them, okay? There’s nothing you need to change about yourself.”

“But they say you need to start early to get a nice body, and to prevent aging,” you said. “They say men will admire me.”

“We’re immortal, my angel,” he said. “And even if we weren’t, what’s wrong with growing old? Wouldn’t you want the traces of your experiences to be visible on your skin? Those companies, they all just want your money and so they try to scare you into believing you’re not good enough. But truth is, you always are. All those times people tug on their skin in front of a mirror, or whenever they break a sweat trying to lose weight, or when they compare themselves to those who look different from them – they’re already good enough. They’re perfect. This worlds wants you to never be at peace with who you are. But you need to promise me you won’t succumb to those nonsensical tactics to make you hate yourself. And don’t you ever wait for a man to give you approval. That’s your job and your job only.”

You listened, wide-eyed and intrigued. No magazine could ever speak so honestly, and you believed every word he said. After all, you trusted him much more than some random author of an article that was trying to sell you the latest weight loss-magic-powder.

“Okay, I promise.” You sat up and leaned your head against his shoulder. “I’ve never even really thought about it, but I think I’m pretty.”

“Not thinking about it might just be the best way to go about it in this world,” he said, and placed a kiss on your forehead. The feeling of warmth lingered on your skin seconds after he had already pulled away.

“I change my mind, then,” you said, “Do you think you can get me a dress like this?”

You showed him a different picture this time. It showed a lot more skin than the one you had pointed out before. You only realized this when he was already smirking at your choice.

“I’ll see what I can find,” he said. “That’s an interesting option, angel.”

“Hey! I just like the color, alright?” you defended yourself, making him chuckle. Over the course of four weeks, you had come to know his insinuations and his little jokes better. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny the incredible sensation his eyes on you gave you. When he goggled at you because you had decided to wear his shirt for a day, or the way he watched you welcome him with open arms when he came home.

You now understood that certain words or actions, or even just an article of clothing – or lack thereof – could conjure an insatiable hunger in his eyes. At first, it was a little scary, having a demon stare you down as if he wanted to eat you up. But now that you knew what his hands felt like on your skin, and that his lips were made for much gentler actions than to hurt you, you wanted nothing more than to coax the starving demon into playing with you, any chance you got. And perhaps that dress in the catalogue would do just that, and not only bring you joy. It was a win-win, really.

“I’ll be back in the afternoon,” he said. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“You know I always do,” you said.

“I’ll give you all the missed attention when I get home, alright?” he said, bending down to your ear. “You can have whatever you want, then.”

To be honest, half of the time you didn’t know what you wanted him to do. But with every time his hands explored your body you learned more. There were so many things humans did to make each other feel good, you doubted you’d ever be able to try everything. His promise made you wish he was already back home when he had barely stepped out of the door. One last grin and nod and he left you alone.

What did angels do on a Saturday noon? Usually, you’d be patrolling your village, entertaining yourself by watching children play tag, admiring lovers walking hand in hand or discovering a family that had just adopted a small animal. Their human eyes shined when they felt happiness, and it was infectious to you. You wanted to send your blessing to all of them, make sure they never felt anything but delight, but you knew that wasn’t how business worked down there. Some things were even out of your control. Now, on earth, you were ready to take whichever hardships were to come if it meant you could have been with your demon lover.

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. You had only gotten up an hour ago. Last night, you had been kept awake for long. He was untiring when he was between your legs. You had learned that he didn’t need nearly as much sleep as you did, and when he set his mind to making you come by his administrations, he didn’t waver to do so. But losing sleep in exchange for pleasure was okay with you. Time became meaningless, either way, when you had your face buried in a pillow, tears threatening to spill over from how good he made you feel. Sometimes he made you come while sitting in his lap, then you’d cling to him like a baby and muffle your whimpers by pressing your lips against the skin of his shoulder. He loved telling you ‘Look at me’ right when you were falling. It was hard to keep your eyes from rolling to the back of your head or not to collapse in his arms, but for him you would try your best. Often you found your thoughts lingering on the memory of his gaze when you came apart under his touch. It had something of fascination and protectiveness, and you’d never get enough of it.

Great, now you wanted him again. And he wasn’t here. How had you gotten this way? On occasion you wondered if one of the other angels had already spotted you and the sins you were committing. You wouldn’t call them sins now, or ever again. It wasn’t like you wanted to adapt to a demon lifestyle. But you felt at home for the first time, here on earth. It was the perfect grey zone between heaven and hell.

As an attempt to appease your needy mind, you picked up your magazine again. Just because you shouldn’t believe everything they said didn’t mean you shouldn’t have read it at all, right? You flipped through articles on fitness and the newest fashion, but after skimming the pages for only a few seconds, you were done with those tips. He wanted you because of who you were – an angel – and you doubted than any beauty routine could make him more obsessed with you than he already was. But then you read something most curious to your angel eyes. ‘How to make him feel best – tips from a porn star’ the title said. Whatever in the heaven a porn star was, they seemed to be some sort of expert on pleasuring men, and you, always eager to learn something new, were intrigued from the very first word.

But soon you had to admit, you weren’t at all sure what they were referring to with those words and actions. When you and your demon boyfriend had sex, he usually did most of the work, while you took whatever teasing or pleasure he inflicted on you. He had said he liked it this way, but now you weren’t so sure. Or was this ‘10 things to do become a blowjob-pro’ – list just another attempt of society to brainwash women? You weren’t one to initiate talk about sexual stuff, but maybe you’d try to question him on the meaning of what you had read.

You flipped another page and finally you had arrived at a page you could work with. It was a bunch of comfort food recipes. Right away you fell in love with the picture of the freshly baked cinnamon rolls in the top right corner. H/N had promised you to teach you how to cook, but so far you hadn’t made much progress. The difficulty level read beginner, and five minutes later you stood in the kitchen. With some music in the background your enthusiasm only sparked more. Baking was new and came with slight overwhelmingness and the stress of making sure you weren’t forgetting to add any ingredient. But the Christmassy scent of cinnamon and the feeling of making something from scratch made you happy, and with rapt attention you finished your first completed recipe ever.

