#Saint for drug addicts

[portraitsofsaints]

Happy Feast Day Saint Maximilian Kolbe 1894 - 1941 Feast day: August 14 Patronage: drug addicts, families, imprisoned people, journalists, pro-life movement

St. Maximilian Kolbe was a Polish Conventual Franciscan friar, who volunteered to die in place of a stranger in the Nazi German death camp of Auschwitz, located in German-occupied Poland during World War II. Due to his efforts to promote consecration and entrustment to Mary, he is also known as the Apostle of Consecration to Mary. {website}

#St Maximilian Kolbe #Saint for drug addicts #Saint for families #Saint for prolife #Saint for journalist

[viviennelamb]

In The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ by Saint Anne Catherine Emmerich, what stands out is that the accusers said Jesus was lying about being the Son of God and started whipping him, kicking him, stomping on him, pushing a crown of thorns into his head, crucifying him in the end... they had to keep drinking wine to remain in their sadistically cruel mindset which reflected as their bone-chillingly sick actions in the material world.

I have zero sympathy for the weak which are those who succumb to their lower nature. Those who allow their minds to be compromised by filthy vibrations think they're superior for being doped up and mind-numbingly ignorant.

This information will only work for the totally sober and innocent:

Find a spiritual bodyguard. People who are on any type of drug will find any reason to go against you, especially if you tell the truth and are helping individuals who are actually the most oppressed in this hellhole (hint: it's not heterosexual women who suck dick and create the patriarchy - that is a conspiracy they are literally conspiring in).

Druggies only believe in the hell they have created for themselves and want to fan their anti-chaste, anti-lesbian, anti-God flames onto those who are beautiful. It's up to you to choose to believe truth or lies but know that the accusers pretended they were the victims of Jesus while nailing him to the cross... People who work day and night to implant fear in others have an agenda while those who direct you to Truth display nothing but Divine Radiance.

Drug and sex addicts purposefully incite emotionality within themselves by destroying their brains, inducing states of psychosis to justify their mistreatment of the genuine. I've noticed that people who do drugs are drawn to each other and listen to each other's crackpot theories and create conspiracy theory maps that don't make any sense when life is simple: the more pure you are of mind, body and soul, the closer to God you are. Individuals intoxicated with negative energy are not worth any value other than a painful lesson that will only be destroyed.

Once you read their drivel, you are accepting that into your consciousness. God help you if you get high then read their bullshit and then wonder why you're paranoid and want to commit self-annihilation. Inner and outer calmness through purity (i.e. being completely and totally You without any additions or subtractions) is key to improving one's health, not the belief in useless philosophies. Depending on a drug won't get you anywhere except a one-way, ticket to Satan Consciousness while satanic drivel is incomprehensible to a clean mind...

If you want a spiritual bodyguard, I recommend the Immaculate Living Saint Olivia who will protect you when you think of her, especially if you're an actual lesbian (and not a predator feminist pretending to be one). If my posts make you feel better and help you clear your mind of the doped-up delusions of the masses keep reading, but choose somebody who is fully God-Realized and resonates with you and meditate on their blissful message.

My inspiration comes from God, Guru and all Saints, but please remain vigilant of distractions that make you feel wrong for choosing love over fear. Drug addicts are fickle, going back and forth between these two frequencies and it's not worth involving yourself in their superstition. Although I'm not like other false spiritualists who value lust, one thing I will never do is implant fear (or the path to fright through lust) into your mind. Individuals who incite fear into you are not on your side, they are projecting so they have company in misery.

Only accept information from people who make you feel protected and that aura will follow you around protecting you. If you feel Satanists can protect you, so be it. The more conspiracies you read, the more fearful you become, it will manifest in your life and the more you will want to use drugs and other forms of self-abuse to escape it. If you're done with pointless masochism let go of everything that makes you weak and begin exercising your spiritual hardiness so you become spiritually immovable!

#Satanists often go after sexuality because that's their soft spot. they hate pure women and they especially hate women who want to #stay away from males aka chaste sovereign “separatists”... nobody is more anti-beautiful woman than an ugly feminist... #the more you deny their sex and drugs the more their ego gets destroyed... the more u enable addiction the bigger it grows. #when I read the mistreatment of Godly people as a child i always told myself that I would've stood by their side #i'm sticking to that promise now that I've found Truth and I'll never turn my back on Saints!

[theaddictspoetry]

People fear the unknown,

They just don't understand what we know

Judging us as if they're saints,

Even a saint was once a sinner.

@theaddictspoetry

#saints #sinner #drug addict #recovery #poetry #recovering #drug addiction #writers #my poetry #addiction #addiction recovery #recovering addict #addiction poems #recovery poems #sober #sober living #drug addiction awareness #overdose awareness #opiates #opiods #drug user #quotes #writers of Tumblr #poets of Tumblr #sober writer #poets #judgemental #don't judge #haters

[ofstarsandskies]

I dare you both (Ludger, Julius) to take a straight shot of ketchup.

Random Ask || The Ever Faithful Anon-sans

“Is that even a dare? The only reason I don’t regularly drink ketchup straight from the bottle is because Ludger gets miffed and lectures me how, ‘I already let you get away with eating raw tomatoes, don’t push your luck!’. If it’s part of a dare, I’m sure he’ll let it go.” 

Instead of a standard shot glass, Julius instead takes the cute kitty mug his brother bought him and squeezes enough ketchup that if he were to tilt the cup too high, it would spill all over his face. Though before Julius could take a long sip, a sharp smack to the head stunned him long enough for the spoilsport to steal his cup.

“Nii-san, we’ve talked about this! Anon-san said a shot, not, THE WHOLE THING!”  Grabbing the tablespoon off his measuring rack, Ludger scooped a spoonful of ketchup from Julius’ cup. “This is all you get: it’s just as much ounces as a shot glass. The rest I’m using to make tomato AND eggplant sauce-- I DARE YOU to steal that from the fridge.” 

Another chance to enjoy his true passion, ruined by the real authority in the house. If he hadn’t sworn off cooking after the scalding water incident, by Origin himself Julius would’ve committed to learning so such threats meant nothing to him. But alas, this was the reality he lived in, so he obeyed Ludger’s wishes: he poured the spoonful into his mouth and handed the teaspoon back. 

“You see what I mean? He never lets me 'commit a culinary sin’ unpunished.” 

“Quit pretending you’re the poor, suffering soul in this scenario, Julius. You’ll just buy a bunch of tomatoes and eat them before you get home to ‘get your fix’.” Ludger said as he washed the tablespoon. Once it was clean, he scooped another serving from the cup and gulped down the ketchup with a faint grimace. The taste itself didn’t bother him, but the chef’s soul in Ludger hated disrespecting the natural order of condiments. 

“Hope that was okay, Anon-san. Although if you want entertainment, don’t bother daring my brother to do anything related to tomatoes-- he’s probably done whatever you’d think of already.” 

#anonymous #a;; Muffled Truths #ja;; A Big Brother's Word #v;; Winnego Morderca #jv;; As Brothers Must Be #[The second you said tomato Anon Julius was ready.] #[If tomatoes were hardcore drugs he'd be the patron saint of addicts everywhere.] #[Ludger meanwhile is on the 'I do like them but not more than I like other things.']

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

A Sinner Deserves Their Saint - LN

Summary: Lando and Max's childhood friend went down a path that neither could stop her from going down. Last time Lando saw her, he was certain he'd never see her again.

Themes: Drug addiction/abuse, overdose

Important: There's not going to be a part 2

2021

Lando groans as his phone rings. He should've put it on do not disturb.

"Hello?" Lando grunts then frowning when he hears panting.

"Lan, I-I don't know what happened. She was fine-she was the life of the party. She disappeared and then we-we looked for her an-"

"Max! What the fuck are you talking about?" Lando questions cutting in.

"Y/n took something-again! She took something again and she wasn't breathing. We're in the hospital now but they're not telling us anything. I didn't know who to call...they just keep saying she's being seen to." Max splutters out clearly still in shock and looking to rely on the one person who might understand his panic.

Y/n had started doing drugs recreationally about two years ago, at first she said it was just for the buzz on nights out and for a while that seemed to be the case. Then they started catching her do lines when she'd wake up and she explained it as just needing a pick me up.

The first time she took it too far and landed herself in hospital was 3 months ago. This is the 4th time she'd ended up in hospital.

"I'm on my way." Lando states after managing to get which hospital out of Max.

And an hour later he found himself in the hospital finding his shellshocked best friend.

"Any updates?"

"Uhh...it was amphetamine and mephedrone. Her-Her heart stopped and they got it going again but...they have her in the ICU and only family can see her. They're talking with the doctors."

Lando felt like the world was caving in around him, memories of them all as kids at karting. Innocent kids who had the world to claim as their own.

The two young men end up holding each other tightly in a hug.

"I'll drive us home. We'll come back and try to see her tomorrow."

They did try. They tried many times. Sometimes both of them, sometimes Lando had to go to races and work but Max kept going back.

Eventually, y/n was deemed well enough to leave and while her family wanted to force her to rehab. She wouldn't accept it and their options were to give her a place to at least sleep and let them know she is alive or to kick her out and risk finding out through a call from the police that they don't have a daughter to worry about anymore.

But after a month, Lando finally gets to see her.

She may not be detained by a rehab but her parents have done well to keep her locked in the house.

"Well if it isn't another face here to lecture and guilt trip me." Y/n scoffs curled up by her window looking almost as if she's mimicking Rapunzel locked in her tower away from the world. Only in her case it to keep her from hurting herself.

Though he'd bet she has stashed drugs to keep herself from smashing the window for her freedom.

"I just want to know you're ok." Lando states, having been warned she was in no good mood as of recent and he'd be unlikely to receive a warm welcome. "I want to help you, if I can, y/n."

"You can't." She snaps sharp eyes glaring at him. "And even if you could. I don't want your help. I don't want your pity. I don't want you to stand there and act like I'm unhappy doing drugs."

Something about her not realising how much she's hurting the people around her boils his blood in a way he never expected to feel with her.

"No. You're perfectly happy dying! You're happy making everyone around you miserably because they love you and you want to fuck up your life for drugs." Lando spits back, now having no sympathy. Though in his gut, his stomach is twisting.

Y/n seems to have nothing to say to that, returning to her balled up position leaning her forehead against a window.

"I didn't come here to fight, y/n." Lando sighs in defeat since he really just wanted to see her, to hold her and feel with his own hands that she's alive.

"I don't want you here, Lando." Y/n states with a voice that's void of emotion, icy is warmer than her tone right now.

So her leaves and he decides in that moment that if she doesn't want him there and she's made it very clear she has no interest in improving her own life. He'll just wait to attend her funeral in a few months. Her family would want him there.

Present time

"Do you know who I saw?" Max asks randomly as he sits getting ready to do a stream. Not quite live yet.

"Who?" Lando hums looking at his phone.

"Y/n."

The name makes the air around them still. Max knows Lando was so hurt by her reckless behaviour and heartless words.

"She's clean." He adds making Lando hum. "She apologised for everything. Especially the last time I saw her."

Y/n had been just as harsh if not worse to Max than she was to Lando.

"Did she seem happy?" Lando asks genuinely wanting to know.

"She seemed healthy. I don't know about happy...she started crying when she saw me. Hugged me pretty hard and we talked for a few hours." Max admits then turning. "Said she missed us."

"She only has herself to blame for that." Lando shrugs coldly. It still hurts and he'd prepared himself to never see herself again along with being ready to accept that he'd probably attend her funeral. "It's good she's clean and healthy though."

"You should go see her." Max states earning a sigh since Lando knew it was coming. "Lando...the two of you were closer than I ever was with her, don't tell me you don't want to see her."

"It's not like it's that simple, it is?" Lando frowns shaking his head. "It's great, I'm happy that she's better. That she's realised how much she was fucking up. But it's not that simple is it?"

"It'd be a lot more simply if you'd agree to see her...she asked after you, said she'd finally gone to rehab-"

"You're late to stream. I'm going home." Lando mutters standing up from the bed and moving to bump fists as a goodbye while Max nods.

He knew the risk of bringing y/n up. He'd spoken about her before one or twice since Lando last saw her and it was never received warmly. It wasn't as if he was updating the F1 driver, but more just reliving old memories or commenting on how she may be.

The next week is spent with Lando's brain fogged up by y/n.

Eventually he decides he can't go into a race weekend not having clarity about her. So he calls her parents who give him her number and he calls her. Feeling his heart thud hard.

He followed up calling her directly after calling her parents so she has no warning of his call.

"Hello?"

"Y/n?" Lando mumbles almost not recognising her voice or feeling surreal in hearing it.

"That's me. Who's this?"

"It's...Lando. I got your number from your parents."

"Lando? Oh I wasn't-Max...he spoke to you-I told him not to mention it. You shouldn't feel obligated to speak to me because I spoke to him." Y/n sighs sounding guilty about the matter.

"Where are you?"

"Um...I'm food shopping. Why?"

"I want to see you. Know for certain if Max was telling the truth."

"Oh-Okay. I uhh...I can come to your place from here if you want?"

"No. Send me your address, I'll come to you if you're food shopping." Lando states quickly then clearing his throat. "Just send me your address on this number, please."

"Ok." Y/n mumbles then clearing her throat. "I'll send it over. And see you soon."

Lando's heart is beating up his lungs from how hard it's beating. But he did it and he's going to see y/n. A woman who he's refused to talk about but has never been far from his mind is finally going to reappear in his life.

He was really certain he'd be attending his funeral, he was always just waiting for the call or message informing that she'd finally succumb to her demons.

She sends her address which isn't too far from her parents house, probably then who found it for her. Maybe a step of building trust to prove that she's made progress and they want her to know that they believe she can do it on her own.

There's some shame in Lando thinking that it's an error on their part.

Less than an hour after the phone call he finds himself seated in her living room. Her getting him a glass of water on his accepting of the offer for a drink.

"So you got yourself together." Lando comments as she returns, looking just as nervous as she has since she let him in.

She looks younger than when he last saw her. Her face not so hollowed, he'd not really noticed how unhealthy she'd got with not eating thanks to drugs pushing any hunger to the side.

"You look good, y/n." Lando comments while she manages a sad smile. "Don't look at me like that, y/n. I'm not the one who died."

"No, and it wasn't your parents who signed a DNR after the last time it happened."

"A DNR?"

"I went into a coma, no brain activity for a few days about 8 months after the last time I saw you. They told the doctors if I flatlined again to not resuscitate." Y/n sighs then clearing her throat when her eyes tear up. "I woke up after two weeks. Thankfully I was through most of my withdrawal."

"Is that when you got clean?"

"Yeah, well...I was sick of being the worst person everyone could think of and I think when parents decide their own child is not worth saving, that's when you've got to realise how much damage you're causing. I'm just sorry I didn't listen to you, Lando."

"You don't need to be sorry, you were...not thinking right." Lando shrugs then sighing. "I'm just glad I wasn't right about thinking that I'd never see you alive again after that day."

Y/n seems to pale at that statement, tears filling her eyes again before she blinks a few times.

"Do you know what's overdue?" Lando asks trying to lighten the mood.

"What?

"A hug, give me a hug." Lando smiles making her smile and move closer, hugging him tightly as he wraps his arms around her. "I've missed you so much, y/n."

"I missed you too. But I think being sober and realising what I'd let myself lose was for the better."

Lando sighs holding her tightly his chin resting on her shoulder as her looks at her with a tired expression.

"I think my mum was actually angrier at me with the way I treated you and Max than over the fact I was doing drugs." Y/n smiles softly while leaning to rest her head on top of his. "I really let someone good go."

"I've got a race this weekend, you should come out with me." Lando states since seeing her, now he really just wants to reconcile.

"I'd like that." Y/n nods then biting her lip a little.

-

Y/n is actually vaguely recognised from earlier fans of Lando's career. She was just as actively supportive over him and before that finally overdose that ended their friendship, she was still very much a big person in his life.

It never really got out what happened as to why she disappeared, but her reappearance has gained attention from fans. Especially since Lando was holding her hand so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Feels weird." Y/n mumbles as Lando does the track walk with her. "Like I don't belong in this part of your life anymore."

"Well I feel like you do." Lando shrugs since he knows all that is happening is her anxiety is getting the better of her, forcing emotions to surface. "And I want you here."

Y/n looks at him unsure of sharing his certainty.

"You treat me better than I deserve." Y/n whispers making him shake his head at her.

"You deserve the world, y/n." Lando states deciding that if there's any time to get honest with her it's now since the team isn't with him on the track walk, he wanted to do it just with y/n. "I thought we were going to get married one day before everything happened."

"Y-You did?" Y/n chokes out earning a nod. "We weren't even dating."

"We weren't, but it was sort of inevitable that we were going to get there one day. Anyway, don't act like we didn't sleep together." Lando shrugs feeling more and more confident about it since she's not denying him or saying there was no chance because the idea disgusts her. "Maybe we could...try?"

They actually slept together as part of a promise to each other, if Lando and herself hadn't lost their virginity as part of celebrating a race win. They both told themselves that it was a matter of sticking with someone they trusted for their first times. But anyone could debate about their truth feelings and intentions with each other.

"Sleeping together again, dating or marriage?" Y/n teases apparently somewhat settled in her nerves. "I could go on a date, but I feel like trusting you to plan a date comes with risks."

"I could plan a date with you, no problem."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"What ideas you got rattling around in there?"

"I'm not telling you, that will spoil the fun." Lando smirks then looking at her for a moment, noticing her expression. "What?"