You wiped some flour off your forehead. Hopefully H/N would like the cinnamon rolls too, because as tasty you found your creation, there was no way you were able to devour them all by yourself. As if on cue, you suddenly heard the key slide into the lock of the front door. Probably prompted by the heavenly scent, he called your name.

“Here,” you answered, mouth full of a bite of cinnamon roll. When he walked in, he already had his famous smirk on his face. It was your favorite. You knew it was reserved only for you.

“What did you make?” he asked. But he had his answer when he saw the baked goods in front of you. He set down the bags and put his arms on your waist from behind. With a hum, you lifted the cinnamon roll to his lips, and he took a bite. He almost moaned at the taste and you grinned.

“Do you like them?” you asked, already knowing the answer but still awaiting more praise. You squealed a little at how quickly he spun you around. His nose touched yours and your heartbeat raced.

“It’s like they came with you straight from heaven,” he said. “Hmm…I missed my angel.”

His lips when he kissed you tasted like sugar and spice and you melted straight into his touch. You only noticed he had run his finger over the gooey leftover icing when it was already too late. He was a demon after all. And if demons were good at one thing, it was causing mischief.

“Hey,” you protested at his hands on your neck. Then your reaction quickly altered as his finger slid lower, down to your collar bones and to where your low-cut shirt started. “Great, now I’m all sticky.”

You didn’t understand at first that messing with you wasn’t his full intention. But he tilted his head to the side and ran his hot tongue over the icing on your skin, and you gasped suddenly. This wasn’t just a joke. He wanted you. He made a humming noise, as if the sweetness combined with your own taste were only complimenting each other. When he pulled down the neckline of your shirt a little, so he could have every last drop of the sugary substance on your skin, you couldn’t help but whimper. You wanted so desperately for him to do it again, that you thought about sticking your own fingers into the bowl of icing and smearing it on your chest. His eyes were playful when he looked up at your reaction.

“Oh no. If you’re all sticky I guess you’ll need a shower, will you?” he said, “What a coincidence. I was thinking of taking one, just now.”

You had never taken a shower with him, or anyone, for that matter. But you had a feeling that the both of you wouldn’t be keeping to yourself, standing naked in front of each other. You didn’t mind. And you guessed your approval was written on your face, because he pulled you in and kissed you hard. Again, you remembered the article you had read. Was now a good time to ask him about it?

While you were contemplating, his tongue slid over your bottom lip and met yours. You had been too shy to ask before, but now you were speechless. Gently, he grabbed your hand and led you out of the kitchen and into the hallway. You were a mess of lips and tongues and hands and feet stumbling over each other. Every few meters you stopped to push yourself close against him. It was like a game of who could go without kissing each other for longer. And you were both lousy at it.

He loved pushing you up against the wall, trapping you between his arms on each side of your head. This way, he could brush up against your shaking body and you had nowhere left to go. Needless to say, you had no intentions of getting away, no matter what. He knocked the breath out of your lungs, and you kissed him back like you could breathe him in instead. As if he had become your new source of oxygen, or whatever it was you really needed to survive. It these moments, air seemed like a subsidiary matter. So long as you had his hot tongue licking down your neck and his busy hands on your ass under your dress, nothing else truly mattered.

Your kisses were open-mouthed and far more confident than they had been only weeks ago. You now knew how much he liked when you grabbed his hair tightly, or when you whispered his name against his devouring lips, as if it was the only word you had ever been taught. Like it was the only word you ever wanted to know. Before you had even made it to the bathroom, half of your clothes were scattered somewhere along the way.

“I can’t believe I just had you yesterday and here I am already missing you this much again,” he mumbled against your earlobe, teeth playing with your soft skin. “You really are otherworldly. There’s no other explanation.”

His words made you feel proud. The pleasure was one thing you had come to love quickly, but then you noticed the power you could have over him, by merely existing. It was almost unbelievable, but there he was, hard and needing you, day by day. Again, your mind wandered off to the magazine article.

“Can I ask you something?” Your voice must had been different from your usual timid tone when you were in the middle of something unholy.

“Anything, angel,” he said. He let his lips linger on your cheek, half an inch from your mouth, and your stomach twisted in how badly you wanted him to sip on your lips like he was starving.

“Do you like always doing everything when we- ,“ you said. He gave you a puzzled expression, so you tried to explain yourself better. “I mean, if you ever want me to do more, you can ask me to. I don’t know everything yet, but I can learn.”

You weren’t even sure if you understood what the heaven you had just stammered. His look reminded you of the one he had when you asked him to buy him the dress and the makeup that morning.

“I love what we have, little angel,” he said, “What’s making you think you need to do anything differently?”

How were you supposed to explain what you had read when you hadn’t even properly grasped it yourself? You opted for taking his hand and walking him to the bedroom. There the magazine still lay, like an ancient cursed book you weren’t sure you wanted to know front to back. You picked it up and quickly handed him the article. Feeling your cheeks heat up, you opted to take a seat on the edge of the bed.

His lips curled into a devilish grin upon eyeing the page, and you thought the ground might swallow you whole. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all and spared yourself the embarrassment. But at the same time, you were eager to know.

“I thought I told you, magazines are just trying to make you doubt yourself,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“I know, but if there’s anything I can do to make you feel as good as you make me feel, I want to do it,” you confessed. He bent down, cupping your face.

“No one’s ever felt as good to me as you have, angel,” he said, “You’re heaven to me. Do you understand that?”

With your mouth squished together slightly, you nodded your head that was in his hands.

“By the devil, you’re so adorable,” he said. “If you really want to know, though, I’ll show you.”

Even more eagerly, you nodded again. He chuckled. You couldn’t handle how handsome he was – all messy hair, bare chest and black eyes that made you dream of the most unholy things possible.

“You remember how I kiss you…down there?” he asked. You hummed, cheeks on fire. “And how I’ve asked you to put your hands on my cock before?”

You did. But it had been brief, only a few pumps and small touches, until he had become too needy. You had been whining so deliciously for him to fuck you and so he had to have you on the spot.

“In the way you touched me then…you could use your mouth on me. Make me come with your perfect lips and sweet hands,” he said. “If that’s what you want, too.”

“I do!” you said with enthusiasm that only an angel at the feasibility of making someone’s day could bring on. “Let’s postpone that shower.”

The pride in his eyes lasted for approximately two seconds before the raw hunger replaced it. He climbed onto the bed and pat his thighs. On command, you settled on his lap. The simple feeling of his bulge under your center, even if interrupted by some fabric, made your head dizzy and your stomach drop. You kneaded your hands, not sure where to touch him first. But just as he always did to you, you had the impulse to start by his head and go lower from there. Although you were on top of him, he looked amused at your shy eyes.

“Can I kiss your neck, like you always kiss mine?” you asked.

“Be my guest,” he said, grinning like he had just won the lottery. Your lips met his skin and you used your tongue the way you had felt him do it. His scent was intoxicating. It made the empty bedsheets you breathed in sometimes, when he left in the middle of the night for his demon antics, seem like nothing. You used your hands to stabilize yourself as you moved lower. The hiss he let out when you felt up on his abs and waistline almost scared you. Then you realized it was a good sign. Only for the blink of an eye you dared to graze your teeth on his skin. His reaction was immediate.

“Shit,” he cussed, “That’s my angel.”

So, he liked that. You couldn’t wait to tease him by biting him in the future. Provoking a demon would have sounded like something close to a death wish to you, had you thought about it months ago. Now, with a demon as tame as they come beneath you, the thought only excited you. As he liked to do, you touched him through his boxers while you continued your journey down his chest and stomach. The guttural moan he released made your head spin and you never wanted him to be quiet. Usually, you weren’t in a mind state to notice his groans, or your own noises were covering his.

“You’re doing so good, little angel,” he said, short of breath. Once again, your effect on him surprised you. Where was the intimidating, big bad demon you had been taunted by?

“I’m gonna fuck you so well for this,” he said, “Even the angels in heaven will hear you scream. Wouldn’t you like that?”

There he was. You pressed your legs together at the simple mention of him inside of you, but if he thought you were going to answer, he’d be waiting endlessly. You still had enough respect for your angels not to think of them in this moment. Nonetheless you hummed weakly. When you got to his hipbone, you hesitated. You drowned out your doubts by kissing him there, while you contemplated what to do next. Your hand was still wrapped around his clothed cock. It was rock hard, and a wet spot had formed on the fabric from how much he needed you. When your touch became softer, and you pulled your hands away slowly, he lifted his hips, not wanting you to stop. You supposed this was the part where you took off his boxers. At least he didn’t complain when you pulled them off his legs, so you assumed you were still on the right track.

Watching his face for signs of approval, your hand wrapped around his length. He almost seemed electrified at your touch. His jaw dropped slightly, and his hooded eyes somehow appeared even darker than usual.

“Just like that,” he said, “And now move your hand up and down.”

So you did. As you regarded your hand around his shaft, all you could think about was how it used to be. How did your hands, that were usually folded neatly in your lap while you looked down on earth, end up doing such ungodly things? And how come you didn’t even for a second feel guilty?

“Angel, you’re so good to me,” he moaned. Angel. That’s what he loved to emphasize. But was that what you were, still? Maybe you would simply stop putting yourself in a box. Perhaps you were just you, doing what you felt was right and would make you happy. And right now, having a demon clench his fists in your hair and saying your name in that tone, you couldn’t think of a lot of incidents that had made you happier. Was this the part where you should use your mouth? You weren’t sure, but your eyes jumped from his cock to his face and it caught his eyes.

“You can take me in your mouth if you want. If you ever feel like stopping, just do so,” he encouraged you, “But remember, no teeth there, okay?”

You grinned and nodded. You parted your lips and your tongue placed kitten licks on the underside of his member. When you reached the top, you took him between your lips, mirroring the motion of your hands around him. You were surprised at how comfortable you were, when ten minutes ago you were ready to personally descend to hell from embarrassment. There was something enticing about the power you possessed in that moment. You understood humans just a little better, once again. Knowing that the way he bucked his hips and his groans were caused by you and only you had you smiling inwardly. It was a way you had never caught yourself smile before. You felt brave, and like you could do anything, with a demon so at your pity.

It didn’t take long for you to figure out where he was most sensitive. Whenever you pressed your tongue against the tip of his cock, he let out a sigh. It was almost like relief, as if he had been waiting for you all his life. And now here you were, granting him all his wishes. You bobbed your head, but kept your attention on his sweet spot, his moans just too delightful not to evoke them on purpose.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said. Often, you looked up at him. His lids fluttered from the pleasure, but he seemed to like it when you made eye contact. For a moment, you lifted your head, needing some air. Gently, he caressed your face, like you were made of precious porcelain.

“Which one of my dreams did you escape from, little angel?” he asked. You smiled sheepishly, lowering your head. Again, you wrapped your lips around his length. You wondered what he was thinking about. Was his mind as free from any worries as yours whenever he fucked you? Was he able to form any coherent thoughts or was his brain going into the same mental blackout you always experienced?

You continued the way you had, sucking the tip of his cock while your hand pumped him. From time to time, you took a breather and pulled away. Little did you know what you were doing to him. With the short intervals of your lips on him and the pauses in between, you unknowingly made everything more intense for him. It was a dangerous game of edging him you were playing, and you were outright unaware of it.