"Just hoping you've improved in bed since we slept together, or one of us is going to be very embarrassed."

"I mean you weren't the best virgin in the world."

"I know, but I also know I've significantly improved on my game."

"You're unbelievable, how am I supposed to trust that's true?" Lando challenges watching her jaw drop while he laughs knowing that she's not really offended at the suggests.

"Guess we may need to get on a date then find out how good we are pretty soon." Y/n hums making Lando smirk a little.

"Still proving you're the smartest and most rational person I know."

"Because I'm saying we should go on a date and have sex? Not sure that's quite true." Y/n laughs before she finds herself picked up into a hug and spun around as they walk.

He only carries her a few steps before capturing her in a kiss that actually she wasn't expecting but she's certainly not mad about.

"Alright, well your kissing game has improved." Y/n teases earning an eye roll.

"Yours could use to work, but I'll help you with that."

#f1 #fanfic #formula 1 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x y/n #lando x reader #ln4 x reader #lando #norris #lando norris mclaren #lando norris imagines #mclaren f1 #ln4 #mclaren #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #ln4 one shot #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 fluff #ln4 x y/n #ln4 x you #mclaren formula 1 #mclaren racing #ln4 fanfic #ln4 mclaren

[randombush3]

audentes fortuna iuvat

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two

words: 9541

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks III

content warnings: there’s some (a lot of) cheating + postpartum depression. it’s more frustrating than sad though x

notes: this covers 2019-22(ish). It was SUPPOSED to be the last part. It’s not anymore. I’m gonna do a fourth to deal w the mess I have created in a more self-indulgent amount of words than the 3k i had planned. That will probably have smut in it 😛

“Y/n left me.” 

The limousine you are in is completely black, save for the white lines being measured out right next to you. 

“What?” says Jenni. 

“She left me,” Alexia says once more. The hotel room is a non-committal beige. They lie in the same bed, the older of the two welcoming her lost teammate wordlessly and without judgement. Tomorrow, they will return to Barcelona, losers yet another time. “She moved back to london. She took Nico.” 

“She can’t just take Nico, can she?” 

“Y/n, how’s Nico?” Your stomach turns, but whether that is provoked by the thought of the baby boy you left crying in your father’s arms or by the white powder outlining the rim of the woman’s nostrils, you don’t know. 

Your son’s creasing eyes, red face, and grabbing hands appear in front of you. He screams as you walk away. He doesn’t understand why he has not smelt Alexia in weeks, and he misses the comfort of home. 

Everyone waits for your answer. No one comments on the bags under your eyes. “He's fine,” you say with a smile. “He loves it here.”

“I think she is depressed,” Alexia tells Jenni, comforted by the arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close and tightly and reminding her that she is not as alone as you have made her feel. “She told me that she couldn’t be in Barcelona anymore, but she said that without giving me a chance to come with her. Her bags were packed before the conversation started — she might as well have called me from the plane.” 

“Are you angry at her?” 

“Yes.” 

Alexia thinks about it. 

“No.”

“No,” you say when they point at your very own line. The drug holds a place of both familiarity and hatred in your heart. The fine, white powder reminds you of greatness – of being the most successful girl group in the UK – but, also, of hospital visits. It’s not a past addiction, but it could have been. You light a cigarette instead, though it will make the vehicle reek. “I can't. I have a son.” 

“You’re not a saint.” They boo. “You’re allowed to have fun. I saw you the other day, and you had no qualms with any drugs then.” 

“No, I'm not a saint,” you reply. You regret that night — however little you remember. “But I am a mother.” 

“Is it that thing? Postpartum?” Jenni asks. “The baby blues are really shitty, I've heard, but they’re not supposed to cripple you. Maybe the relationship has other issues.” 

“I'm not angry at her, Jenni,” Alexia repeats. “I miss Nico. He looks like her. He has started to look a lot more like her now.”

“He would definitely suit those sparkly bralettes.” Jenni giggles at the thought. 

With an understandable lack of good humour, Alexia ponders something more realistic. “He would suit a Barcelona kit.” 

“He would be made for it. You are his mother.” 

“I'm not angry at her,” Alexia says for the third time, just to make herself believe it. Just to carve those words into her bones and tell herself that it isn’t anger, what she’s feeling. “I don't want to be angry at her. I think I'm going to see if I can move to arsenal.” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

“Well, I'm not angry at her.” 

“Alexia.” Jenni cups her cheek tenderly. “Ale.” She knows she shouldn’t. She’s not angry at you, and so there is no punishment needed. Not that… Not that kissing Jenni would ever be utilised as a weapon to get back at you. Or that she’d actually kiss her. 

“Daddy, I can't get him tonight. No, I don't want to stay over. Daddy, I…” You hate the baby. You hate yourself. You hate that Spain hasn’t done well, and that your fiancée is disappointed that nothing is how it was supposed to be. Alexia is probably lying awake in bed, missing her son, and missing you. You expect one of her teammates to call you soon, and tell her that she needs you. You’re her person. “I'm going to get some sleep and I'll pick him up tomorrow. Probably around lunchtime, okay?” 

“Alexia, bésame.” 

…

You had passively bought your house. It’s how property sale works when you’re a celebrity. People are always willing to do things for you if you know the price, and it never hurts to use your name to add a new flashy level to whatever stupid business they are running. It’s a mutual exploitation, to some extent. 

Highgate is beautiful. The house is beautiful. 

The reception room, with its high, decorated ceilings, is your favourite place to numbly take in the twisted jigsaw of your life when Nico has cried himself to sleep. The nursery is on the first floor. He is near enough for safety, but at a distance that allows you to regret all the mistakes you have made.

You watch him roll over onto his stomach, eyes trained on the baby monitor though your fingers graze the ivory keys of your new piano, attempting to compose something worthwhile. At this rate, your solo career is going to fail just like your relationship seems to be doing. 

Yesterday, while Alexia seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth, you came out. It was an off-hand comment during the Graham Norton Show. A quick ‘my fiancée named him. She’s from Barcelona’ was all it took. You hope Alexia, wherever she may be, has heard about it. Jenni would have told her. You trust Jenni to be somewhat on your side because she always has been. 

The doorbell rings just as you sniffle, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “Don’t be pathetic,” you mutter to yourself. “You didn’t pay five million pounds to sit here and cry. You chose to come back home.” 

Being in England – colder, drearier, lonelier England – has made you realise that your decision was not the right one. Or maybe it was. It has proven that you are as terrible a mother as you convinced yourself you were back in Barcelona, and it has also shoved the cavity Alexia leaves in your life when you refuse her entry right down your throat in the form of a constant lump and a dull stabbing in your chest whenever you think about anything past whether Nico has had anything to eat. You can’t even feed him properly, despite it being supposedly in your nature. You buy formula from the nearest Waitrose. 

The doorbell rings again. 

The insistence is not uncommon seeing as you are, at the minute, the English press’s number one target. You open the CCTV app on your phone so that you can decide whether or not to ignore the potential stalker, and your heart rate spikes when you see the hooded figure standing on the porch. Back to the door, it is not possible to determine the threat. A well-buried maternal instinct kicks in for once, and you ensure that Nico is still peacefully out cold before getting up to answer the door with the poker from the Victorian fireplace firmly in your grip. Just in case. 

You are a mother, in whatever capacity you have decided that role looks like, and so you undo the three latches on the door with brave, protective fingers. The baby monitor’s volume has increased, and the fuzz of white noise is audible if Nico were to make a sound. The vague repulsion at the idea of it all is only an aftertaste in your silent prayer for the hooded figure to not want to kill you. Some sick part of your brain imagines Nico dead, as well. It tortures you. 

The poker in your other hand, for the most fleeting of moments, is almost plunged into your chest. The imaginary, self-inflicted wound makes you think of the blood and how the baby upstairs would wail until someone found him. The grimace of annoyance on your lips is nothing new, but you have no more time to torment yourself because the doorbell is pressed again, rather impatiently. 

You open the door and the hooded figure is right in front of you. “He’s asleep,” you say, the Spanish foreign on your tongue. 

Alexia shrugs, and her hood falls down, revealing the brunette tendrils that hang from her slowly sinking bun. “I came for you,” she replies, so earnestly that it is as if nothing ever happened: past pain forgotten and replaced by sprouting memories of soft kisses and mornings where leaving was too hard to do. Some of them, you think, are not real. They don’t seem to be. Your blank stare is unsettling. You almost don’t believe her. “Can we talk?” she tries, and you notice the team-issued duffle on the tiled floor she is standing on. Then, from the pocket of her hoodie, she extracts a pastry box. The plastic window is filled with circles of different colours, and she holds out the macaroons to you as if to bribe her way into a home in which she is unsure she belongs to.

Stepping aside, leaning the poker against the wall by the door, you scratch at the bare skin of your neck. Alexia, while sweeping an arm down to collect her bag, fixes her gaze onto the ring you are wearing, and the diamond glistens with hope that this can all be fixed. “Would you like to come inside?” 

She swallows the whine of anguish that tears her heart open at the idea that this might never be her house to live in, too, and she follows you dutifully as you lead her through hallways far more luxurious than the flat in Barcelona could ever be. This is what you left her for – the person you are, no longer in worn clothing with messy hair, is quite the opposite of the woman with her back to her moments before she had to focus on football. The necklace draped on your sharpened collarbones is new, and she does not dare believe what she has been hearing is true. Yes, there are pictures, but she trusts you. She will always trust you. 

“Have a seat,” you say, gesturing to the wooden dining table. It is clean enough for her to determine that it is unused. Alexia places the macaroons in front of her, and aches at how you sit at the opposite end. 

“I…”

“I thought you were going to give me all the time that I needed.” It is a statement of distance, as if your location is not enough. 

Alexia, eyes widening at how unwelcome she suddenly feels, needs only to remind herself of the impending date of the wedding. It is beginning to loom uncomfortably, with the excitement of getting married drained out like a low tide on a deserted beach. “We have two weeks. If it isn’t going to happen, then you should tell me now. We have to give everyone notice so that they can cancel their flights.” Your silence spurs her on. “You will need to contact the wedding planner, because you refused to let me have a hand in any of it so I don’t even have their number. I’m sorry that you won’t be able to wear your dress. Vivienne Westwood is a big thing for you, I know. I’m sorry that it’s inconvenient.” 

“But Alexia,” you whisper, “I don’t not want to get married.” 

Her eyebrows furrow, head tilted slightly to the left. “I know. That is why I am saying this.” 

Your voice grows louder. “No, no. Sorry, that wasn’t the easiest thing to understand.” Across the dining table, your love that has faltered, that has hesitated and been reconsidered and been stamped down over the past month, extends towards her: its final destination, always and forever. Alexia feels it grab her by the throat, wrenching the words from her before she can even formulate a thought in response, and her body is so drawn to you, in such a powerful fashion, that she pushes her chair out from the table with a grating scrape and is stepping towards you with a finality that makes her wonder if she’ll ever leave your side. 

As she approaches, the idea that she is here becomes a little too real. You have played with the fantasy of it, of course, but the tenderness in her usually fierce eyes does not match the anger you had expected, and, in the most feeble fashion, you have never felt more apologetic in your life. 

“I’m so sorry,” you begin to say. Tears stream down your face with freed anguish, and the words are so simple yet they bear the weight of your entire soul. “I’m so sorry, darling. I made a mistake, and I have been met with the most crushing of realisations: I can’t do this without you, Alexia.” I still want to marry you, Alexia. 

The room seems to close in on your despair, attempting to bottle it, almost, and keep you trapped underneath a haze of emotions you don’t quite know how to sort through. “I… I’m beginning to hate him.” The confession hangs heavy over Alexia’s bowed head as she stands frozen in place, stuck in her journey towards you but unable to arrive. “I’m acutely aware of how cruel it is,” you continue, this next admission being what agonises you the most. It floods the room with guilt, and your voice trembles with self-condemnation that reigns harsher than any other voice in your head. 

“It’s ridiculous. I’m evil and I’m wrong, and I just feel like it is inherently in my nature to be like this, as though some fault has been built into me with warning signs we evidently ignored.” You struggle to breathe. “I wish I could take back the day we decided to have him,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, lips doused in tears, skin searing with shame when Alexia cups your cheek with a strong, calloused hand. “He should not have to be stuck with me as a mother.” 

Your chest heaves, and you are finished. You have never verbalised it before now, and it is impossible to decide whether it has helped remove the lead lining of your heart where it has been bolstered against your will. Her other hand steadily rises to your face, but then, with only a second of hesitation, she is pulling you upwards and enveloping you in her embrace. You feel a little bit closer to her. “Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, tone cracked with sorrow and regret. “Lo siento mucho. Desearía haber sabido, desearía haber estado allí para ti.” 

Gently, she tilts your face upwards to meet her gaze. “You are not evil and no estás equivocada. Estoy aquí ahora, y no te dejaré enfrentar esto sola nunca más.” You collapse into her. “I’m here, cariño, and I am not going anywhere.”

The sentiment is wonderful, and Alexia makes good on her word. 

When Nico begins to cry, the sound piercing through your choked sobs, Alexia realises she has missed all of her life with you. Being separated and being apart due to work, she now knows, are two excruciatingly different things. The whiny wails from upstairs visibly jar you, though you pull away from Alexia to attend to him. “I will do it,” she declares, though her firmness is not mean. “Sit down. Eat the macaroons – they’re… ‘to die for’?” You nod with instinctive encouragement. “Sí. They’re to die for. Try. Jenni says that the pink ones are the best.” 

“Jenni picked them out?” you ask with a briefly regained humour, eyebrows raising. “Had to get your friend to choose your apology gift?” In truth, neither of you know what Alexia would be apologising for, but Nico’s crying grows more incessant and Alexia is climbing the carpeted staircase before the topic can be discussed. 

Alexia reaches her son with tears brimming in her eyes. The failure of Spain at the World Cup is amplified by the idea that she has disappointed him, though he does not yet possess the tools to pledge his allegiance to her country. In fact, Nico has been sleeping in Manchester United attire (your father has been his primary carer of late, and he does not charge you money, so the price is obviously Alexia’s sanity). She is more than glad to smell his nappy, and delighted about the opportunity to change him into something less hideous. 

“Mama loves you so much,” she tells him as she manoeuvres his chubby legs into a plain, inoffensive onesie. “I promise, petit. I am going to help her, okay? And we are going to get through this together.” Alexia forgets about the taste of Jenni’s lips and the heat between them. “Mama just doesn’t see the direction she is going in. It is like her eyes are covered, and she is telling herself that she is walking down the wrong path, but this is not true. You are the most special thing in the world to us. You are the sunrise, the sunset, and the hours of the day.” 

She pauses to stand him up on his tiny feet, hands hoisted underneath his armpits. He is heavier than when she last held him, but she is stronger than before, too. Women’s football is growing, along with her muscles. Nico babbles out a vague reply, but Alexia hears what he is trying to say. “I agree. We’ll be alright.” And, with all her heart, it rings true. 

…

The following day, she calls the doctor for you, script written out on a piece of paper in front of her, translated perfectly so that her concern does not waver the information she needs to tell the receptionist. The clinic is famous and discreet, and they are quick to prescribe you antidepressants before the week draws to a close. You won’t be able to drink at your wedding, and everyone might think you are pregnant again, but Alexia reassures you that it will be worth it. 

Wrapped up in your own bubble, the three of you enjoy London in a way that isn’t possible in Barcelona. 

Here, Alexia has no commitment to football. There are no training sessions she must rush off to, there are no teammates to pry, and no one else to interfere with your private little routine. You quite like it, and she does too. It is only temporary, before you fly out to Menorca and hand Nico off to Eli in order to enjoy your respective bachelorette parties and then, in exactly seven days, your wedding itself. 

“You’re still smoking,” Alexia says disapprovingly, the sleep in her voice enough to make you feel a pang of guilt. It’s late at night when Nico has finally been soothed from his aching gums, and she has been able to climb back into bed expecting to find you asleep already. “Why are you awake?” 

“I’m still smoking,” you tell her. She sighs at the way you parrot her words, but presses an affectionate kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulders despite the lingering smell of cigarettes. “If I can’t drink, I’m going to smoke. This is Hollywood.” 

“This is Highgate.” Her accent curls around the name with something a little too foreign for her to ever consider this place home. “Why are you awake?” she repeats. 

You look down at the open notebook in your lap, the pages either blank or full of crossed-out lyrics. “He was so loud, but I can’t seem to write anything either so, really, it has been quite redundant.”

“I had to get a glass full of ice and hold it to my fingers so that I could help him. I could have lost some very important assets, but it seemed to do the trick.” He’s teething. You’re telling yourself that the antidepressants are little pills of miracle, and have kicked in already. “Feel.” She presses two freezing fingers to your cheek, and you gasp, flinching away from her. 

“There’s a teething ring downstairs, you know,” you tell her. She shrugs. Maybe it isn’t clean. “Don’t give yourself frostbite. I happen to quite like your fingers.” 

Alexia’s smirk is beyond suggestive, and her lips hit your neck once more with an entirely different heat to them. “Yeah?” You push her head away. “I bet it would feel good. Nice and cold.” 

“You’re delirious.” 

She continues to kiss you. “I don’t know what that means,” she mumbles into your neck, until her lips reach your face and she is near climbing into your lap – notebook long pushed onto the floor. “Dímelo en español.” 

“No lo sé.” 

“Ah. Una palabra inteligente.” 

“Claro.” 

She laughs into the kiss she presses against your lips. She never has never felt like this with anyone else. Never this relaxed, or loved, or safe. “Me vas a matar con tu inteligencia y voy a sentirme estúpida para siempre.” 

“I love you,” you state softly. “I love every part of you.” Alexia, in that moment, decides to never do what she did with Jenni again, and to never break your heart by informing you of her betrayal. 

…

You’re married. 

You’re married to Alexia, a woman who bears the beauty of a goddess and the strength and will of someone who could capture the sun and tame the fire that rages on its surface. 

You admire her as she sleeps so peacefully beside you, tanned skin warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows of the hotel room. Later, you will get on the ferry, go back to Barcelona, and then fly to Capri for three days alone before Alexia’s preseason starts. Aside from a few meetings with Dave, you theoretically aren’t swamped with anything. You’ll be joining her in her city with Nico with a bit more permanence than last time. 

Alexia buries her face in the covers, crawling into your open arms the minute the sunlight rouses her. “Everything is sore,” she groans, her bare skin slightly sticking to yours, the sweat from last night not yet gone. 

“What happened to ‘mi vida, one more time won’t hurt’?” you tease, impersonating her heavy accent over your English with enough drama to get her to elicit another grumble. This time, it’s something about being bullied. “Darling, we have to get up. We’re having breakfast with our parents, and apparently Nico has been upset that we got a night to ourselves.” 

“Pobrecito,” she replies with a newfound level of English sarcasm. She spent the wedding reception avoiding the dance floor, engaged in a long conversation with your father. The topics spanned over most areas of life, and briefly touched upon how you are doing now. Alexia, with much pleasure, confirmed the improvement, however miniscule it has been. She is very proud of you, and he is too. “I only want one thing for breakfast.” 

Her hands begin to roam, the band of her wedding ring hitting your pubic bone. “Mi vida, one more time won’t hurt,” she mocks you from before but in her sexier, Spanish husk, sucking at your collarbone, straddling your waist.

You replace your near moan with a thoughtful hum. “I really want pancakes. Do you think they’ll make me some?”

Downstairs, where it is brighter and impossible to conceal the hickeys on both of your necks, you greet your parents, brother, Anya, and Gio. Alexia’s mother, her sister, and Jenni are sitting at the table, too. Your baby is pretending he isn’t teething, and grinning like an angel. 

“How’s married life?” Anya asks as you take a seat opposite her, Alexia to your right. The table has a gradient of bilingualism, but Gio discovered that she picks up Spanish quite easily considering she can already speak one romance language. “We’ve already found, like, four articles talking about it.” 

“How?” you ask, but you are not offended. 

Gio shrugs. “Drones, I guess. Nothing bad, though. Some speculation about the other bride – if the article does mention that. Most talk is on the dress.” It was a bloody good dress. “And I suspect that there’ll be a juicy little question about who was your Maid of Honour.” 

“Don’t be salty,” you tell her. The MOH issue was sorted out years ago – perhaps 2015 – when you binged Friends together despite having watched it thousands of times before. Anya has been yours, Gio will be hers, and you will be Gio’s. And they say trios never work. 

“I left Mia with her dad for this.” 

“You shouldn’t have had a baby with a man-slag,” Anya says with a snort, enjoying her second mimosa and Gio’s grimace at the idea of her daughter having to put up with her father’s revolving door of one-night-stands. “You’re one to make terrible decisions. At least our girl over here’s married someone who looks at her like she’s hung the moon.” 

Alexia turns to you with a smile, as if on cue, with Nico in her lap. You glance at his rounded cheeks and shining eyes, looking back up at your friends as though to check they are still there. Alexia leans forwards so that she can whisper in your ear. “Te amo. Nico, también. Mi familia es perfecta.” 

…

Returning to Barcelona comes with one negotiated condition on your part. You buy a bigger apartment, where there is space for an office and extra bedrooms. Alexia says her teammates will be taking the piss out of her grand new place the minute she sees it, but she is more than content to contribute to the finances with her new-and-improved salary for this season. “It’s weird to think that I’m from Mollet,” murmurs Alexia, standing in the middle of the large lounge area, surrounded by boxes. Most are from your old flat, but a few have been flown in from London. Alexia wanted you to have your Grammy with you. “This place is so fancy.” 

“It’s half of what the men’s team get,” you remind her, holding Nico with care as he gnaws away on a frozen carrot. His saliva drips onto you, but the antidepressants are working, and the therapy has been effective enough for you to start taking childcare in turns. (You had tried to previously, but Alexia wanted you to focus on yourself, knowing that things will change for all of you once the season started.) “Hey.” You place your hand on her shoulder. She tickles Nico’s chin. “We deserve this. You deserve this. Why don’t you host one of your team’s dinners? I’ll take Nico round to your mum’s – God knows she’d love to shove some food down my throat, too.” 

She shakes her head, strands of brown unstraightened due to the stress of the move and falling out of her bun with a determination to defy her hair bobble. “They would kill me if I did it without you. They’re all far too grateful that you invited Taylor Swift to our wedding.” 

“She’s a friend.” If you hadn’t been distracted by various other happenings that night, you’d have clocked that Alexia’s side of the guests were completely up to their ears in celebrities they’d never expected to meet. “Okay, so do you want me to stay here?” 

“I always want you to stay here,” she answers. 

“Not what I meant.” 

“I won’t take it back.” 

Nico babbles an incoherent yet cutely Spanish-y noise, though his words are getting closer to being said at the old age of eight months. Then, suddenly, something in him clicks. “Mama,” he squeals, his little fist scrunching up the fabric of your t-shirt. “Mamama.”

“Nicolau!” Alexia replies with just as much enthusiasm, cupping his cheeks. She kisses his nose, and then his forehead, and then his chubby knees and socked feet. “Nicolau, sí, la mama et té a las mans! Bon noi, el meu bon i intel·ligent noi.” 

“Does that count?” 

“Mama,” Nico repeats, tugging your earlobe. “Mama. Mama.” It is easy to forget about the (lessening) resentment you harbour when he speaks. Alexia gets him to say it as many times as she can before he goes back to his carrot, but, even then, the two of you stay in that spot, marvelling at your creation. 

Slowly, she turns around in a circle, absorbing the plain walls and towers of boxes. “This is going to be good. Life is going to be good,” you declare with such a firmness that it has to be true. “Darling, let’s get to unpacking and then we can think about a date for this dinner party.” 

“We are going to plan the party?” She raises her eyebrows at you. “Is this party going to start at five o’clock?” 

“Not all of us shit yellow and red.” (In a national sense – you’d have haemorrhoids for United any day of the week.)

Alexia takes Nico off you, in a show of cultural dominance. You’re actually outnumbered, considering he isn’t a British Citizen, and though he shares no DNA with your wife, he has inherited the same ability to narrow his eyes just enough to serve absolute cunt whenever he so pleases. If you weren’t feeling so ganged up on, you’d be a little impressed. “Nico y yo vamos a hacer croquetas de jamón. Adiós.” 

“Darling, the kitchen isn’t–” But you cut yourself off, deciding that she can discover that on her own, along with the criminally empty fridge. You don’t hide your smugness at all when she finds you in your almost-finished bedroom, wearing a look of utter disappointment and mumbling out a heartbroken request for a food delivery as soon as possible. 

…

November marks three years of being together and, also, four weeks of having Alexia’s ‘DNA’ – a pomeranian called Nala, whose Instagram account is run by her favourite parent after you called it silly and told your wife you’d much rather attend to your own seventeen million followers. 

Towards the end of the month, after a well-spent morning and then a family outing to Barcelona Zoo, Alexia meets Jenni Hermoso in a restaurant in what Jenni calls ‘your new rich-people neighbourhood’ in her text to Alexia.

Alexia, really and truly, is happy to have her best friend back in Barcelona. She missed her last year, when Jenni had returned to Atleti, and that separation maybe made what happened the night Spain was knocked out of the World Cup just that bit more understandable. “You’re a Culer, no matter how hard you try to fight it,” Alexia had said when she had climbed back into her own bed, not wanting to fall asleep in Jenni’s arms. “It was terrible to not have Y/n or you.” 

You and Jenni: Alexia’s people. 

“How’s your wife?” Jenni asks with a grin, two glasses of wine into a pleasant evening at an expensive restaurant. “You’ve left her with Nico, so something must be working.” 

In truth, you have been determined to get better. There were articles released not long after the photos of your wedding were circulated, and those speculated a lot about how you are finding motherhood. The baby pictured, captured by long-range lenses and invasive drones, was the world’s first glimpse at what Nico Putellas L/n looks like, and reminded many of them that you had a child to care for when in London, yet were frequently spotted at nightclubs and parties. You rise to most challenges, however, and find it a lot easier to adapt to weekly therapy sessions and pills every morning when you have a wrongful image to disprove. 

“It’s as if it never happened,” Alexia says, both with pride and surprise. “She now seeks to spend time with him. She takes him with her to the recording studio – the album’s coming along well.” It’s your first on your own. Nico plays with one mixing desk, while Dave (flown in from London with the promise that the Barcelona sun will do wonders for his wife’s misery) plays with another. “And… Jenni, we’ve been talking. The clinic that we used for Nico asked us if we wanted to reserve sperm when we first had him, and now they have called asking if now is a good time. I think… I think that she is really considering it. She told me yesterday that her therapist wants me to sit in on the next session, so we can go over how we can make this time different.” 

Jenni frowns, which is not what the woman opposite her had expected at all. “Why are you two having more children? You’re only twenty-five, Ale. Isn’t this going to affect your career?” 

“The men do it all the time.” She’s done a spot of research. They are younger than her when their girlfriends start getting pregnant, and they continue to play with the added admiration that they are fathers as well. 

“Yes, but they have the benefit of getting paid millions. They don’t have to fight with their federation for pitches or pay, and they can focus on football without their career sparking controversy for even existing.” 

“Then my children will grow up with a mother who fights for change.” 

“Or they grow up with a pop star who only wants things she cannot have and a footballer who can’t spend any time with them because she is too busy speaking at various conventions so that the next league match isn’t cancelled.”

“Jenni, do you think your opinion would be different if Y/n was a man?” 

This elicits laughter from the other woman, who rolls her eyes in a way that can only be described as condescending. “Alexia, you’re forgetting that I’m a lesbian too, which is a magnificent feat.” Jenni references the kiss they shared, and what happened after that. “But, no. I don’t. I want you to be the greatest footballer in the world, and you want that too. What are you going to do when Y/n tells you she wants to move back to England? Are you going to give up your future here for her?” 

The waiter interrupts briefly, collecting their empty plates and carting them off with a mission to retrieve the bill after a sharply declined offer for the dessert menu. “You don’t even know if that will happen,” Alexia scoffs, though she is a little sad that her exciting news hasn’t been well-received. “I was going to say that I’d think about the name Jennifer if it ends up being a girl, but now I’m leaning more towards María…”

She is kicked under the table, and she has to hold in her cry of pain because this restaurant is one of your favourite places to eat. “Mapi cannot have this victory over me. She’d be insufferable. Ale, you simply aren’t allowed to do that.” There’s another kick, but it is more playful this time. 

Alexia laughs, smiling and thankful that the tension has diffused. “I’m only joking. Y/n has a list scribbled in the back of her lyric book. She’ll probably be called Elena.” That is much more acceptable to Jenni’s ears, and she files that information away for next year, when she’ll tell Mapi that Alexia doesn’t like her name.

…

It works. Alexia and you are lucky. The doctor tells Alexia that, if she were a man, the two of you would have to be extremely careful. Your wife marvels at your ability to destroy your body and stay fertile, but she supposes that you are not the kind of woman to be a lesbian. Sometimes, she wakes up in a cold sweat, believing that you have changed your mind and left her. 

The New Year is a fresh start. Alexia decides to fix the (not so) hidden cracks in your relationship. She confides in her newly-acquired therapist. She may have made a mistake once; the secret is sandwiched between her worries about your susceptibility to depression and how Nico is a decided food critic. 

Though the therapist, a lovely bilingual woman named Sofía, raises her eyebrows, she does not pry. She slides a paper calling card over to Alexia. The paper squeaks along the coffee table between the two comfortable armchairs of the office. “I specialise in couples. Seeing as your wife is already a client of mine, I think you should consider a joint session.” Alexia is new to the idea of mental health. Before, she had been too focused on football to care about it. Even when her father died, any professional she spoke to was only hearing how her mind worked because she knew it was what was best for her performance. “And, Alexia.” She looks up at the therapist with a small, nervous smile. “Congratulations on the pregnancy. I am sure Nico will make a wonderful older brother.” 

Morning sickness drags you out of your shared bed most days. 

Alexia asks you about couples’ therapy when you have finished your dry-heaving one morning. 

“I mean,” you begin before pausing, gulping down the sour taste in your mouth and hoping nothing else is trying to hit the toilet water until tomorrow. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise.” She is dressed in her training kit, but she slings her jumper over your shoulders as soon as you shiver. “Do you think it’s a good idea?” 

“It would do no harm.” As long as Sofía does not bring up Alexia’s confession, your statement will ring true. “You book the appointment. It’ll be easier to work around your schedule that way.” 

“When are you flying back to London?” Her question is not filled with hatred for the city, but with resignation to the fact that your job involves you being stretched between here and there. 

“Not until next month. I thought that I could take Nico to an away game with my dad if I got a flight for Saturday. The rest of the week would be interviews and photoshoots.” 

“How’s the album doing?” 

So far, your songs are only written when Alexia has paid you enough attention to swirl your thoughts and blur your vision. It is in these moments that the lingering, sinking weight inside of you dissipates. “Dave remains hopeful. It won’t fail, but I need it to be better than what we currently have.” 

Shamelessly, Alexia is aware of her effect on your songs. She smirks; “Alba has been begging to babysit, you know.” With no care for your current state, Alexia’s eyes rake up and down your body. You grow embarrassed by how you are slumped over the toilet, and how she is standing above you as though she runs your world. “You look beautiful, mi amor,” she murmurs as you bashfully duck your head between your bent arms. 

“You’re a flirt.” It feels too late for her to still be in the flat. “And you’re going to miss training if you don’t get a move on. There are eggs in the fridge, and Nico definitely liked the omelette you made him a few days ago. He’ll be waking up soon.”

A small sigh escapes the midfielder’s lips, but the prospect of the things she loves most in the world appearing in her life consecutively is enough to convince her to pad her way out the bathroom, swanning into the corridor with a little grin on her face as she sings out ‘bon dia’ to an impressively multilingual toddler and heads into the kitchen with the domestic intention of getting breakfast started. She leaves an omelette out for you, which you attack shortly after Alexia and Nico disappear into their daily routine. She drops him off at preschool, and you pick him up a few hours later, taking him first for lunch with Alba, and then to the studio. 

You come home to a showered Alexia who is memorising her most recent match. She lets Nico slide into her lap without hesitation, but she stays focused on the football even when he tugs on the strands of hair falling out of ponytail. You marvel at the idea of having enough room in your heart for so much love. You decide that you are not like Alexia, though it is not necessarily a terrible thing. A further observation from watching your wife settle her son with a calm, muttered Catalan telling-off, coaxing him into loving football as though he does not already, is that you are so very content with your life at the moment. 

But 2020 kind of sucks. 

For the entire world. 

You’re cut off from your home in any other manner than a digital one, and being stuck in a luxurious penthouse in Barcelona isn’t the worst fate, but it really isn’t ideal. 

Elena, however, has the benefit of coming into the world with ever (physically) present parents, who could recite the java script for Zoom given that they spend hours on therapy calls. Elena, bright and smiley and the picture of her mother, spends the first few months of her life in a happy, happy family, protected by an entire football team and a fierce older brother. (And a yappy Pomerianian called Nala.) 

“Y/n doesn’t like the name María,” Jenni tells Mapi when Alexia sends the first picture of your new addition to the Barcelona group chat. 

“The next baby is going to be a Jennifer,” Mapi says, to both the forward and the unimpressed midfielder walking a few paces in front of such a silly conversation. “For that, I can only feel sorry for her.” 

…

The routine changes the following year. 

It starts with an abrupt but expected conversation. One that Alexia has been dreading. 

Your album – the first one that is just you – was released two months ago, and it has done too well. Selfishly, Alexia had hoped it would fail. You have enough money, and she is earning more and more each season. Success, unfortunately, means that this little life can no longer exist. Or can it? 

“I have to do it,” you whisper to her, tears in your eyes though the smell of sex still lingers. The quietness of a child-free apartment allows for you to hear her gulp. “It’ll be different this time, darling, but I can’t be here anymore. I can’t fly out to London every few days. I can’t leave you with a five-month-old and a toddler when you are training every day and playing matches every weekend. It’s not fair on anyone.” 

Alexia kisses your bare shoulder, hands slipping round your waist as she pulls your sweaty body into her. Her chest presses against your back, but she is only behind you in this bed. She does not agree with you. She does not support it. But, like she always does, she bites her tongue. “If that’s what you want,” she replies, and part of you dies with the thought that she does not really care. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. For us.” And she tells Jenni all about it when she goes to see her a week later – the flimsy excuse of meeting a childhood friend for dinner enough to wrap a cloth around your eyes and leave you at home with a screaming toddler and a baby whose only flaw is that she grows distraught the moment she is put down. 

In the dimly lit living room, the tension hangs thick in the air. You lock eyes. “Why can't you just move with us? Everyone will want you, darling, and life would be easier,” you plead, a month down the line. The house in Highgate has been readied for your more permanent return. 

Alexia takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. “Why can't you get it into your head that I'm not leaving Spain or Barcelona? This is my home.”