But why would he have complained? In that moment, you were his personal guardian angel, making sure all his needs were fulfilled. When he saw your lips, all red and puffy, he asked himself where you had been hiding all this time. You peeked up at him through your angel eyes and he felt his entire world become whole in front of him. He was completely and absolutely at your mercy, inebriated by your entire being. Never in his long time on earth had he seen someone so ravishingly beautiful, yet so unaware of their might. He swore to himself in that moment, he’d do anything to make you love him forever.

As divinely as you were treating him, he suddenly wanted you in a different way. And if you continued your sweet actions, he wasn’t sure if that would still be possible. He gently cupped your head, making you look up. You hummed in question.

“You’re doing so well,” he said, “Let me give back to you, won’t you? Does my angel want some attention, too?”

You would have been lying if you said you weren’t practically touch-starved at this moment. And having been taught to always be truthful, you nodded before you even knew it.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, “Why don’t you take off the rest of your clothes?”

When you got up to slip out of your dress, your legs were weak. You hadn’t even done anything, and yet your body felt heavy. All you wanted was to go back to him and have him so close, it felt like he could have been a part of you. As much as you had felt on top of the world minutes ago, his hungry eyes made you shrink inwardly. But it wasn’t out of fear. It was almost admiration, or rather anticipation. You knew he knew your body inside out, and you couldn’t wait for him to prove it to you.

“Come here, angel,” he said. You climbed back onto the bed. “Turn around for me, okay?”

You were on your knees, sitting up right, facing the headboard. His breath on your shoulder sent a shiver down your spine. Then his hands snaked around your body from behind you. A small whimper left your lips when he ran them down your chest, fingers drawing small shapes on your breasts. They continued their way down your stomach and to your parted thighs. The cold air was hitting your dripping core, and had you not had enough self-control, you would have moaned at the mere sensation of his fingertips on the inside of your thigh. But maybe that was just what he was waiting for. After all, he was still taking his time with you. But in this instance, you knew what you wanted, and more importantly when you wanted it.

“Please,” you said. You weren’t sure what to say but starting with a ‘please’ was never a mistake.

“Please what?” he asked. You couldn’t see his face, yet you knew his devilish grin that must’ve been plastered on his face. He never missed a chance to make you shy. “Is this what you want?”

He slid two of his fingers down your slit slowly. It would forever be a mystery to you, how such a simple touch could put you in such a mental state of disarray. You whined at how needy you were, fighting the urge to press your legs together. In a second, his fingers were coated in your juices. When he pressed them against your opening, but didn’t push any further, your head spun with frustration. An impulse yelled at you to grab his hand and show him how you wanted him, but you sensed there was a specific aim in his teasing. Above that, you weren’t close to that brave. Purposely lightly, he rubbed circles onto your clit. Your head fell back onto his shoulder and your breaths came out in little, desperate noises.

Before meeting him, you never knew this sort of inability to control your body. Having power over your motions was an obviousness to you. But as with so many things in life, you had been wrong. Or rather, you had not known better. Now, with his lips brushing over the side of your exposed neck, you were willing to let him do whatever he wanted to do to you. If there was a noise or reaction he wanted to coax out of you, he could do so. And if evoking your little melodic whimper was his aim, he was on the right path, fingers teasing your pussy and flicking over your clit. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. In fact, he had a head so full of ideas of things you could do together, you doubted you’d ever start to get bored here.

“I want you…inside of me,” you said, surprising yourself. This was your desperate body taking control of your motor speech center, that little region in your brain that allowed you to let out what you wanted to say. Your cheeks were hot for only a moment, then you realized if it got you what you wanted so badly, speaking your mind was probably a fantastic idea. You should really do it more in the future, you thought.

“What my angel wants, my angel gets,” he said. Just for a few seconds, he moved his fingers much faster. You yelped at the sudden pleasure, your hand wrapping around his wrist. His other hand reached for your hand, softly taking it away as you became a whimpering puddle in his arms. You were ready to fall, give in to the pleasure and let go. It was what you so desperately wanted. But as quickly as it had begun, he removed his hands. His attention was gone, and you were left yearning for more.

“Lift your hips,” he said, softly touching your sides. A part of you wanted to cry out, hold him responsible for denying you your sweet release. But you knew it would be no use, and he would tell you to wait either way. You were still on your knees, but straightened up, arms hanging by your sides, waiting for his touch. He was right behind you, his upper body against yours. When you felt his cock run over your slick folds, you sighed at the awaited sensation. The stretch when he filled you up felt so perfect, so out of this world, you reached for his hand to hold on to.

“Why didn’t you ask me earlier if you wanted me so bad?” he asked. He squeezed your hand as his other pulled you flush against his back while he pushed himself further into you. He’d thrust against you for a while, only to pull out completely, and repeat the whole process. It was sending you into complete overdrive.

“Because I wanted to make you feel good,” you said. “Only you, for once.”

You moaned when he snapped his hips against your ass, picking up the pace. In an attempt to support your jittery legs, you grabbed the headboard in front of you. Your breathing came out in short huffs, uneven and a little shaky.

“You’re so sweet and selfless…my patient angel,” he said, his fingers coming in contact with your clit again. His touch was an allure to you, and you wished you could have stayed this way forever. No thoughts, just his body and his dark voice to sedate your mind. “I’ll give you anything you want. You know that, right?”

You hummed and nodded. “Yes. And I’ll do the same for you.” Your words were interrupted by your small whimpers. There had been a time you didn’t know what it felt like, when you didn’t even know there was a such thing of having someone inside of you. Now you couldn’t get enough of him. You were already so sensitive that every time he quickened his thrusts and moved his fingers on you slightly faster, he had you hanging right over the edge. And he could tell by the way you held your breath when you were close. He didn’t want you going there just yet.