“What about the children? School? Life? My career? Does it mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes soften. Your heart breaks, and the piece of you that has already died somehow dies again. “I'm thinking of the children. All the time, I think of them. About the reputation of my name – their name. Putellas, the greatest in the world, or Putellas, the one with potential wasted at West Ham?”

“You're being selfish, Lex,” you snap. “This is an opportunity for all of us, not just me. Think about their future!”

“Their future is here, in the culture they know, the languages they speak. I won't strip them of their identity for the sake of a 'better' life. And my career? I've worked too hard to build what I have here. I won't throw it away.” I don’t want to throw it away. Underscored by Don’t leave me again. 

The room echoes with the weight of her voice. “Their identity comes from both of us.” It’s too final for either of your liking. Elena begins to cry in her cot. “I want to try it. I want you to be open to trying it.” 

She gestures to the suitcases by the door. “Trying it and doing it are two different things. You’re taking them from me!” 

“You’re probably going to love life without them anyway!” you shout. You feel like the crying baby, except the tears rolling down your cheeks carry much more suffering than hers. “You’ll – what? You’ll go out with your friends, and you’ll be able to go to the gym whenever you want. No arguing, no crying, no toddler to entertain, no nappies to change. You never wanted children. I forced it upon you. I regret it, and I’m sorry. We’ll go.”

“Don’t go.” 

I don’t want you to go.

“I have to.” 

You turn your back to her as you fly through the corridor, prepared to console Elena in a taxi. Alexia slips her ring off her finger, and clutches it in her palm instead. Desperately, she searches for a solution. There is nothing within her reach, not even you. 

… 

She is an island amongst a sea of happy people. She is going to be the greatest footballer in the world. It kills her to realise that she can now focus on football. 

Nico starts nursery, attending the same school you once did. He adjusts to life in London seamlessly, and Elena does not seem to care either way. He learns more English every day, and his other mother calls him nightly to read to him. 

With childcare more than sorted, you are free to be interviewed, pictured, and invited to events. You rake in the publicity, especially after laying so slow over the course of the lockdown in Spain. 

“Alexia.” Jenni’s hands knead her tight shoulders, partly teasing her. Alexia wears a frown, eyebrows knitting together with an emotion she’s not sure she can name. “Ale, it’s the same game as always. Nothing has changed.” 

“I know,” she murmurs. “I don’t understand why I feel like this.” She has continued to speak to Sofía, though your joint sessions have now come to a halt while you spend your time doubling as a singer and model. The therapist, try as she might, cannot evaluate the situation effectively enough. Eli and Alba have both tried to help, hoping that weekly dinners and the constant reminder about the invention of aeroplanes would ease the turmoil of Alexia’s mind. It does not. “I am so alone, Jenni.”

Nala is too small to fill the emptiness of the flat. Screens don’t allow for her to kiss you, or play with Nico. She is scared she will miss Elena’s first words. 

“You don’t have to be.” 

It only takes a month for Alexia to break, and it sort of works. 

In Jenni’s bed, it works. Hips keening, soft pants falling from her mouth. 

Quiet moans that stay locked in Jenni’s apartment. 

Each time Alexia leaves, though Jenni repeatedly requests that she stays, she walks out as half a woman. She blinks back her tears and she checks her phone. When she calls you – not a video call – you are never any the wiser to the scratches down her back. 

Alexia remains an island, but the sand beaches are tainted with the arrival of someone else. 

In this way, she is functional. 

She can do sex. She can deal with borderline romance. She can fill the space that you are tearing open with every passing minute spent in that god-awful country you insist on calling home. She can fix it a little bit with Jenni. 

She tells herself that it does not mean anything more than a bandage means to a wound. Who wears the bandage once the gash has healed? 

Where does she put the used bandage? 

Why is she focused on bandages?! She’s having an affair. It’s not an affair! (It is.) Alexia doesn’t… quite… wanttoadmititjustyet.

…

The buzz of your phone is the final push that gets you to conclude the current interview you are trapped in. Before checking what the notification is, you glance at the time. You have half an hour before you need to pick up Nico, and your parents said they would drop Elena home once they returned from London Zoo. 

Alexia: Jenni has had a really good idea 

It’s an intriguing text amongst the more practical ones that oil the mechanics of managing the distance. Tonight, Barcelona play their last match of the season. After this, she’ll be flying out to London. You have missed her. The last time you saw her in person was after Barcelona embarrassed Chelsea in Gothenburg. Elated and filled with pride, it was incredibly nice to have the biggest room in the hotel to yourselves. Her medal was almost as beautiful as her. 

You: Go on…

Alexia: Just draw a heart on Nico’s hand from me porfa. You’ll see. 

You slide into the driver’s seat of your newest self-indulgent car; a Porsche. Momentarily distracted by a camera flash, your turn onto the main road is a little risky, but you manage to make it to the school in time to collect your son. 

“Was he good?” you ask his teacher as she hands you Nico’s book bag. You take in the sight of him: hair messy, school uniform stained though they require the little ones to wear aprons for most of the day. “It’s a little different here. I’m hoping that he’s enjoying himself.” 

“Our new assistant is from Spain,” says the teacher with a small, tired smile, batting her long eyelashes at you. “We had to pry him off her.” 

You let out a laugh. “He misses his mum.” 

“He’s extremely intelligent. He knew to speak Spanish to her and English to us.” Though your grasp of Spanish is near-fluent after such reluctance from your wife to try English, you know that the two-year-old has a talent for juggling the three languages he is growing up around. You’re proud of him. “You shouldn’t worry about him. And, speaking of, we have a parents’ coffee morning just around the corner. It’s always great for the parents to get along – it helps the school feel even more like a family. Will it just be you attending?” Nico’s teacher is around your age, and you can smell her rose perfume that mingles with the soft hint of ready-mixed paint. She has deep, brown eyes, and she is definitely flirting with you. 

“Next week, right? I’ll have to check with my wife.” 

It’s then that a toddler-sized hand grips your fingers and tugs. “Mama, me voy,” he groans; something akin to Alexia’s impatience. It reminds you of when you used to go shopping and she’d herd you out with the threat of getting in the car and driving away. “Venga.” 

“One sec, sweetheart.” There are countless ways in which you miss Alexia. “My wife and I would love to come.” 

Her smile does not falter on her lips, but there is a greyish disappointment that dulls the warmth of her irises. You smile as you turn your back and lead Nico to the car. You are so excited for Alexia to complete the broken puzzle. 

You melt when she kisses the heart drawn onto her hand when celebrating her goal. Nico copies her, lips pursing and sloppily mimicking the action on a similar heart. “For you, sweetheart,” you tell him as he settles back into your side, careful not to jostle Elena who has fallen asleep on your chest (the therapist did wonders for you). 

“It was for you,” Jenni tells Alexia after the match. Her goal is now serving as the move Alexia feared she’d make. They have changed and been massaged and done the media the are required to do (women’s football is growing): they are free to roam Barcelona if they so wish. 

Her flight is tomorrow evening – “I have a flight tomorrow evening.” 

“Come over tonight.” It isn’t a question, yet it is not quite a command. Mapi passes the two of them, eyes narrowing at the way Jenni has wrapped her hand around Alexia’s wrist. The defender is aware that something is going on, though it breaks her heart to imagine Alexia ever doing that to you. Not knowing they are being watched, Alexia steps in; cups Jenni’s face, brushes her cheekbone with a stroke of her thumb Mapi knows is meant for her wife. Mapi’s stomach lurches. She feels sick. 

“I need to…” It’s not a ‘no’. “Jenni.” She hates that it is not a ‘no’. 

“Ale.” There’s a beat. Mapi blinks twice, shakes her head, and backs away. “I’ll miss you, you know?” 

… 

Jenni doesn’t seem to mind when, the next day, blurry pictures of you on a family outing make rounds through the tabloids she usually doesn’t read. The fact that, up until now, no one has known that your wife is Alexia Putellas has no effect on her. She was stupid for thinking the last six months meant something. Winning together, losing together. Sleeping together. 

In this deal, Alexia has fucked over both women who love her. Except, you don’t know. She hasn’t told you, though Jenni had hoped for it secretly – hoped Alexia chose her – and it is obvious. Obvious to Jenni, who is well acquainted with the blonde hair in the wings of your concert at the O2. Obvious to Jenni, who refuses to think of herself as the other woman. 

She consults Mapi. 

Mapi, who she has come to shamefully realise already knows. 

“I can’t believe the two of you.” The defender is clear in her distaste and disappointment and, honestly, her disgust. “But I am not going to be the one to break that poor girl’s heart.” 

“I’m not asking you to.” 

What is she asking? What does she want from this utterly useless conversation? 

“Mapi.” Jenni closes her eyes, but she sees two faces instead of darkness. Nico. Elena. She’s Elena’s godmother. You decided that – convinced Alexia to choose her best friend over her younger sister, told your wife that there’d be another for Alba to corrupt. “Mapi, I love her. I don’t know what to do.” 

“She loves her wife.” The next sentence proceeds to brutally remind Jenni who that isn’t. “Tell her you’re done. Find someone else. Anyone but her.” 

That is Jenni’s resolve, because she knows that Mapi is right. 

… 

June, July, and August pass with bliss. 

Everyone says that you are a beautiful couple with beautiful children. Alexia beams with pride as she flaunts her practised English, and gladly claims ownership of Nico when he wins a prize on speech day. Every child in Reception is awarded something but that doesn’t stop her from boasting.

She explores the country with the children while you shack up in the recording studio, and brings hugs and kisses (and Red Bull) every evening after dinner. The visits are what reminds you of the sun Alexia brings, especially as the warmth follows her from Barcelona and London is blessed with golden days. Dog days. 

“This isn’t permanent.” Alexia looks up from her phone, comfortable in your bed. The house in Highgate has flecks of Spain woven into the decor now, and you like it that way. 

You climb into the bed beside her, and her arm lifts so that you can snuggle into her chiselled stomach (wow, she has been working hard this season). “What’s Jenni saying?” you ask, following your statement and hoping you’ll get her attention. She presses her phone screen into the duvet before you can translate the message – it is too long of a paragraph for you to handle. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that this isn’t permanent.” 

Alexia, over the past few months, has been the most affectionate, loving, amazing person with the same smile and giggle you married. You thought she had disappeared and was replaced with stern, career-focused Alexia Putellas, jugadora del fútbol. You were wrong. 

“I’m thinking January is when we’ll come back. Nico’s English will survive.” Your parents are going travelling. They’ve never been on the Orient Express before. “I want to be with you.” 

It is a good thing Jenni has just broken up with her. 

“I love you,” you continue. “So much.” 

Alexia hums. Her heart breaks, and she does not know for whom. “¿En serio?” She is happy, she thinks. Certainly, she is glad that the four of you will be reunited. 

 You are. 

January 2022 ruins things for Jenni Hermoso. She calls Pachuca back. 

#barca femeni #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso #fc barcelona #woso imagines #mapi leon #jenni hermoso #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

[skippyv20]

Our Group Prayer List🙏🏻❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

We pray for all those who are suffering from cancer.  We pray for all those who have passed away due to cancer.  We pray for their loved ones.  We pray for peace and comfort them.  We pray for cures for all cancers.

We pray for all the murdered children and babies.  We will pray for them….If they could not feel love in life….We want them to feel earthly love in heaven.  We pray for them.

All who have been victims of crime.  We do see you and we will pray for you.  We pray for you to recover from both emotional and physical scars.  We are so proud of you.  You keep moving forward, and we acknowledge the strength that takes.

All alcoholics and drug addicts.  We acknowledge your pain, your struggles.  We know the courage it takes to want to recover and too stay in recovery.  We acknowledge the guilt you take on, and we pray for you to have peace in your hearts.  We pray for your loved ones and friends, who have suffered along side of you.  We pray for them to have peace in their hearts. We pray to Saint Monica to intercede on your behalf.

We pray for all caregivers.  We acknowledge how tired you must be.  Taking care of loved ones is so difficult.  We acknowledge the sacrifices you make.   We admire your strength, and we pray for you to stay strong, and to feel peace in your heart.  We pray for God to lift the heaviness you at times feel.  We pray for your loved ones, to appreciate you, and to have patience with you.  We pray for you and your loved one.

We pray for all those that suffer from mental illness.  We pray for you to have peace in your heart and your mind.  We pray for you to have better days, and to have the strength and the courage to get through the day.  We pray for your mind to clear, and for the dark cloud to disappear.  We pray for your loved ones.  We pray for the patience and understanding you need to help you move forward.  

We pray for the missing.  We pray for them to be found.  We pray for the families and loved ones of the missing.  We pray for them to have strong faith.  We pray for missing, and pray they make it home no matter what the circumstances.  We pray for them if alive to be touched by God and for them to heal and be restored.  We pray if not alive, they are found and returned to their families for a proper burial.  

We pray for all those that are mourning the loss of their loved ones.  We pray for them to feel peace and comfort in their hearts.  We pray they feel God’s loving presence as they go through the grief process.  We pray that their tears are replaced with happy memories.  We pray they have easier days. 

We pray for all the mothers that are estranged from their child/children for whatever reasons.  We pray for them to find peace in their hearts.  We pray for them to stay strong in faith that they will reunite.  We pray for their memories to be of happier times, and sad times to fade away.  We pray for God to touch their hearts and lessen their pain.

We pray for all those who are in ICU.  We pray for them to feel God’s loving presence and for their healing.  We also pray for those who are losing their loved ones.  We pray for them to have strength and courage and to stay strong in faith.

Little Babies Heart Club (thank you for the name @sandiedog3

We pray for all the babies and children that suffer from illness.  We pray for God to wrap his loving arms around them, keep them safe and remove all pain from their little bodies.  We pray for each and every one to be healed and restored back to good health.  We pray for angels to stand beside them and protect them.  We pray for their little bodies to rebuild back to good health.  We pray for their families that carry the pain of their babies.  We pray for their faith to stay strong.

We pray for all those who struggle financially.  We pray for those who are unemployed to find employment.  We pray for them to be free of worries that weigh so heavily on their minds.  We pray for them to be guided to earth angels that will show them the right path.

We pray through Christ our Lord.🙏🏻❤️

[anoonimthepoorchad]

So the good Saint Mykolai Day news are that the infamous politician Illya Kyva is dead. And for those who don't know Ukrainian politics, he was a con-artist, a massive traitor, a right-wing politican for a little bit and lately he ran away to russia and said that all Ukrainians deserve to die, encouraged putin to use nuclear weapons in his social media. But back here in Ukraine he was a local meme mostly, as he wore his gun in the back of his underwear in public, lied about getting his diploma to the point there was a huge scandal about it, chatted with models in parliament and rubbed his pants there and got caught on camera, and was generally a giant Ukrainophobe and a bigot to the point it was ridiculous.

My mom got unfortunate enough to have him work in her department a long time ago, and she remembers how he didn't know a single thing about his job, walked everywhere with his bodyguards and used swear words as his first language. He also tried to get the complete list of all substance addicted people of Ukraine, along with their names, addresses and all of the illegal information he had no right to get. Of course he failed. Hated substance addicted people and constantly used stereotypes about the romani people.

And, my favorite event, he tried to film a local plug making drugs and show it on television, as a "preventive measure", but the footage was confiscated before it could be published. So Ukrainians sadly didn't get a drug Master Chef on national television. He argued with people on the official department social media with swear words and blocked them when he didn't like them, which is unacceptable for a public face on a public social media page.

And he also constantly encouraged the workers to lie about the information, trying to multiply numbers of confiscated substances by tens and making up fanstastic stories about the arrests. Thankfully, the workers were smart enough not to write that and just hoped he would go away soon, what he did eventually, moving up to a position of a politician in the parliament.

I'm sure I missed like a ton of things he did, so if anyone wants to add, feel free to do so. I'm glad he's dead, it's like a holiday present you didn't hope for. Happy Saint Mykolai Day!

#ukrainian politics #illya kiva #ukraine #war in ukraine #fuck russia #russia is a terrorist state #saint mykolai day

[deathmetalangel]

VIOLET BENT BACKWARDS OVER THE GRASS (JUDD BIRCH X F!READER)

warnings: mention of teen drinking, drug use, swearing, mentions of sex, mention of stealing, implication of sex

the girl next door and her anarchist of a boyfriend have the sweetest dynamic

just a lil blurb

With knees pressed to her chest Y/N watches over the sunset while sitting on top of Judd’s car hood. She can smell the smoke coming from the blunt that was settled between his fingers. the hues of orange fade in a clash of color contrasting with the violet that emits from the afterglow of the fleeting light. Her eyes were set, like she was encapsulated by the scene before her.

Yet Judd couldn’t care less. His eyes not once faltered to see the marvel of nature. Instead his gaze remained fixated on the girl before him. Her features seemed to bask in the light. It gave her a radiance that almost hypnotized him. Judd wasn’t a very mushy gushy lovey person. His language was derogatory, his attitude was vulgar and threatening, overall he wasn’t the type of guy you’d want your kid hanging around.

Y/n was. Her soft smile and bright (e/c) eyes hid her true intentions. Her (p/s) perfume hid the stench of alcohol and weed and her minty fresh toothpaste kept the smell off her lips. She was seen as the innocent ditz that was at the mercy of delinquent Judd Birch. Even his mother questioned her sons intentions at times. What did a guy like him want to do with the town’s sweetheart.

Well, that was until she started to notice the way he acted around her. His grimace always softened before speaking to y/n, his vocabulary seemed to leave out a few swears, and even his overall attitude was different towards her. No one else, just her.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” She cuts through the silence as she watches the bright and fading sky. “I could watch this a million times. And not once get sick of seeing it.”