“As much as I love your mouth around my dick, this is my favorite way of having you,” he said. He used both of his hands to dig into your sides, pulling your hips closer to him every time he dragged his cock through your walls. You agreed. Should any of your angels ever catch wind of this, they would ban you to earth – or worse, send you to hell. So be it, you thought. You’d be like your lover. One of the creatures of the darkness, thought to be the personification of sin. Even if they ripped your angel title from you, they could never steal away what you had now.

Yes, you were meddling with a demon, but also having the time of your life. It was vastly better than spending your days judging humans for being themselves and for humans living the true way they want to live, instead of abstaining from the simple pleasures of life. Their true colors shown, they weren’t harming anybody, but rather making the world a more acceptable and open-minded place. You aspired to be like them.

“This is my kind of heaven,” he said. It’s what he always called you. Heaven. He groaned when you clenched your walls around him, your inevitable high drawing closer.

“This is my new heaven…you are,” you replied. He chuckled darkly, probably relishing in your confession. The thought that he could make an angel reject the very place they should have belonged filled him with a sense of superiority.

“Look how well you’re taking me,” he said. His hand wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter. He slipped his hand between your legs again, and you almost felt like collapsing, had he not held on to you. On instinct, you closed your eyes and let the feeling crash over you.

“Let me see you come, little angel,” he spoke in your ear, just for you to hear. You would do anything for him. You quivered and buckled at the severity of the feeling, but he had you. Your moans were high and dragged out, as his digits pressed harder onto the sensitive nub on your center.

“Take just a little more for me, can you?” he asked. You obliged willingly, nodding your head while it was still full of nothingness. Even as he kept fucking you, it was pure bliss for another while. It made your legs shake a little, but you felt so safe there, in his embrace, the sensitivity was alright to handle. You could tell by how sloppy his thrusts were becoming that he was almost there, too. He was pressing you against his chest as if you were all he ever wanted. His moans sounded like home to you as he came. He said your name and bent forward, reaching for the headboard, but you both tumbled into the bedsheets together instead. You giggled at your shared clumsiness and you could feel his chest move from laughing as he was lying on top of your back.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” he said, “You’re amazing.”

You turned your head and his lips brushed along your temple, kissing you softly. He brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes so you could look at him. Seeing his beautiful face had you falling into an even deeper state of serenity.

“I want to cuddle,” he said, and it was probably the sweetest thing you had ever heard a demon say. As he rolled off you, you followed his movements and settled in his embrace. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on your skin, but neither of you cared enough to get up just yet.

“I love what you’ve done to me,” you said.

“What is it I have I done to you?” he asked, fingers drawing nonsensical patterns on the side of your bare hips.

“You changed me. But not in a bad way. You let me be who I want to be and showed me that that’s okay,” you said, “You made me understand. Some sins aren’t that sinful at all.”

[starshipsofstarlord]

Dove

Pairing | Roman Sionis x reader

Summary | there is another little birdie that Roman spends his time with, one that coos away from the spotlight and remains hidden. She is his dove, the love that he refrains from sharing with anyone, a prisoner that does not realised that she is locked in a cage.

Warnings | mentions of violence, can be perceived as imprisonment of reader or not if you want, difficulty with getting pregnant, swearing

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Canary walked into the apartment of the boss, nervous to begin her first day at being Roman Sionis’ driver. Initially, the woman hadn’t been sure what to expect of the living space above the club, she suspected that it would be in a similar

She hadn’t asked for a promotion, the woman was content with bellowing her voice in stage, singing like a bird. But now, as a consequence for protecting the Harley Quinn, she was now a driver, a replacement for the one that no longer had the ability to move a vehicle from place to place.

Sionis’ home if it could be called that, was above the club, perched as a nest so that the man behind it all could see everything that occurred around. The windows, large and perfect for viewing out of, were great scopes out into the bustling city, to which the Black Mask brought some fear out into.

He was a killer, that was known. A torturer, a face that Gotham feared. It was merely circumstance for how Dinah ended up working for him in the first place. It was not at all what she had been aiming for, the singing gig was as far as she had assumed she would get, but now, she was starting a new and more personal job for the same scheming man.

But it appeared that she was not the only dame in Gotham that was given the request to walk into the home of Roman Sionis, for a lavished and well clothed woman stood, staring like a songbird out towards the outside world. Her eyes were cast down, surely watching the commotion that riled the streets on a daily basis.

“Ah, there you are.” The voice belonging to Roman Sionis abruptly made Dinah inwardly jump, though she didn’t allow the surprise to dictate to her body. Instead, she turned around to face the mobster, adjoined by Victor that followed after hun, an shrewd smile ragged on his face. “My new driver, are you ready for your first day.”

“Singing was kinda my thing but -“ she watched his expression fade to one folded with creases and instead plastered on a smile, quickly changing the direction of her sentence, “yes, I am. I’m not the worst driver, though, it was a shame of what happened to the last one, concerning the fault of Harley Quinn.”

Sionis rolled his eyes at the mention of the jester like woman, making a noise of disgust, before adding details to Canary’s perception. “He deserved it, that man was bound to get into trouble somewhen, the only difference is that he kept his face. He had a frequent thirst to make my dove uncomfortable, isn’t that right my lovely?”

The woman faced away from the window, glancing convincingly towards the man that had just spoken to her. Not saying a word, she nodded, feeling all the eyes except her own that were present within the premises of the room were on her. It wasn’t much different to normal, but it was a vow she had taken, she did not speak to anyone besides Roman.

Doves mated for life, and within their relationship, she insisted that she treat him the same, which was where the nickname that she had so idly been called had originated from. She was loyal to this man, who was powerful and wealthy all on his own, and that proved alone that she needed nothing more than him to be the centre of the world.

“Hi, I’m Dinah.” She attempted to greet herself, but all that she earned from the spoilt woman was a blank stare, as though she were processing the woman. “Is she okay?” Her question was directed towards either or out of the men, and assumed, it was one of them whom responded instead of her.

“Y/n.” Her eyes snapped up to meet his own, and inside, her stomach crawled as she looked up into his stern gaze. To her relief, he turned back to Dinah, after dismissing her of the title of a white bird, and striking an induction of anxiety within her gut. “She doesn’t speak to anyone, it is difficult for her to trust anyone, let alone exchange worlds with them. Is that not right dove?”

Biting her lip, to reduce the sounds of whimpers that were threatening to spill from her mouth, she stiffly nodded her head, causing a grin to smother the man’s face. “Today, Canary, you will be taking me and y/n to the clinic, we have an important appointment to attend to, is that not right my lovely girl?”

Again she nodded, feeling a pit of happiness swell in the space of her womb. She could feel her dreams moving closer to the reality that she silently lived in, the things that she greatly wanted within her reach.

“I’ll go and start the car.” Dinah announced, wanting nothing more to leave the room. The atmosphere had not at all been uncomfortable in the slightest, but it was strange to see the extraordinary owner of the club that she had worked up appear so domesticated. Though, she thought y/n to be anything but, it was as though she were scared to allow any truths to mumble from her dormant tongue.

She was sure that no one in the entire city had seen the woman out in the open and free. It would not be a surprise if she were imprisoned in that apartment, though it was confusing, for it did not seem like she wanted to leave. Instead, it appeared as though she was scared of anyone else that was not Roman.

Usually, people usually feared him, knowing full well of what he was capable of. Though, instead, y/n was comfortable in his presence, which was one strange thing out of many. Dinah was extracted from her thoughts as the back doors suspended open, the happy couple entering the vehicle, and adjusting their seat belts. “Which clinic?” She asked, glancing back in the rear view mirror at the pair.

Roman had his gloved hands trailing up the thighs of his dove, as though they were sleek platforms of ice, and his fingers were dancing upon the frozen surface. “The one around south, a few miles before that place that sells the terrible artwork.” His taste in everything gave have her an initial and well acquainted idea with what place that he was on about, and thus she started the vehicle.

The strong woman remained in silence, copying y/n’s frequent behaviour as she drove, noticing her small gestures towards the elder man. Her nose rubbed around his collar, directly breathing in the fog of his aftershave, which Dinah could smell already from the distance of the front seat. Though, it appeared sweet as the pair brushed specks of stray hairs out of the others eyes, and padded down their blazers.

Finally, the driver stopped, watching as the pair abandoned the vehicle, and went inside of the small corporative building, hand in hand. Roman’s grip was much tougher than her own, squeezing all human feeling out of her palm, half dragging her inside. Both seemed to appear eager for what lay inside, though, Dinah did not share their enthusiasm.

She had no idea of how long they would be within the clinic, and thus, she had to wait for their return before she could steer and leave. Absentmindedly, she picked the skin around her nails as she waited for Roman and y/n to come back out to the car, the wait feeling like forever as she put on the radio, bobbing her head subtly the tune that she often heard on nights out.

The driver was fast to snap her head up as she heads footsteps, and they belonged to her cruising passengers, that seemed rather deflated. Their once relaxed and worry free mood was nowhere in sight, and instead, when opening the door for y/n and climbing in afterwards, he slammed the expensive door, crossing his arms in thought.

“Is everything okay boss?” She warily asked, feeling as his eyes sent daggers towards her once she used her voice. He released a prominent scoff, shaking his head disappointedly at her enquiry. Roman repeated her question to himself, arrogantly laughing at it.

“No it’s fucking not! I don’t ask for anything, I do what I am supposed to, and the world cannot even let my dove bare my child!” He sulked in his seat, pouting profusely out the window as he once again took in the truth behind his words.

Dinah knew better than to speak, and instead left Roman and his endless rant uninterrupted. Though, as she adjusted the rear view mirror, she caught a glimpse of y/n, smirking quite pleased with the state that her lover had gotten into. It slightly scared Canary, finding the situation that she was mulling over to be silent but deadly.

So far, it was all quite clear. She did not want to carry the child of the business man, and the results that she had received were anything but a curse. She liked to think of them more as a godsend and a blessing.

[mandoalorian]

Pride

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: The Mandalorian has been planning to take you to one of the biggest Pride festivals in the galaxy— and the day could not have gone any better.

Warnings: food and drink mention

Not showing up in tags so please reblog this so more people can find it! 🌈

Maker, he’d been acting smug all week. It was a blazing hot morning in the middle of Summer, and Din had finished collecting bounty pucks last Wednesday, and although taking a holiday was a rarity for Din, you didn’t think much of it as it was nice having him take a couple of days off. He deserved it, that much was clear. However, his reasoning for taking time off was becoming evidently more clear as the hours ticked by. He certainly had something planned, and no matter how much you whined and begged, he just wouldn’t tell you.

No, he wouldn’t tell you why he’d taken you to the desert planet of Passana, famous for their vibrant festivals and colourful parades. He wouldn’t tell you why he was so keen to take off his helmet that morning, and he wouldn’t tell you about the rainbow beaded necklace he’d purchased from a vendor back on Nevarro. When he presented the gift to you, alongside your morning caf and platter of sour berries, you felt a flood of gratitude gush over you.

“Pride colours? The rainbow?” You wondered out loud, and Din nervously nodded, his honey brown eyes flicking from the necklace to your face so he could gauge your reaction.

“Do you like it?” he asked hesitantly, and in that moment, your flustered smile turned into an adorable grin.

“Din... it’s one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. I love it so much.” you beamed brightly, wrapping your arms around your companion and pulling him to your side.

The Mandalorian helped tie the necklace around your neck, but not without gently stealing a quick kiss into your jaw. “We do have somewhere to be today.” he mumbled, his stubble grazing your skin. You curled your body into his warm embrace and hummed.

“Really? Where are we going?”

“Passana.” He answered.

You scrunched up your nose in bewilderment. “Why?”

Passana wasn’t exactly a planet you’d vacation to, that’s for sure.