Judd takes a drag from his blunt. 'I don't know. It can get kind of repetitive. Looking at the same thing everyday."

Y/n turns to look at him. "So you get sick of looking at me everyday?"

"I didn't say that. I could never. You're more addictive than a fucking drug. Yet you act like a saint. Y/n, you know how many people think I'm the bad influence on you?"

She just giggles. Her façade was a good one. No one could ever believe then things y/n has done. Judd hadn't even tried ecstasy before her. She really was a devil in disguise."It isn't my fault I'm smart Judd. No one would question a thing if I 'forgot' to pay or was holding something for a 'friend'. You just have to play it smarter."

It was true. The girl could get away with murder simply by batting her eyelashes and saying she had no idea what happened. She wasn't a bimbo, no everyone thought she was top of her class on her way to Valedictorian, but she was good at playing the naive girl too busy studying to have sex.

"You are one freaky bitch."

"Oh yeah? Let me show you how freaky I can get Birch."

She slides off the hood of the car and onto the floor next to him. Her kisses peppered his neck as she started to move down his body. All he could think about was the blunt he was about to waste, but god damn did she know how to use her mouth.

#deathmetalangel #big mouth x reader #big mouth imagines #big mouth blurb #judd birch #judd birch x reader #judd birch x female reader #judd birch x you #big mouth

[blooming-violets]

Saints and Sinners || Under the Banner of Heaven

[Jeb Pyre x fem!Reader]

Summary: Jeb falls prey to his darkest temptations while working a case.

Warnings: adult graphic smut, a cheating fic, heavy LDS religious themes and traumas, brief mentions of the murder of sex workers, light fem!dom/male!sub roles but nothing too crazy, brining it back to the religious trauma stuff - a lot of strong feelings of being trapped in a family/religion you don't feel like you belong in, if you are someone who feels offended with merging religion and sexual themes then this is not the fic for you

Note: "Reader" is nicknamed Daisy as her stage name as a stripper/sex worker. She has no physical descriptions apart from having female anatomy/a human body and wearing a sun dress. She can look however you'd want her to which is what makes her a reader character. Apart from that, she is her own character.

Jeb Pyre considered himself to be a decently good man. 

He was well groomed. He was respectful. He loved his family. He gave his job 100% and loved his neighbors. 

He was a devout son of the Heavenly Father. 

Or, at least, he used to be. 

He had been hiding his true self for his family's sake. He was trying, but failing, to keep up his appearance of perfection. Every day was a new struggle to keep up his flawless Latter-day smile. Docile and submissive. Never making waves. Never voicing questions. Day after day, trapped in his own mind, slowly being eaten alive by his ever growing doubt. It was only a matter of time before he cracked. 

She was his forbidden fruit. The temptress sent straight from the devil to corrupt his soul. The snake in his garden. 

His latest case had led him straight to her doorstep. There were sex workers in the city being murdered. A killer who vowed to cleanse his city from their filth. Jeb hadn’t even known there were sex workers living in his area. He’d never even seen a strip club before he was forced to step inside one to investigate. It was a terrifying world he wasn’t sure how to navigate. 

She had taken his hand and led him through the darkness. 

Daisy. That’s what she called herself. Her stage name. She had told him it was after Daisy Buchanan. The paragon of perfection for men to lust after but hiding a sardonic, amoral soul. It seemed to fit. She was the kind of woman he’d leave a green light on for but never be able to obtain. He knew her real name for his investigation but she refused to have him call her by such. She claimed only the people who truly loved her were allowed to utter her true name. To everyone else, she was just Daisy. 

He used to believe that all sex workers were women who needed saving. They had lost their way from God. They were impure. Drug addicts. Abused. Lost souls desperate to be saved. 

But she fit none of those roles. 

She was strong and sure. A business woman. A homeowner. She didn’t need a man to provide for her. Everything she owned was achieved through her own tenacity. When he looked at her, he saw someone who truly enjoyed their job. He struggled to wrap his head around that fact. A woman shouldn’t enjoy having sex for a living. She shouldn’t enjoy selling her body to perverted men. She should remain pure and devout until marriage. He often wondered what her future husband would think of her lewd, depraved acts. 

And then he remembered that she never wanted to marry. 

What an absurd thought. A woman with no desire for a husband? Utterly bizarre. 

She was unlike any woman he had ever met and he was tempted by the wickedness of her world. He knew he shouldn’t be. He knew better than to dance with the devil. Yet, here he was. Allowing her to occupy every existing thought in his brain. She was the one he thought about late at night. She was the name he moaned into his pillow in the early hours of the morning while his wife slept beside him. She was the one he dreamed of being able to touch. 

The one thing he couldn’t have, was the one thing he truly coveted. For Jeb Pyre was a sinner. He wasn't a devout man. He didn’t believe in the Heavenly Father. 

And he hated the life he was forced to be living. 

Everything was an act and he was tired of playing his part. 

So, when a killer murdered two of her work acquaintances, and put her in his targets, Jeb decided to personally oversee her protection. After all, she had been such a help to the investigation thus far. He needed to keep his best informant alive. 

Even if that meant risking everything he had to spend the night in her arms.

Jeb parked his car on the street directly outside of her house. From out here, one would never know what kind of person she was. It looked no different than any other house on the block. He wondered if her neighbors had any idea. He couldn’t imagine if they knew, they would let her stay in the neighborhood without a fight. They’d blame it on the guise of protecting their innocent children from the evil whore but the truth was that they hated anyone who dared to step outside their carefully crafted circle. They hated those different from them. 

But who were her clients then, if not the men who claimed to hate everything about her? 

Everything was a facade. He was so used to hearing people say one thing but act the opposite. The men who would run her from their neighborhood if they knew the truth, were the same men who would cash out their family’s credit card to spend a night with her. Publically, they would denounce her. Privately, they would take whatever they desired from her.

He was no different from them. The perverse thoughts inside his head were just as bad, if not worse. He had seen too much in this job. It had twisted his core. His mind was polluted. He was lusting down paths he could never travel. 

Jeb rapped three, strong knocks on her door. It was later in the evening. He knew she wasn't at the strip club because he had a copy of her schedule in his car glove box. There were other women he had to keep an eye on, too, but she was the one he chose to personally protect. She was the one he feared to lose the most. It was irrational, he knew that. She had no notion of his fantasies keeping him up at night. To her, he was just the lead detective on a case. 

He caught her peeking out the top window of her front door, standing on her tiptoes to reach, and he gave a friendly wave. At least she was smart. She wasn’t opening her door to just anyone. 

He listened to the clicks of two different locks and smiled as she opened to him, “Good evening, ma’am. Detective Jeb Pyre, remember me?” 

She forced a tight smile in return, “Of course I remember you. Do you think I have the memory of a goldfish?” 

He let out a half hearted laugh. She was beautiful but she was scared. Women she had worked with were dying. It was supposed to be his job to keep them safe.

He tried to take a subtle glance down her body. She was wearing a sundress and nothing else. Warm yellow with tiny white flowers dotting the sleek fabric. One of the thin straps was sliding down her shoulder. The dress clung tightly around her torso to highlight her stunning cleavage and flared out over her hips whenever she moved. Women around here never wore clothes like that unless they also donned a buttoned up cardigan and tights. To see her display her body so openly caught his breath in his throat. He had to shift on his feet to readjust himself. He refused to allow her to see how excited his body was reacting to hers.

It was unprofessional. Wrong. 

“Not at all. Do you have a moment to chat?” He asked, doing his best to keep his voice level. 

She gave a sharp inhale, “Is everything okay? Did someone else get hurt?” 

Jeb shook his head, “No, no. Nothing like that. I just wanted…”

What did he want? He wanted to commit a sin. He wanted to see her naked. He wanted to kiss her entire body. He wanted to slide his cock between her beautifully plump lips. He-

He was going to hell. 

“I just wanted to stop in and let you know that I’ll be stationed outside your house for the rest of the night. With everything going on, I thought it would be best to station some people at various hot spots around town to keep an eye on things.” 

Her eyes narrowed, “My house is a hot spot?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Detective Pyre, but I don’t do business out of my own home. No one knows where I live. I use a stage name at work. No one there knows my real name. I’m not a street walker, I’m a stripper who occasionally takes up extra clients in the vip rooms when the money is good enough. My house isn’t a revolving door for men to come and go whenever they please like some brothel. I’ve taken some time off work for the next week to lay low, anyway. A lot of the other girls are doing the same. I think I’ll be alright.” 

Jeb chewed awkwardly on his bottom lip, feeling like he had offended her, “I didn’t mean to imply…anything…” 

This was not going how he intended. He wasn’t used to women talking back to him. He wasn’t sure how to respond. 

“You being stationed out in your car all night, in front of my house, is only going to cause more eyes to look at me. My neighbors already think I’m some crazy heretic for not attending their church. I don’t need them looking further into my life. Thank you for stopping by and offering your support but I don’t need it.” 

As she started to close the door, Jeb stuck his foot between the crack, wincing as it slammed into his shoe. He felt immediate guilt for doing such a strong handed act with her. He just couldn’t bear the thought of being turned away. He couldn’t spend another night laying in a bed next to a wife he no longer loved. 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly added when he saw her look of outrage. “I don’t think you understand how dangerous the man we are hunting is. He could have already followed you home. He probably already knows where you live. I wouldn’t put it past him to break in. I’ve seen it before.” He gave a quiet sigh, nearly begging for her approval. “Please. Let me watch over you tonight. I won’t be able to live with myself if something happened while I was supposed to be here.”

Her shoulders dropped in defeat. He watched her peer side to side down the street, taking in her surroundings for anything unusual. 

“Fine,” she huffed. “But do you have to be parked in the street? Can’t you pull your car into my garage so no nosy neighbors will see and spend the night inside? I have a perfectly adequate couch for you to hang out on.” 

Jeb smiled, relieved, “I can do that. Thank you.” 

He shouldn’t be this excited about being inside her home. 

As he slowly walked through her place, he took note of the items she owned. Her house looked like any others he might enter. There were pictures of her with friends hanging on her refrigerator, a television in the corner of the living room, a brick fireplace with a little ceramic frog on top of the mantle. A cozy, hand knit blanket was draped over the back of the couch. Everything looked normal. He felt stupid for imagining her living inside of sex dungeon. Whatever that might look like. He still had a lot of biases he had to work on.  

She walked into the living room after him with a glass of ice water, offering it to him, “The bathroom is the first door on the left down the hall. My bedroom is the last door. There’s a spare room to the right where I do my step aerobics. I have a basement with some empty rooms down there but I don’t really use them. Then there’s the kitchen and, obviously, living room. The front door and the basement door are the only doors into the house besides the garage. It’s a pretty small house with thin walls so you should be able to hear anything if there’s a break in.” 

Jeb smiled politely in thanks. He knew what he was doing would be considered nefarious in his community. A married man spending the night in a single woman’s home, a stripper, no less, would be the gossip of the town. It wouldn’t matter if he was a detective keeping watch on someone who could be in danger. He was still a man alone with a woman. The first night he was ever alone with his wife was their wedding night. It was no wonder Daisy wanted him to park in the garage so people wouldn’t talk. She probably had a hard enough time as it was. 

“I won’t take up much room,” he said. “I don’t want to be a burden. Only trying to help to keep everyone safe.”

“Isn’t this usually the type of job you give to the rookies?” She asked, taking a seat in an armchair across from the couch. She crossed her legs at the ankles like a respectable lady should and, somehow, she still looked like a seductress doing so. “Does the lead detective usually make overnight house calls?” 

The skirt of her dress was short. It bunched up around her thighs as she sat. He willed himself to only look at her face and keep his eyes from wandering. 

Jeb blushed and perched on the edge of the couch cushion, “We don’t have too many men at the station. I volunteered to lend an extra hand.” 

She leaned back, eyeing him up with a type of bold, observant intelligence he wasn’t used to seeing, “What does your wife think of you spending the night with a whore?” 

He anxiously twirled his wedding band around his finger. She spoke with such brashness it caught him off guard.

“I told her I was spending the night at the office,” he wasn’t sure why he willingly answered so honestly and without hesitation. 

She had that kind of spell over him. He wanted to protect her. Wanted to give her things. Wanted to tell her all his secrets. She was a siren luring him to his destruction and he was willing to sail his ship straight into the rocks if it made her happy.  

A smirk tugged up the corner of her lips, “Ah, I see. So you’re a liar. What else are you lying to her about?”

Jeb choked on the water he was sipping. His eyes widened. 

“I’m not-what-I’m not-” he sputtered out.

She laughed quietly to herself, “Calm down, detective. I was only joking. An LDS man telling his wife a lie? That’s never been heard of before.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. 

He ran the back of his hand over his lips to hide his smile. He liked her. He liked her sass. She didn't care what he thought of her. She wasn’t playing a game like everyone else he knew. It made him want to tell her the truth. Every truth. Everything he had been holding in for the past year. 

He hated his wife. He didn’t just not love her anymore, he despised her. 

Her words had been echoing in his ears for over a year now, “I love you but I can’t struggle through this with you.”

She had left him when he needed her the most. She chose her faith over him. He should have known. He had married her because of how devout she was. Her love for Heavenly Father was what drew him towards her in the first place. Now, it’s what cast him away. 

If he didn’t pretend, Rebecca would take everything from him. She would leave him for nothing if he didn’t keep on impersonating a saintly man. As if they hadn’t spent an entire lifetime together. As if he hadn’t devoted everything to his family. She would rather jump ship than dare to stand by his side when he needed her most. He would have never left her if she had been in his place. He would have held her hand and walked her through her doubts but she couldn’t do the same. Her love was conditional. 

He hated her for that. 

He hated himself for hating her. 

Rebecca’s faith was what kept her moving forward. It was all she ever knew. She lives in the LDS belief that Jeb, with his priesthood, is the one who must usher her through the veil when she passes so she can enter the highest form of heaven. Without him, without his beliefs, she was fucked. 

Jeb smiled to himself. He liked that word. 

Fucked. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

That was his life.

A big fucking lie. A pile of steaming bullshit. 

He had just met Daisy five days ago and she had already pegged him for exactly the kind of man he was. A liar. A stripper knew more about him than his own wife. She could see straight through the fabricated, bullshit act he put on and he had only been inside her home for five minutes. Five fucking minutes and she could already see the depravity leaking out of him. 

God, he was pathetic. 

“I don’t believe in a God,” he blurted out, shocking even himself with the outburst. 

She gave him a few, stunned blinks in response, “...Okay.” 

Jeb cleared his throat, his face heating with embarrassment, “I don’t know where that came from. I deeply apologize.” 

If he was with anyone else, his confession would have been met with gasps of horror. With her, it was nothing more than a passing sentence. 

She was perfect. He wanted her. Badly. That sundress was only working to fuel his indiscretion. 

She leaned her head into the palm of her hand as she rested it on the arm of the chair, “Is this…something you’d like to discuss further, detective? Men seem to enjoy emptying their traumas onto me. I’ve consoled many men over the years. I’ve been told I’m a very good listener.” 

“I-” he stammered, his ear heating up in shame for his actions. “No. I’m sorry. Again.”

She wasn’t his therapist. He didn’t have a therapist. Only crazy people had therapists. And he wasn’t crazy. 

Or maybe he was. 

Life might be easier if he was crazy. 

“I love my wife,” he stated. He only said that to try and convince his brain to stop lusting after the woman he was meant to be protecting. He was here to make sure no one broke in. He was working a case. He was not here to turn to sin. 

She nodded her head, pretending to follow along with whatever obvious breakdown was going on inside his mind, “That’s good. A lot of men love their wives. A lot of men don’t. That’s a part of life.” 

“I love…no…” Jeb sighed. Fuck it. The rant was coming out. He couldn’t stop it. He was already too far gone to keep it repressed any longer. “I don’t love my wife. I hate her. Every time I look at her, all I feel is animosity. I think she’s the dumbest woman I’ve ever met and I know that’s wrong to think. I know that makes me a terrible man. I’m an awful husband. It’s just that she blindly follows whatever the profit says. Whatever a bishop tells her to do, she’d do it without a second thought. They could tell her to get on her knees and suck them off because Heavenly Father commanded it so and she would do it. She doesn’t see anything further than her own nose. She follows and never questions. And, I understand, because I used to be the same. I used to believe because that’s what I was taught to do. Blindly believe. That’s all there ever was. 

“She’s never seen true evil. Not like I have. Because she refuses to look even though it’s all around her. I see it everywhere. She puts on her little Mormon blinders and never dares to take them off. So, she follows. And she makes my girls follow. And she makes me follow or else she will take the girls away from me. I am raising my daughters in a world that hates women. My wife is letting them be preyed upon. She’s happy to let them be squashed into submission. Keep sweet. Pray and obey. Learn to worship your future husband. Never think for yourself.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaking breath, feeling himself losing it. His voice cracked. “If I give up, is there no hope for my daughters? Who will protect them if not me? My wife would marry again, quickly, so she can still get into the celestial kingdom when she dies. She’ll marry someone who won’t waver in their beliefs. Another man would raise my girls. He won’t care about them. Not like I do. They’ll be sold off to the first Mormon boy they fancy. They’ll be married at 18. Never attend college. Never think for themselves. Never get a job. Because I won’t be there to inspire them to reach for more. I’ve seen what kind of men are out there. My daughters won’t be safe unless I play the part my wife created for me.”