Din was wordless for a few moments. “It’s hard to explain right now.”

“Does Karga have another job for you?” you quizzed.

“No,” He hated lying to you, but also, he didn’t want to give up the surprise yet. “Come on,” Din decided his best bet was to change the topic before you could ask anymore questions. “Eat your breakfast and get dressed. I’m going to set course to Passana. We should get there before midday.”

His estimations were correct.

You were so used to seeing Din not wear his beskar helmet around the ship, you’d barely noticed he wasn’t wearing it when you were tredding through the sandy fields of Passana. It wasn’t until you had both been hiking for around fifteen minutes had you noticed.

Din did, occasionally, still wear the helmet. When he was doing bounties, really. But honestly? He only wore it for his own protection. Ever since he lost the kid, and revelations came out about his own Creed, he’d become more lax about covering his face. Whilst he hadn’t disbanded from the rules of Mandalore completely, he just didn’t feel the compelling need to wear the helmet if he didn’t have to. Besides, things were so much better when he could look at the world with his own eyes, and not through filtered vision.

And today was one of those days. A day he wanted to remember forever.

“We’re going to have to get you some sunscreen,” you chastised him. “Before you burn.”

Din shrugged off your comment. He’d handled many things before; being cut and punched and scarred and smacked. He was certain a little burn wouldn’t faze him. But you persisted, and thankfully, not far from Din’s surprise destination, you both approached a market which was selling a variety of bits and bobs.

Sunscreen, hats and sun visors, sunglasses and oh— there was your first clue. A bunch of rainbow related goodies. “Hey look!” you smiled, taking Din’s hand and pulling him over to one of the stalls. You picked out a flag of your specific pride colours and merrily waved it around.

“That’s a big flag,” Din pointed out. “We could hang it in the ship.”

Your heart swelled with joy at his suggestion and you excitedly wrapped the flag around his shoulders. “Or, we could use it as a blanket.”

“That’s a good idea too.” Din smiled.

Din handed credits over to the vendor, purchasing the flag without any further hesitation. When he turned around, you had disappeared amongst the crowds of people, but luckily, it didn’t take long for Din to sought you out. It was a pretty easy task to find the most beautiful person Din had ever laid his eyes on, that’s for sure.

You were paying for something else by the food stalls, it seemed. You whisked around, holding two cones of colourful ice cream doted in rainbow sprinkles and handed one of them to Din.

“Have you ever had ice cream before?” you asked eagerly, taking a lick. You’d gotten some of the vanilla on your upper lip and Din chuckled, raising his thumb to wipe it off you.

“Can’t say I have.” he replied.

“Try some,” you urged with a nudge. “It’s delicious! It’s so sweet, right?”

Din took a bite and winced at the coldness. “I’ve had sweeter.” he murmured lowly and you shot him a joking roll of your eyes. But even Din had to admit, it did taste good.

The two of you heeded on, clambering uphill until eventually, you arrived at the parade. Din squeezed your hand and you felt your eyes widened as realised where he’d taken you. Hundreds, if not thousands of people were marching, holding an abundance of flags with enormous smiles plastered on their faces. Colourful clouds of smoke decorated the sky and beautiful native music blessed your ears.

You smacked your hand over your face in shock and you couldn’t rip your eyes from the gorgeous sight before you.

“You... we... are we... is this...” you couldn’t even get your words out.

“Pride.” Din explained and you let out an excited squeal.

“You’ve taken me to Pride?” you grinned, tears welling in your eyes as you wrapped your arms tight around him.

“Well, I know how much you always wanted to go, and how much it means to you. It’s the perfect day to celebrate yourself, and you get to be around all these amazing people who celebrate you too.”

“You are so supportive,” you cried, and Din smoothed out your hair. “I can’t believe you took me here.”

“Are you happy?” Din asked.

“I don’t remember a time where I’ve ever been this happy,” you beamed back, finally pulling off him and cupping his face in your hands. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Din chuckled lightly. “You are so wonderful and perfect, just the way you are.”

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[imalwaystiredzzz]

C2: Sisyphus happy. Yan Zhongli x Reader

Warning: Yandere behavior, unhealthy relationships

< Sisyphus happy. chapters >

“Perhaps you would fear if you saw me, and love is all I ask. There is a necessity that keeps me hidden now. Only believe.” - Cupid and Psyche ══════════════════════════════════

You have a dream; heavy and looming as you carry a boulder on your fragile back. It dares to crush you under its weight, while you trudge up a steep path towards the peak of this mountain. The sun glares with its heat like a guard set to watch your endless labor, sweat trickles down like rain on your skin as you pray for water. 

The relief comes in the form of waking from this endless dream.

Breath. Breath. Breath. You breath as if your lungs were crushed and you had drowned in earth, wondering why the familiar pain of doing so was gone. “Slowly,” smooth like velvet and deep that it reverberates to your being, your dear husband hushes next to you observing for any hint - even a twitch - that you might need help. 

“I felt like I had a really long dream,” you say, sitting up from the warm sheets of your shared bed. 

“Care to tell me what it is about?” He is the epitome of patience practiced and perfected, waiting for your reply; though try as you might to remember what it was, the dream had long  slipped from your mind like sand held between cupped hands, flowing and flowing until nothing is left.

“Have I been asleep long?” Voice groggy and eyes a bit blinded by the light, small hands felt the sheets on his side, the warmth and ghost of his form long gone, your dutiful husband, always awake and dressed before you even rouse from slumber. 

Zhongli leans toward you, his gloved fingers graze your cheeks with tenderness only to tuck a strand behind your ear and it is warm as the morning sun that rises on your window. “It’s alright, I know that you need rest after our move.”

You blush, heart soaring like a pure maiden in love with her suitor even though it is none other than your husband who gives you his full attention. It’s supposed to be endearing. It is endearing. Yet there is an ache at the back of your head, that something is amiss.

His fingers, barely touching your skin, made you think of claws, long and sharp, shining with polish. You brush it aside, under the bed long forgotten in the dark, while you would begin your routine. 

You could say that a day does not begin when you wake, rather it is when you make his tea.

He once told you that brewing is an art no less than painting or writing, it is not a matter of simply sprinkling leaves on a clay pot. It is a meditation and a ceremony practiced to bring forth a harmony of earth and water.

You take his words to heart. You take almost all his words to heart and memorize them the way he recites poems to you before bed. You command air to bring forth an aroma that allures the butterflies and with practiced elegance, you hold the Yixing teapot to pour him his cup while Zhongli is nothing but a spectator to this show.  

There are no words exchanged before he sips. It is a little game between you and him, a show of trust you would like to think. Even the heavens could not imagine Zhongli take abhorrent food, not even for his wife.  

He is nothing but an expert, listing the leaves you secretly used and the flavor in full detail like a practiced line from a play. You’d wager that had he been blessed to borne out of better parents, had he been blessed with a better standing rather than a son of a merchant who had a herbalist like you for a wife, he would have stood as the finest in a world of history and art with those deft amber eyes that miss nothing.

Not even the way you look as he leaves through that door with a kiss. 

A kiss of parting as you wave him goodbye, the wind whispering that this is not your simple husband, who goes down the mountain to sell herbs and trade merchandise in the city. He is your foreign husband, who disappears from your presence and hides a secret deeper than the mines the humans could hope to till.

But who is to listen to the wind? Zhongli tells you that it is nothing but your active imagination and you are nothing but (Y/n) (l/n), a herbalist, who belongs to the soil.

This thought repeats in your head like a broken record and rings in your ear. 

It is spring now, you remember looking up and thanking the clouds and the lush leaves of the tree that hide the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. The grass was evergreen and the wind smell of the oncoming summer heat, fragrant with flowers that bloom in the wild.

In spring, he tells you that a gardener is happy for the harvest is abundant and the lands teems with life. In spring, you should be happy.

The plants are alive and they grow easy, they are not shriveled by the summer heat nor do they hide under the ground because of the winter. The flowers and herbs bloom, almost too perfectly as if the little pots were visited by the dendro archcon themselves in your sleep. 

You are (Y/n) (l/n). In spring, you should be alive.

Yet cannot help but notice the absence of the worms nor ants that you once complained about. Once upon a time, you would be maneuvering them all throughout the day away from the lush green leaves and bountiful earth. And sometimes your imagination would play tricks and whispers of their avoidance.

“What cruel little pest,” you tell the soil while planting new seeds until the sun goes down and hides from the skies, when you light the lamps in the house, but most especially by the door, red and glowing like a star against the vast darkness of this lonely mountain.

Hoping, praying that this simple light will lead him back, if he might ever be lost in the shadows in the road. 

Even before he walks through the door, your ears are listening to the whispers of the air that carries his footsteps as it taps the ground so when he opens the door, you are there with a warm welcoming smile and a kiss to his cheeks, heart calm as you know he is safe and he is here. He is home.

You should laugh, really. Your husband who has mapped this mountain like the back of his hand would never be lost but the anxiousness of it never fades. A perpetual worrier, he would call you with eyes lost, staring at yet never really seeing. You know that he has his moments, he doesn’t mean to show, it is fleeting as it comes and no more than a blink of an eye hence you blink and pretend that you don’t see and lead him by the hand to the table neatly set and filled with warm food. 

You dine as he talks about the people he has met and worked with in the city, how the land has begun to thrive and the mora flowing. He tells you of a harbor, where boats are ever growing in size as the days go by and the merchants travelling to do business within it. As far as you can remember, there was never dinner where Zhongli does not talk endlessly about the city - always proud yet humble like a poem, you would think that he talks about it like a child of his own.

“I wonder when will I see the lights of the city from here.” You don’t know what compelled you to say this, maybe it was the stories that he never ceased to tell, maybe it was the lantern that still hung lit outside and darkness that encloses it like a sky with a single star. He pauses,  struck and still as a statue, he looks at you in a way that you have never seen before. 

This smile is is not warm as the morning sun when you wake; it is not tight and constricted when he leaves; nor is it practiced the way it would fall so easily on his visage like a mask; rather this smile dims the glow in his amber eyes and wrinkles the skin akin to sadness and guilt held back.

He reaches for your hand on the other side of the table and kisses it, tenderly, gently as if you are glass that would break with a tap and this is his silent promise that you feel would never come to fruition, “Maybe one day when you are feeling better.” 

The routine ends when your dear husband leads you to bed, the fire closed and you are both in the dark. Tonight he kisses you with unhinged passion, holding unto your small form against him like you were about to disappear into thin air and he is a stone cage. 

“Is it so selfish of me to keep you by my side and never want to let go?” 

He asked barely a whisper above your skin, like a prayer to a god that never answers while the only thing on your heart was pity for your dear husband’s deep sadness, who was an embodiment tragedy that could make you cry.

Had you been born with a stronger body, maybe then you could promise him tomorrow and the rest of your days yet you are nothing but ephemeral so you don’t speak; simply hold his arms, firm and hard under your touch briefly wondering why you thought of scales, mighty and solid as the unblemished core lapis from deep underneath.  Under your fingertips he is foreign yet familiar, in every wrong and right way possible. “You have enraptured me, body and soul. I will always love you, even after I have long passed”

“Is that what it means to love”

“That is what it means to be human.” 

You fall asleep, long before he does. He holds your hand, tightly. 

Step by step by step. An endless walk as you contemplate: why? What sin so great that you have committed for this to be an equal torture. And yet even as millennium of wondering have passed you don’t know, rather you’ve forgotten, memories and thoughts lost in the pain that seeps into the bone, desert in your throat and the eyes that cannot see the peak of this mountain you climb.