He opened his eyes to look over at the woman across from him. Her face was neutral but her eyes were burning with an eagerness to know more. His sudden outburst of lament had stricken something deep inside of her. He had captured her interest like he was a strange bug forced under a microscope that she wanted to dissect. His spiel may have exploded out of nowhere but she was already on board to follow along. She seemed like someone who enjoyed a feisty debate. He needed someone who wouldn’t hold back. 

“You claim your wife is the dumb one, yet, here you are, spewing a load of shit all over my living room,” she mused, giving him a snarky grin. 

Jeb’s jaw dropped. He forced himself to quickly regain his composure and took another swig of cold water. The fire behind her eyes was enticing. He desperately wished his wife could show that kind of passion once in her fucking life. He hated the docile, sweet act. He craved raging forest fires not babbling brooks. He licked his lips, ready to swallow anything she threw back at him. This is what he wanted. Someone to argue with. Someone he could express himself with without fear of rejection. He wanted this fierce lioness to eat him alive. 

He just wanted something that felt real for once. 

She stood up to pace around the room in front of him while she spoke, “Do you realize your wife is like that because she knows nothing else? That is her way of survival. She chooses to believe instead of question because questioning is terrifying. Questioning means losing everything and everyone you’ve ever loved. Your entire world crumbles under your feet if you dare to question. Want to ask me how I know?” She stopped her aggravated pacing to shoot him a look of annoyance. “You’re a man. You have so many options still available should you fumble. If she were to question her faith, she would lose her family. Her mother, father, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends. She loses them all. And then she is left with what, exactly? I doubt your wife works? Does she have her own career? Skill sets? Does she have her own income? Does she have her own car? Bank account? She dares to question, she is left with nothing. But you know that already. Obviously. Because you are just as scared to speak your truths out loud. You’re no better than her.”

She stopped momentarily to catch her breath, flipping a strand of hair from off her forehead. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the way her hips swayed when she walked. He adored her temper. It felt so natural. Real. She wasn’t holding herself back to placate him. She acted on her own accord without worrying about how others perceived her. 

He wanted to toss her onto this couch and take her right here. He could only half listen to her rant through his ever growing desires. 

“How do you know your wife doesn’t think the same thoughts as you? How do you know she doesn’t hide her truths locked up deep inside her mind and never dares to speak them? It’s fine to voice your opinions when you’re in the safety of my house. To you, I am nothing, I’m just a stripper. A prostitute. Hooker. Harlot. Whore. Whatever you want to call me. I pose no threat to you because, to you, I am so far below you that my voice does not matter. You feel safe to speak freely inside these walls because you face no real consequences here. You’ve seen evil? Well I’ve lived evil. You’re here because of the evil that wants to be inflicted upon me. Because I think differently from you. Because I use my body as a tool. Because I don’t subscribe to your values. Someone out there thinks I deserve death simply because I exist in a way he doesn’t approve of. You want to blame your wife for your problems. Blame yourself because you’re no better than her. You’re all a part of the same system.” 

Jeb sat there in silence. The condensation from the glass of ice water clutched in his hand dripped down his wrist. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he took it all in. He was torn between fully digesting her words and imagining her naked, writhing body under him as he dragged the ice cube from his glass down her stomach. 

“I don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t think you’re a whore.” 

He didn’t even like saying that word out loud. He felt a dark cloud of shame rain down around him. But was she wrong?  

He had never imagined his wife in the scenario currently playing in his head. He saw Daisy as a sex object willing to be exploited to his darkest temptations.  

She stopped in front of him. She placed her finger under his chin and lifted his head up to look at her. His wide, pleading, brown eyes took her in, silently begging for some kind of clarity to fix his entire life.

“Tell me what you think of me, detective. Tell me the truth. When you look at me, what is it you truly see?” She murmured down at him. “Why are you really here? It’s not to discuss your lapse of faith, or your wife, and it’s not to keep me safe. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me what it is you truly want? Don’t you lie to me.”

The way his world saw it, Rebecca was pure, because she had remained a virgin until marriage. She lived and breathed by the Book of Mormon. Daisy was a condemned sinner, because she sold her body for sex. She was beyond saving. Even the outfit she wore was considered taboo. Modest clothing was the foundation stone to sustaining abstinence. She was the sinner. 

But so was he. 

Jeb was no saint despite the role he was trying to play. 

He took a deep breath and recited the scripture, “He that looketh on a woman to lust after her, or if any shall commit adultery in their hearts, they shall not have the Spirit, but shall deny the faith and shall fear.”

Her eyes flicked with curiosity and a smile tugged at her lips. She caressed her thumb over his cheek, “You lust, Jeb Pyre? For me?”

He licked his drying lips, gently pushing her hand away from his face, “Yes.” 

She nodded, knowingly, “You don’t know what you want. Your mind is in one place but your actions keep you in another. I am not the answer to your problems. Many men have tried but all have failed. The answer is never found between the legs of a whore. Unless, that is, what you say is true and you don’t think of me that way. Something tells me, though, that you’re lying to us both.” She gave him a wink, turning on her heels with her dress spinning out around her, and swayed down the hallway towards her bedroom. “Have a good night on the couch, detective. I’ll be retiring to my bedroom should you decide you need me.” 

She let those last few words linger in the air, the weight of them settling down around him, as the door closed behind her.

The cuckoo clock hanging on her wall let him know that midnight was here. The sudden sound breaking the peaceful silence had caused him to jump up from his spot on the couch and reach for the gun at his hip. Jeb rolled his eyes in the clock's direction and lowered his hands back to his side. He might still have some residual PTSD from his former cases…  

Her house was dark and quiet. 

He liked it that way. Sometimes he missed the quiet. She hadn’t left her bedroom since she entered. Without her in his sights, he could better attempt to control his impulses. He was too weak to be trusted around her. If she hadn’t left when she did, he would have given in. It had taken everything in him to not follow her blindly into that bedroom like a dog on a leash. 

Jeb ran a ragged hand over his face. He wasn’t tired. Late nights were where he thrived best. He hadn’t felt this alive in a long time. She’d awoken his mind in a way he thirsted for. Even just being in her house, prowling silently down her hallway, gave him a thrill. He felt like a naughty school boy getting into mischief after class. He longed to feel something more. His life was full of boredom and she offered him the keys to adventure. He longed to find solace in the arms of a stripper. 

A soft light illuminated from under her door to let him know that she was still awake down there. He wondered what she was doing hidden away out of his sight. She had invited him to join her. She had invited him to relish in his sins. It would be a line that, once he crossed, he would never be able to erase. The second he gave in to her, he wouldn't be able to stop. He was already past the point of saving. One little push was all it would take for him to delve into the madness. That glowing light under her door beckoned him to her like the light of God calling him home.  

He slipped into her bathroom instead. 

He ran cold water out of her orchid pink sink to splash over his heated face. His eyes sought his reflection in the mirror to stare deeply into his own battered soul. This was his crossroads. Whichever path he took would alter the rest of his life. He had already committed adultery in his mind. It was now the act to see if his body would follow or not. 

The sight of a black and golden lipstick sitting on the edge of her sink caught his eye. Jeb reached for it, popping off the cap, and twisting it up. A deep, berry red. A color housewives wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. He brushed his thumb over the top to coat his skin with the color of her lips. The bottom of the stick was engraved with the name of the shade. Walk of Shame. He smiled a wicked smile to himself. 

He knew what road he was going to take. He would take that walk of shame. 

Jeb placed the stick back where he found it. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger, mulling over his decision, then carefully plucked it off his body. He placed the ring around the lipstick, listening to it rattle against the ceramic sink, and gave a long, soft sigh. A weight had been lifted from him. He quickly exited the bathroom and allowed his feet to lead him straight to her door. He stood outside, silent, listening. 

Soft moans floated under the door. Little whines. Whimpers. 

His eyes slipped closed and his lips parted. He knew those sounds. She was putting on a show for him. All he had to do was raise the curtain and let her perform. His hand hovered over her door knob. 

It was okay. She had invited him in. 

“-should you need me.”

He needed her. He hadn’t engaged in sex with his wife in over eight months. He needed her now more than ever. 

He slowly and silently turned the knob. Inch by inch. Until he was able to push open the door. Just a crack. Just enough to peek through. He had to make sure she was safe behind those walls. After all, that was his job. 

She laid across the bottom of her mattress. Her sundress was gathered around her hips. Her legs were parted wide, aimed straight at the door, as if she knew he would show up. He was that predictable. Through her half closed, dreamy lids, her long, elegant fingers drew delicate circles through her glistening flower. His breath caught in his throat when he watched her dip a finger deep inside of her. His cock sprang to life, begging to be touched, pushing at the loose fabric of his dark gray suit pants. 

He should close the door. He should leave. 

This was wrong. He needed to repent. 

“I see you watching me, detective,” she whispered to him as he hid away in the dark hallway, lurking in the shadows like a predator. She let out a soft whine, dragging her soaked finger in circles around her clit. “I know you’re there.” 

Jeb swallowed. She was the devil. A demon. He had no power over her. Heat flushed through his veins. His breath was already coming out in heavy pants. He was chained to the doorway, captivated by her seduction. He couldn’t move away even if he wanted to. 

“Have you ever seen a woman masturbate, Brother Pyre?” She moaned. “Have you ever seen a woman touch herself like this?” 

His fingers wrapped around the edge of the door, gripping tightly onto the wood for support. No. He hadn’t. It would shock him if he found out his wife secretly masturbated in private. She was so well behaved. Masturbation was a sin. She would never dare allow anyone else besides him to touch her, not even herself. 

“Do you like to watch me?” She whimpered, sinking her finger back inside of her. “I was hoping you would come. I know you, detective. I see through you. Your mind is just as perverted as the rest of us. You want to give in. You want to taste what is forbidden to you. It’s okay. I won’t tell.” 

She looked hotly up into his eyes, staring straight into his corrupted soul. He was too weak. He had no resolve. The devil looked too appetizing. The sins of the flesh were tempting him forward as he let the door push open to reveal himself in all his shame. 

She gave him a warm smile, taking in the sight of the bulge below his belt. Her fingers swept through her folds, slippery with her arousal. With the expertise of someone with diligent practice, she used two fingers to part the outer petals of her womanhood to reveal to him the hot, sinking abyss he craved to explore. 

Enraptured, he could not tear his eyes from the slender digit plunging into her soaking depths. His mouth opened and closed, silently, begging to seek a taste of such a treasure. He watched in a starving trance as she anointed her needy pearl, bathing it in her honey, tending to it like a precious garden. Her eyes locked with his, burning, tempting him to join her in her display of debauchery. 

Oh, lord, he was tempted. 

Through heavy, ragged breaths she spoke, “Watch me, detective. Gaze upon the kind of life you were kept from. Look at what you could have been given. See what you missed out on.” 

He was watching. His eyes were padlocked to her dancing fingers. She was beautiful. His heart sought to hold her in his arms while he touched her with a wild abandon. 

“Do you like what you see, Jeb?” She moaned out his name extra low and tantalizing. 

He almost came in his pants at the sound of his name in her mouth. A shudder ran through his tightly wound body. 

“Answer me!” She demanded from him.

He gasped, “Yes.” 

A smile spread across her lips, “Good boy. Men like you work so hard, don’t they? You give and give and give but who ever takes care of you? Let yourself relax, detective. Let yourself give in. Let me care for you. Let someone else take control for once.”

Her eyes closed, lost in the rhythmic tones of her own words, casting her enchantment over them both. She had known he would come seek her out. She had known he would watch. She wanted him here. All he craved was to feel wanted again. 

He took a tentative step into her bedroom, closing the door behind him, and sealing his fate with the click of the lock. 

“That’s it, baby,” she cooed. “Come a little closer. Take a look at your new toy. All for you.”

Jeb held his breath, shuffling slowly forward a few more paces. His heart was racing. His skin was on fire. His mind was made up. 

“Why don’t you let Daisy see what her Gatsby is working with, hmm? Take your belt off. Unzip your pants. Show me.” It wasn’t a request but a demand. 

He swallowed, his nerves sending him into a frenzy, as he undid his belt, lost in her trance. His eyes stayed glued to her hypnotic fingers casting circles of magic around her clit. Subconsciously, his tongue dated out to lick his lips, desperate for a taste. 

His hot, heavy cock fell out into the palm of his hand. He listened to her sharp inhale at the sight. It was followed by a purr of approval. 

“I want you to touch yourself but keep your eyes on my pussy, detective. Watch what I’m doing. Watch how wet you’re making me. Listen.” Two fingers sunk into her, squelching and sloppy, as she pumped them in and out. 

His eyes rolled into the back of his head at the sound and a growl rumbled in the back of his throat. With the tip of his thumb, still stained with her lipstick, he smeared around his own wetness leaking from his tip. He worked it down his shaft, slowly pumping himself through his fist. 

“I’ve been dreaming of this moment since the day I met you,” she breathed, keeping him in her watchful sights, each of them working to build their own pleasure. “I saw you then like I see you now. A lost man in need of guidance. I dreamed of you touching me. That first day, when you called me into your office. I imagined spreading my legs for you as I sat on top of your desk, throwing papers to the floor, while you ate me out in front of the large window. I dreamed of you finding me at my work, paying extra to take me to the back rooms, making me suck your cock while you grabbed my hair and prayed to your pathetic God.” He wanted to eat that arrogant smirk straight off her face. “You like watching me, don’t you, pretty boy? You like hiding here, away from the world, where only you and I can bear witness to the blasphemy of your true self. Show me who you really are.” 

He whimpered, tugging on his cock a little harder. He was a sinner. An adulterer. A pervert. A heretic. A liar. 

“Tell me what you want to do to me, detective? Tell me all the ways you’ve dreamed of fucking me while you slept next to your frigid wife.” 

Jeb stuttered over his words, trying to force them out his tightening throat, “I’ve-I’ve…dreamt of dragging you to temple, b-bending you over the sacrament table, and fucking you in front of the congregation so they could all see what kind of dirty whore you are.” 

Tears pricked in his eyes as the shame battled it out with the unbridled lust. He had never spoken like that in his life. A sense of vitality flowed through him. It made his cock twitch in his hand and he stroked it more fervently. 

She licked her lips, letting out a light, amused laugh, “Such a naughty boy, detective. I know there’s more darkness in you. I want to hear it all. What else do you dream of?” 

“Taking you into my home. F-fucking you-” he stumbled over the word “fucking” as it still felt so forgein on his lips to openly talk this dirty. “In my bed. On my wife’s side. Forcing her to watch while I make you unravel on my tongue. Showing her exactly what she is missing out on. Showing her what kind of man I could be if she’d only open herself up to experiment more.”

He couldn’t believe the filth he was allowing himself to admit. These were his private thoughts. They were never meant to be exposed to anyone. She had that effect on him. His skull was cracked open and his most shameless self was laid bare. 

“You’re poor, poor wife,” she mewled. “She deserves to have someone tend to her needs, too. I know she wants it. All women do. You’ve just never pushed her far enough because you’re weak, Jeb Pyre.” She removed her fingers from her pussy and sat up, letting her dress fall back over her hips. She stared him down with her possessive gaze. “Get on your knees,” she ordered. 

He didn’t even hesitate. He released his hand from his cock and knelt down before her. She slowly got to her feet to take a stand directly in front of him. She was so close he could smell her sex clinging to her skin. 

“Men like you are always searching for something to worship.You told me you don’t believe in God. You told me you’ve lost your way. You have nothing to hold onto.” She trailed her finger, still glistening with her slick, over his bottom lip. “If you’ve lost your God then worship me instead. I’m your new God now, detective. Open your mouth and worship me. Cleanse my fingers with your tongue.” 

His lips parted and she slipped two fingers over his tongue. He closed around her, bathing her clean, tasting the remnants of her devine pussy. She slid her fingers down his throat causing him to gag. 

“Good boy,” she murmured her praises to him. “Sing me your devotions. Relax your throat. Soften your tongue. Take it like a man.” 

Jeb reached up to gently take hold of her wrist. He showered her hand in soft kisses, trailing up her arm and back down again, lapping at the tips of her fingers with his tongue, sucking them into his mouth, moaning as she glided down his throat. 

“Look at how hard you are. Desperate to be touched. Desperate to follow directions. Desperate to pray to anything that will have you.” 

She jerked her hand away from him, leaving him feeling empty and cold. She grabbed his chin in her grasp. Her nails dug into his cheeks. 

“Who’s your God, Jeb Pyre?” She asked. 

“You,” he replied. 

“Prove it. Pray at your altar.”

She lifted the skirt of her dress to expose herself to him. Her foot rested on the edge of the mattress so he could get an eye to eye look with his new lifeline. Jeb let out a shaky breath. His hands extended to wrap around her waist, drawing himself closer to her. He tilted his head to bring his quivering breaths to her heated core. She draped the hem of her dress over his head to curtain him the darkness where he belonged. In the dark, he could worship in secrecy.

His head pushed between her thighs to force her legs to widen for him. Her salty musk filled his senses, hooking him in like a drug. His eyes slipped closed at the first taste of the almighty. She was the bread of life. Honey flowed from the darkness and he relished in every drop. His tongue probed at her entrance, burying between her warmth, reaching deeper depths with lapping rolls. Teasing. Tantalizing. Tasting. He suckled at her clitoris, nibbling softly at the sensitive flesh, swirling her with his tongue. The sounds of her coos were all the praises he craved. He didn’t need practice to know how to please her. Surrendering to her was as natural to him as breathing. 

“A virtuous woman is the crown to her husband,” she moaned, quoting the scripture. “And, yet, your sinning whore is the one who sits upon your head like a crown.”

He shivered at the debauchery of her words. He smiled against her pussy and took his time to savor his meal. She was a blessing bestowed upon him. A crown upon his head. His tongue thrust up inside of her, fucking her slowly and tenderly. He tightened his grip around her waist to hold her closer, a desperate man clinging to his lifesaver, moaning against her heated skin. The way she ground herself against him, thrusting herself deeper against his tongue, was enough to trigger his own needs. He humped his hips into the air, thrusting into nothing. 

“Oh, sweet thing,” she hummed. “Is my favorite detective in need of some more attention? When was the last time you’ve had that gorgeously thick cock buried inside someone’s cunt?” 

He whimpered, not letting up on his assault of her pussy, and clung tightly onto her waist. Eight months. Eight torturous months. 

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” she murmured, her voice thick with lust from trying to control her building orgasm. “I’ll take good care of you. I don’t want you getting too drunk off my pussy. Can’t have you completely let go before I’ve had my fun. Come here.” 

She slid out from his grasp by pulling herself up onto the mattress. Her eyes were glazed over with a needy passion. Glassy and wet. 

“Take your pants off,” she ordered. “I want to see you fully.” 

They were already half way down his thighs. With a little push, they pooled around his ankles, pulled down quickly by the weight of his gun belt. He kicked off his nice dress shoes and stepped out of his pants to leave only his temple garments. 

She smirked at the sight and hopped off the bed to take a step closer. Her hand wrapped around his tie to pull him down to her level. Her lips trailed over his as his eyes fluttered close. She glided her tongue across his lips, cleaning herself from them, with a gentle hum of approval. 

“Who tastes better? Me or your wife?” She asked. 

Jeb flustered in her question, “I-I wouldn’t know. She won’t let me. She believes it’s a form of sexual transgression.”

“Did you think about her?” She questioned. “When your tongue was buried inside of me, did she ever cross your mind?”

Guilt filled him, “Not once.”

She smiled, releasing his tie from her grasp, and began to work on extracting him from his perfectly crisp, white button up until he was left in nothing but his sacred garments. 

She slowly eyed him up and down, “Keep the top on. I want you to remember exactly what your betraying as you fuck me.” 

She sank to her knees, pulling down his underwear with her. His cock sat against his left thigh, hard and in need of attention. Her nails dragged along his sensitive, delicate skin. When she reached the tip of his cock, she carefully pushed a nail into the soft flesh while he hissed in pain. She left a crescent moon imprint behind which she quickly leaned down to kiss better. It was her harsh reminder that even if she was on her knees for him, she was still the one calling the shots.

He quite liked how the pain made him feel but he was too nervous to ask for more.

Her throat relaxed as she slipped him between her lips. He skimmed over her warm tongue with little jerking movements from his hips to push himself deeper into her. He wanted to reach out and grab her hair but was afraid to touch her. Instead, he balled his hands up at his side, digging his nails into his palm to try and elicit a bit more pain. It wasn’t the same as when she inflicted it. 

Her head bobbed with an expertise that could only be brought from years of practice. It made his own oral skills seem novice and weak in comparison. His head leaned back as he stared at the ceiling, looking straight through it, and up into the heavens. There was no celestial kingdom up there. There was no God looking down on him. His heaven was right here in this room. His God was on her knees with her lips wrapped around his cock. This was the true meaning of life.

Jeb moaned out her name. Not Daisy. Not her stage name. Her real name. The one he kept locked up in a file in his desk. The name he would slowly stroke his finger over as he spent his late nights searching through his notes. The name only people who loved her were allowed to use. 

She froze. 

His cock fell from her lips and she stared up at him with a playful vengeance. 

“What was that, detective?” She asked, her voice low and dangerous, but hiding an impish undertone. “I know I didn’t hear what I think I just did.”

He ran a hand over his face, too overwhelmed to be thinking straight, “Daisy. I meant Daisy.”

“You think you know me?” She got to her feet, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb. “You think you know the real me? Because I know the real you, Jeb, but do you know me?”

A heated red tint blushed across his cheeks, “I…don’t know…” 

“Of course you don’t. Are you ever sure about anything in your life?” She raised a curious eyebrow at him. “I’m sure of most things that I do and say and believe. Can you say the same?”

He shook his head, “No. I can’t.”

She flashed him a poignant smile, “Name one thing you are 100% sure of right this very second.” 

Jeb licked his lips. He knew.

“I am certain that I want to kiss you. Certain that I want to tear that dress from your body. And I’m certain that I want to throw you over this bed and fuck you like you deserve.” 

“Then let go, detective. Give in. Become the animal you’ve always repressed. What are you waiting for?”

It was all the release he needed. 

His fingers wrapped around her wrist to drag her against his body. His lips crashed down onto hers as he held her in his arms with a steellike grip. She didn’t kiss him back, so much as, surrendered her mouth to him. Her body went nearly limp and he kept her on her feet with his own strength. Her surrender brought forth a rush of devoted emotions and blind, sexual desire turning him into the beast he longed to become. He seized at her hair, tugging, pulling, wildly gripping, and attacked her mouth like it was the holy spirit he sought to believe in. She shuddered before his onslaught and melted into him. The more he reached for, the more he stole, the more she wanted it. She was driving him insane with an unrestrained passion of pure lust. He pitied any man who didn’t fall to his knees to worship her like the goddess she was. Her mouth was a sin that he wanted to violate. 

Jeb violently grabbed at the straps of her sundress, nearly ripping them off, as he tore them down her body. The dress thumped to the floor to leave her completely naked and exposed. She didn’t flinch away. She didn’t try to hide and play with her coy modesty. She stood proudly before him exactly how a goddess should hold herself before a mortal man. 

He slid his hands up her sides, grazing over the swell of her breasts, feasting on them with his eyes. He ran his thumbs over her nipples, pinching and flicking, while he attacked her mouth once more. She parted her lips to submit his tongue into her depths, sucking on it and twirling it around her mouth. Whenever he pinched her gorgeous nipples between his fingers, she would let out the most delicious moan and thrust her chest against his palms. His heart was racing with a pace that might kill him if he didn’t force himself to breath. His head was spinning in a dizzying whirlwind of thrill. 

Jeb sank down and lowered his head to capture her nipple between his teeth, lashing at it with his tongue, listening to the gospel choir of whimpering moans coming out of her. She had shoved her nail into the head of his cock so he took a mouthful of her flesh, just under her beautifully darkened areola, and bit down hard. He had never bitten his wife in his life. He liked the way it felt as he tumbled deeper into his own carnal depravity. He wanted to defile her body and join her in their mutual corruption. 

She arched her back, letting out a gasping shriek and letting it tumble down into a slurry of cooing whimpers, “Oh, Jeb. Yes. Yes.” 

A circle of intended teeth marks, glistening with his saliva, shone proudly back at him. He liked marking her skin, claiming her as his own. It felt animalistic. Primal. A growl ripped from his throat, he was sick with lust, feverish and sweaty, panting with need. He grabbed at her hips and spun her around, pushing his hand between her shoulder blades to shove her face first into the mattress. Her ankles spread wide to allow him to have easy access. 

He took a stumbling step back to admire the sight. Her pussy was glistening and spread open in wait for him. Beads of sweat dotted along her back down her spine. Her ass was sticking upwards, parted, so he could see her tight, little hole. She looked more ready to be fucked than anyone he’d ever seen. His wife had never presented herself to him like this. He imagined her splayed out in this same position and gave a breathless laugh. He could hardly even create a mental picture in his mind, it was so improbable. 

“Something funny back there, asshole?” 

Jeb gave a dark laugh in response, “Just the neverending joke that is my life.” 

He lined the head of his cock up to her pussy, coating the tip in her slick, and bumping it back and forth over her clit. 

Murder. Denying the Holy Spirit. Adultery. 

Three of the worst things a good Mormon man could ever commit.

He’d already knocked denying the holy spirit off his list…might as well add another. 

He sunk his cock into her. Steady and true. She let out an exhale and he watched her head tilt back to enjoy the sensation. So hot. So tight. Perfection. She was here to be fucked. Here to take his cock.

“That’s it,” he breathed. 

He felt no shame. It was unusual for a Mormon not to feel shame but, tonight, buried balls deep in this woman, he felt nothing but relief. This was everything his body needed. He wanted fast and rough. He wanted to take her from behind with a feral abandon. He wanted to do all the things he wasn’t allowed to do until he was gripped with satisfaction. 

Jeb grabbed her hips for leverage and began his awakening. Tonight, he was becoming a new man. He fucked her with quick, short thrusts that slammed into her. Her ass slapped against his stomach with each pound. She filled the room with the sounds of her gasps and erotic moans. Depending on how hard he rammed into her, she’d even let out little shrieks. He liked those sounds best. They made him fuck her harder, dragging out his full length, then smacking back into her. Possessing her body. Over and over and over.

He didn’t even care that he wasn’t wearing a condom. Those were problems for later Jeb. Present Jeb had everything he could ever need. 

Sweat dripped down his forehead. Ragged, heavy, heaving breaths tumbled from his lips. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerking her upwards, so he could feel her body against his. She arched her back with her head rolling against his. He inhaled the scent of her hair fusing with the musk of their sex. He fumbled his hands around to capture her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his hands, her rock hard nipples dragging across his palm. She reached an arm around the side of his head to hold her steady from the onslaught of vigor his hips were causing her. 

“Oh, fuck, Jeb!” She cried. “You needed this, baby. You needed this to happen. Let go. Let it all out. Give me everything you’ve got. Don’t hold back.”

Jeb whimpered out a sob in response, sounding pathetic even to his own ears. All he wanted was someone to listen, someone to take care of him, someone to understand. 

He tumbled them both against the side of the mattress, falling on top of her. Her head turned, leaning against the covers, so he could shower the side of her face with wet, tear stained kisses. He nibbled on her earlobe, lapped his tongue at the corner of her lips, and dragged his teeth along the edge of her jaw. She was made to be devoured. His hips hammered with an agonizing precision into her heat. They were trapped in a hurricane, holding onto each other for dear life, as the maelstrom of building emotions swept them away. 

He could feel her clenching down around him. He knew she was close. He was, too, but he wanted her to cum first. His goddess deserved to reach euphoria before he did. His hand slipped down her side and wedged itself between her hips and the mattress to find a home between the slick fire of her lips. She whined, bucking her hips, the moment he found her clit, tormenting it with his fingers. 

“Cum for me,” his raspy, lust drunk voice growled in her ear. “Let me feel you unravel on my cock.”

Her body shook. Waves rippled over her skin with each hard pound of his cock into her. He could feel her tightening. Clenching. Gripping. A mangled yelp tore from her throat. When she orgasmed, she gave him everything. Her entire body surrendered to him. It burst from her with everything she could give. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted in a silent shriek, her spine arched. Like a demon possessing her body, she writhed under him with jerking, frantic thrusts. He wrapped his arms around her, collecting her tightly against him, to try and hold her together so she didn’t combust into the flames of Hell. 

He let out a whimper as he desperately tried to hold off his own orgasm. He wanted to let her ride out her ecstasy on his cock without him cumming inside of her. 

Her legs gave out and she sunk onto her knees, letting him slip out of her, “I got you, baby. I’wan’taste you. Use me.” 

Without missing a beat, she ushered him straight out of her pussy and into her wet, waiting mouth. His eyes closed as his head fell back. He let out a long, drawn out moan. His hand found her hair, no longer feeling nervous to touch her or manipulate her how he pleased. He helped push her forward to take more and more of him. He wasn’t going to last much longer. 

She let him slide down her throat, relishing his cock with her tongue, tasting herself on his tender flesh. He balled a fistful of her hair into his grasp. 

“I’m-I’m-I” he stuttered out, not able to finish the sentence, but she got to the hint. 

Her pace quickened. Her suction around him tightened. He felt himself tense up before an explosion of dopamine flooded his brain with a loud cry of pleasure. 

She straightened her back, moaning softly, as she swallowed down the hot spurts of his semen. Her fisted hand continued to massage his shaft while her mouth tended diligently to his crown. 

Jeb’s mouth hung open, tears flowed freely down his face, and he eventually managed to stumble backwards away from her. He crashed into the back wall and slid down to his ass, shaking. 

She crawled across the floor to drape herself into his lap. His arms snaked around her, thankful for having something to hold onto. His mind felt like he was floating away. His body felt amazing but his emotions were in turmoil. She stroked her fingers through his hair and left soft kisses along his neck. 

He had done it. There was no going back now. 

“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured against his sweat stained skin, as if reading his mind. “You did what you had to do. Sometimes your body knows better than your brain. It was telling you what it needed. It’s just like taking a spoonful of medicine to fight off a cold. There are times when you need to give in and give your body what it craves.” 

He craved her. Daisy. And everything that she represented. Even at this moment, after he had already had her, after he had given in, he should be feeling horror, disgust, shame, but he only wanted more of her. That’s why the tears were freely flowing. Not because he was humiliated by his sins but because he wanted more. 

This was the life he wanted to live. He had gotten a taste, a spoonful, of the other side. A side he could never have. A side he would always be reaching for but never able to obtain due to the religion he was trapped in. His priorities had to remain elsewhere. He had family to care for. Children to raise. He was their only hope for a different future. He would never allow Rebecca to take his kids from him. He would do whatever he needed to keep her docile and oblivious. He could save his children from the inside, even if that meant selling his soul to a God he didn’t believe in. 

Everything was so clear to him now. There was no more confusion. No more doubt. 

Daisy and his green light. 

The inability to ever reach what he truly desired. 

A/N: If you dare to ask me to write a part two and you don't reblog detailing in great detail everything you liked and enjoyed about this story, then I will curse your entire family and block you. No one gets to ask for a part two without doing their damn part and reblogging first xoxo

Tagging some people who seemed like they might be interested in this smutty lil fic: @moonyslove78 @raindropsandteaandtears @withahappyrefrain @lxinesux @liz-allyn (i dont care if youre hardly on tumblr anymore liz i will tag you in everything i do until the end of time deal with it)

#andrew garfield #andrew garfield fic #jeb pyre #jeb pyre fic #jeb pyre x reader #jeb pyre smut #under the banner of heaven #utboh #utboh jeb pyre #jeb pyre imagine #blooming violets fic #blooming violets

[portraitsofsaints]

Happy Feast Day Saint Mark Ji Tianxiang 1834-1900 Feast Day: July 9 Patronage: Drug addicts

Saint Mark Ji Tianxiang, “the Trier" was a Chinese lay Catholic, doctor and drug addict. He became addicted to opium because of a stomach ailment and suffered for 30 years with the addiction. He went to confession regularly to confess his drug use, but because of the priest’s misunderstanding of addiction he would not give Ji absolution because he believed there was no firm purpose of amendment. Although being denied the Sacraments Ji continued going to Mass and stayed steadfast in his faith for 30 years praying to die a martyr. During the Boxer Rebellion (anti-foreign, Christian persecution) he and his family were martyred. He encouraged all in prison to keep the faith throughout their ordeal and sang the litany of the Blessed Virgin Mary as he was about to be beheaded. {website}

#St Mark Ji Tianxiang #Saint for drug addicts #Drug addict saint #Chinese saint #artist on tumblr

[babyhatesreality]

The Sinner and the Saint Ch 10

*GIF for vibes only, not a depiction of reader's appearance*

Pairing: Mob!Boss Bucky x f!reader

A/N: Here we go :)

Warnings: NSFW, f!reader, language, reader is referred to by her stage name of Angel, reader is insecure, addiction references (reader feels addicted to Bucky, no drugs), SMUT, p in v, unprotected (glove before love people), creampie, p*ssy worship, foreplay, begging, teasing, one soft sp@nk, dom Bucky/sub reader dynamic and talk, Bucky is larger than reader, slight size kink, slight possessive behavior

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION. MINORS DNI. THIS IS AN 18+ STORY ONLY AND IS NSFW. I DO NOT CONSENT FOR ANY OF MY WORKS TO BE COPIED, REPRINTED, OR TRANSLATED ONTO ANY PLATFORM EXCEPT MY OWN. Likes, comments and reblogs deeply appreciated.

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

“Would you like to come home with me tonight?”

All breath exited your body. And all sense as well.

Well, almost.

One tiny corner of your brain screamed at you that you'd only know this man's real name for a little over an hour, that you'd really only known him for a week, and that he was a GODDAMN MAFIA DON. But your addiction to Bucky Barnes was screaming much, much louder. You tried to keep your cool and your composure as you casually took a sip of your wine.

"Are you looking to do a scene tonight?" you asked, your thighs pressing together at the mere mention of it. Bucky smiled that sinfully seductive smile back at you.

"No," he said softly. You felt a fleeting stab of disappointment, which of course showed on your face. He grinned at you. "Let me rephrase. I want to do anything and everything with you and to you. You have NO fucking clue. We will do scenes, but that's later. Right now, tonight...I just want you. Just you and me. No set ups, no scenarios, no accessories. Only you and me tonight."

You were so turned on by his erotic and intimate request that you couldn't help but shift a bit in your chair. His grin widened devilishly, and you thrust your chin in the air, trying to prove that you weren't as instantly readable as he seemed to think you were. "You and me only. I think that can be arranged," you said smoothly, patting yourself on the back for your chill.

Bucky snorted a low laugh, making you panic for a second. Had he been teasing you, just to let you down? But he leaned forward, clasping his hands together and looking you dead in the eye with that wicked smile. "Cut the Cool Hand Luke act," he teased gently. "What is it you really want to say to me?"

Well. Fine. Fuck that then. He asked.

You hurtled yourself off your chair and practically threw yourself into his lap, grasping his head in between your hands and smashing your mouth onto his. The second your lips connected, that absolute thrill shot through your veins like electricity again, feeding the burning, sparkling desire you felt for him. You moaned into his mouth as the feel of his lips both soothed and exacerbated every nerve in your body, setting you on fire.

He responded quickly after a second of freezing, surprised by your amorous onslaught, wrapping his right hand around you and pulling you in tightly to his chest while his left hand slid up your back and into your hair. He pulled you impossibly closer to him as your arms wound around his neck. The push and pull of your mouths was sinfully delicious. And then he opened his mouth and slipped his tongue between your lips.

With another soft exhaled exclamation, you gave him full access to explore, which he greedily took advantage of. The feel of his warm, wet tongue slipping in and out and all around made you desperately aware of your arousal downstairs. You couldn't help the needy whine that escaped. You felt his lips curve up, then he pulled away for a moment, causing you to exhaled in horny frustration. He smirked that damn challenging smirk of his at your impatience.

"Did you get enough to eat?" Bucky asked you. What the fuck?! You shared one of the deepest, most passionate kisses of your life and THAT'S what he stopped it to ask?! Instead of answering, you moved to press your lips back to his. He jerked back and gave you a soft spank instead, a look of warning on his face. That made you stop immediately, staring at him doe-eyed, your arms still around his neck.

"Uh uh," he admonished quietly. "Answer the question, now." You took a deep breath and gulped.

"Yes, sir," you said, before squirming again, unable to keep the neediness out of your voice as you felt his significant arousal as well. You needed another hit of your Bucky drug, knowing how turned on he was too, but somehow instinctively knew better than to challenge that look. You felt the thrill zip through him as you called him 'sir', but he wasn't quite ready to give in just yet. He obviously had more self control than you, the bastard.

He raised an eyebrow at you. "Really?" he asked, giving you that look again, wanting a more satisfying answer. So you took another breath to rein your roaring libido in, looking behind you at your empty plate and half drunk wine. You reached across the table impatiently, snatched the glass, and drank in down in one. You felt more than saw his grin get wider and wider as you chugged. You slammed the glass down on the table and turned back to him, the look in your eye now wild.

"Really," you deadpanned back. He laughed in the back of his throat.

"Little brat," he teased affectionally, then his grin got wider when you gave him your own cheeky smile back. "Seems like you needed a little touch of the Dom tonight after all." He laughed again as you attacked his lips with a feral growl, then met you with the same enthusiasm.

You didn't entirely remember how you got back to the car, as Bucky half carried you through a back door exit, his lips never leaving yours. You suddenly realized you were outside only because of the abrupt temperature change. You heard a car door, and only opened your eyes because Bucky set you down.

"In," he commanded, his voice rough with lust. You scrambled in immediately and he followed, slamming the door shut and reaching for you again in the same fluid movement. "Home," he barked at Steve, before jamming his finger on button to slide the privacy divider between the front and back seat up. Before the divider was even halfway up, Bucky put his hand behind your head and dove into your mouth with his tongue again.

Panicking slightly, your eyes shot to the rearview mirror. Now that you knew Steve was Bucky's oldest and best friend, what did he think of you agreeing to go home with his buddy? Were you good enough for him? For his boss, the gangster?? Were you making a very dangerous man mad? But you caught the tiniest eye crinkle in the mirror right before it disappeared, that made you realize Steve was smiling, even if just a little bit.

And, to be honest, the next second that Bucky's tongue swept the roof of your mouth, you forgot what you had even been worried about.

You were so caught up in the spell that was Bucky Barnes, that squealed in surprise into Bucky's mouth when he suddenly yanked you sideways in your seat and out the door. You came to your senses enough to realize you were in a huge, cavernous garage, before Bucky literally hoisted you into his arms and started walking, carrying you like a koala. You didn't give a shit. You only wanted him and couldn't be bothered to think of anything else.

Before you knew it, you found yourself on your feet. You looked around and gasped in surprise. You were in his fucking bedroom.

The furniture in the room was all a rich, deep cherry color, all looking incredibly expensive and well cared for. The fabrics in the room were black with silver details, but every now and then a surprising pop of a soft dark purple color combined with the mahogany wood made it all feel warm and inviting, but slightly dangerous- a room worthy of a mafia king. The bed was huge, with a mahogany headboard woven with a black wrought iron detailing grate inlaid on it.

It suddenly hit home where you were. And what was about to happen. You took a deep breath, but a combination of nerves and anxiety smacked you back to reality all at once. And then Bucky put his hands on either side of your face and turned your gaze back to him.

The slow burn through your blood as you sank into his touch drove out everything else. He gently kissed your lips, leaning down over you possessively. Your hands grasped his sides, pulling yourself into him. His arousal was now more prominent than ever, making you feel like a fucking goddess.

"I've watched you take your clothes off for the last week," he said in a seductive tone. "You have no idea how jealous I've been...of you getting to do that. Now it's finally my turn."

He reached down, pulling on the silk wrap tie at your waist. He apparently understood how the dress worked, because as he slid his hand inside for the interior tie he also leaned down, pressing his lips softly to the crook of your neck. It felt so sinfully divine that your head tilted back and you let out a soft moan. You felt his lips curve up against your sin.

"Mmmm, you're so responsive," he murmured, tugging the tie open. "I'm gonna have fun with that." Once the tie came loose, he stood back up, slowly pushing the silk dress off your shoulders. It flowed down your arms in a fluttery wave to the floor. He stepped back and sharply inhaled as he took in your lingerie.

You were wearing a black silk plunge bra, and a matching black silk thong with the tiniest hint of purple lace trim. He growled in appreciation and went into remove them. You reciprocated by reaching for his shirt buttons (You didn't remember him losing his jacket, but fuck it, one less layer to deal with). The first time he felt your fingers on the button, he instantly snatched your wrists, holding them tight.

"Tsk tsk tsk," he said playfully, making you smirk. "Did I tell you you could do that?"

Since this wasn't a scene and you weren't sure you'd ever be able to get away with this again, you turned on the puppy dog eyes and gave him your biggest exaggerated pleading pout. He took one look at your face, and his entire demeanor changed to soft. Then he scowled.

"Goddammit, that's gonna be dangerous," he muttered, making you giggle as he yanked his cuffs open. You took that as permission to keep going, hurriedly undoing the buttons but trying to be cool. The more skin you revealed, the less cool you got, until finally you yanked his shirt tails out of his pants and over his shoulders. You exhaled as you took in his sculpted torso. There was no body hair save a fine line down beneath his waistline, but a plethora of scars. For some reason, the thrill of him zipped through you again, just looking at them. You wanted to run your fingers across every single one of them, but you wanted something else even more now.

You both grew frenzied, him reaching for your bra and you reaching for his zipper, your lips locking as you fervently raced to unclothe each other. Once the last garment dropped, you both stepped away as if on cue and looked at each other.

His blue eyes were glowing with a carnal appreciation and lust as he saw you, fully undressed, for the first time. You noted how his gaze lingered on you lower abdomen, your breasts, your neck. He'd seen almost all of that before at the club, but now it was complete and all only for him. You looked him over yourself, appreciating the fine specimen of abs, the cut hip bones, and his...

"Oh my god," you breathed out.

He grinned devilishly. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He moved towards you, his cock at full attention, and pulled you into him again, slotting his tongue into your mouth. The feeling of skin on skin was indescribable, sending you into a lusty haze. You ran your hands up his back, feeling more scars, but feeling HIM. You could feel the warm, velvety flesh under your fingers and the moving muscles of his back. You felt more high than you'd ever been in your life.

He moved you closer to the bed, only pausing from kissing you to rip the covers back. You were surprised by the dark purple silk sheets. Somehow you'd managed to color coordinate with his bedroom.

Score one for you.

He gently laid you down on the bed, then positioned himself on your left, running his right hand up your arm, subtly moving you so that your hands went above your head. You were completely under his spell, moving exactly how he wanted you to with only the slightest nudging on his part. Nuzzling to your side, one of his legs thrown over and trapping both of yours, you felt his impressive manhood pressing into your hip, and without realizing it, you turned your whole body towards it, letting out a small whine of need. He let out an exhale of satisfaction as his right hand subtly took a hold of both of your wrists over your head, pinning them gently down.

"So gorgeous, my perfect Angel," he whispered hoarsely. He took his time, tracing the fingers of his left hand down your body, noting its response to the metal. It was shockingly warm yet electrifying. You were insanely aware of where those fingers were. You bit your lip to try to keep your moans inside, but he attacked your mouth with his the moment he saw that.

"Mm-mm," he scolded in his throat as he kept up his fiery assault on your lips. He broke away, leaving you gasping for air and for him. "Don't hold back. I want to hear every sound I pull out of your body. This room is sound-proofed; no one other than me will hear you. I want every single sound- only for me. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mmmmm ESPECIALLY that sound," he growled, before he began kissing down your body again, causing you to arch and bow and moan like you'd never done before. He ran his fingers along every part of you, taking his time, usually finishing with a kiss before he moved onto the next section. "Someday," he murmured against the soft skin under your right breast, his body draped over and touching yours, "I will have every inch of you in my mouth."

You groaned as those words stoked the blazing fire of need centering between your legs. You felt your pussy twitch as that mental image of having every part of your body in his talented mouth invaded your mind. Bucky smiled and licked a line under your breast, right where his lips had just been. You nearly screamed at the incredible feeling, your back arching involuntarily. "But I don't have the patience for that right now, not when I need you so badly," he whispered against your left nipple. Your eyes closed as your back bowed again.

"Bucky, please," you managed to gasp out. "Need you too."

"Do you now?"

"Yes, please! Please!"

"So pretty when you beg for me, Angel. Begging to be made a sinner."

"Bucky, please, please..."

Bucky moved his lips to your left ear. "I'm right here, baby," he whispered. Your entire body instantly went limp, reacting to the warmth and the sensuality of it. You felt his right hand let your wrists go, and him move to the end of the bed. Your eyes opened to find him kneeling at your feet, looking down on you like a predator, his huge dick fully at attention.

"Open yourself to me," he whispered. "I want to see you." His eyes dragged from your ankles to your core, where your thighs were pressed together.

A fear shot through you at his insanely intimate request. Why was he asking this? What if he didn't like what he saw? A lot of guys didn't want to look at a pussy, only pound into it. And could you actually bring yourself to spread your legs and let him...just look? And then he broke out his own secret weapon.

"Please," he whispered hoarsely. You couldn't resist it. There was no way, not when you were already hooked on him so desperately. You slid your hands down your body, stopping at the apex of your thighs, and carefully spread your legs open for him. Your eyes never left his face as he moved in closer, on his knees.

Bucky stared into your core with wonder, letting out a small exhale of delight. His eyes slid along your folds, seeing the glistening arousal there. "My god," he murmured. "You are exquisite." He reached down and gently pumped his huge cock a few times, even though there was clearly no need. He just wanted to touch himself at the sight of your beauty.

His carnal worshipping of your pussy was the most erotic thing you'd ever experienced in your life. To have this gorgeous powerful man look at the most secret part of your body and declare it exquisite was beyond anything you'd ever felt before. And he hadn't even touched it yet. You felt powerful, worshipped, and at once- pliant and ready for whatever he wanted to do to you.

With a bold move, you slipped your hand between your legs to gather up your slickness. You reached out, replacing his hand, and gave his cock a few pumps of your own. Jesus Christ it was like getting your hand on a paint roller holy FUCK. His feral growl of pleasure was enough to send a new wave of lust crashing through you.

"Touch me," he commanded you, as he positioned himself in between your legs. Your hands traced up his arms as he guided his cock to your entrance. He looked at you, just to make sure.

"Yes," you whispered back, not even recognizing your own voice in your need. He slowly sank into you, letting out a sensual moan as he did. He tried to take it slowly, letting you adjust to his size. You gasped and mewled as he took you, your hands suddenly clutching his back fervently.

"Nails," he said, and you knew what he meant. You raked your nails down his back, and he let out a guttural cry, pushing in even further, making you gasp harder.

"Fuck, you are so goddamn tight," he murmured, kissing your collarbone frantically, trying to hold himself back from plunging into you and splitting you in half. In response to that, you put your hands on his incredibly firm backside, pulling him into you even more, not giving a damn if he cracked you right down the middle because it felt so fucking GOOD.

He slid all the way in, and between that and the feeling of your bare chests touching, you nearly came on the spot. You both tried to catch your breath for a moment as you adjusted to the incredible feeling of connection. He looked deep into your eyes, and all you could do was return the wide-eyed stare of wonder, before he smiled that devilish, seductive grin.

"Let me hear you baby," he said, then began slowly thrusting. The shocked gasp and high pitched keen that you gave off at the first thrust was exactly what he wanted to hear. For your sake, he tried to move slowly, letting you feel him as he slowly stoked your desire. He drank in every sinful moan and cry from your mouth, letting it fuel his own passion.

His sensual strokes became quicker as he could feel you pulsing and tightening around him, groaning in pleasure himself. Your hands were on his back, pressing him into you, then running up his arms to his face, and pulling him in for a desperate kiss, then back down his arms as he really began pumping into you. The feeling of his lower abdomen pressing against yours, feeling the slight sprinkle of his hair moving against your smoothness, drove you absolutely insane. You pressed your hips up, meeting him thrust for thrust, holding onto his ass as he fucked you into the mattress.

You felt that slow burn, that spot of golden light between your legs grow and grow as he thrust harder and harder. The glow began to fill you, to take you over, to block out anything in the world but the two of you. The air was filled with the sounds of skin slapping on skin, the cries and moans out of the both of you, and the creaking of the bed. As it all got louder and louder, so did your passion and need for each other.

Your vision turned gold, and you just managed to get it out. "Bucky, I'm cumming, I-" before you exploded. You screamed to the heavens and all the angels, your back arching as the tremors passed through you. It went on and on, but somewhere in the midst of that you became aware that Bucky's thrusts were becoming more and more sloppy, and you felt him cum deep inside you, his warmth filling you. He cried out your name as he came, then partially collapsed on top of you, trying to make sure you were okay as you continued to press him into you, doing the same.

As you both came down from your insane high, gasping, muscles twitching, vision clearing as the moment passed, you couldn't think of anything else except one thing.

My whole life changes tonight.

Chapter 11

#mafia bucky #mafia bucky barnes x reader #mafia!bucky #mafia!bucky barnes x reader #mafia bucky x reader #mob boss bucky x reader #mob bucky barnes #mob bucky #mob boss bucky barnes #mob bucky barnes x reader #mob boss bucky barnes x reader #mob bucky x reader #mafia bucky barnes

[chaifootsteps]

Okay sorry I was talking with my mother

1) I hate sir Pentious’s new character. Sure, he’s fun. But oh my gosh, I miss his old character. The way that’s he’s not at all remorseful and just purely wants destruction  and to rule over the pentagram city. But now he’s too goody goody(I haven’t seen the new episode, pls don’t spoil it), and turned WAYYYY to easily over to Charlie’s anti-Christ ass, and wanting to be redeemed. He should have stayed a spy for longer and I would’ve loved to see his dynamic grow with the Vees(especially Vox) and how he worked for them as a spy. His rape scene wasp so uncomfortable and unnecessary, and speaking of that his and cherris relationship should of never of even been thought about. It’s such an awkward thing, as they’re rivals and Cherri has destroyed things that he’s made and insults him.

2) speaking of Cherri, she offered Angel drugs(which seems like it’s a normal thing for them as she’s so causal about it) when she knew he was there at the hotel that’s for redemption, but also she was so rude to Angel when he was trying to get Nifty out of the cleaning closet??? She’s a much better friend in the pilot and in the addict music video. She’s showing actual friendship and concern for Angel, nothing like she does now.

3) Alastor. Sure, I like his moments, but he’s so painfully edgy it’s not that good. His radio sound effects are good, I miss the old effects that he had in the pilot and his old voice actor, but of course viv is a “it’s my way or the high-way” gal and she dumped all of the previous cast. He’s nearly completely different now, claiming that Charlie is like his daughter(I swear to god he better be manipulative to her in that moment), when in the pilot he openly mocked her and what she was trying to do. He seems way to open about his emotions and wanting r help Charlie, using a TV(???) and playing along when what she wants to do. He also seems to much like an attention whore, which could be a good character trait if he wasn’t the way he is now. Also he’s too touchy touchy with everyone, especially Charlie.

4) Angel dust is not as interesting now as he was to me in the pilot. Now he’s just a porn star who gets raped and abused and is going to be redeemed. I’d love to see his old character traits(from before the pilot and during, such as mafia, insane, violent, ect), rather than just “oh he’s a gay sex spider who sometimes does violence but he’s such a good person now for finding love and refusing drugs!!!! :3”.

5) Husk’s new voice. I see the appeal of his new one, but his old voice actor just hit different. Make that skinny 1970s gambler man sound like he smokes 5 packs a day. Also I can’t stop thinking about the cat from Coraline.

6) almost everything about vaggie. Her design, her actions, and her backstory. It’s cool that she’s a fallen Angel but oh my gosh!! Don’t reveal that in the first season!! Slow burn that shit!! And why did she do quickly realize that he’s murdering ‘innocent souls’?? They’re in hell for a reason, she didn’t have to think that just because it was a kid it was innocent of any crimes it did. They revealed it too soon, it would have been a good twist for season 2.

7) vivziepop seemingly mocks Christianity and I had to look up how Saint Peter looked like, AND SHE WHITE-WASHED HIM SO BAD. HE LOOKS NOTHING LIKE HE SHOULD, AND HES SUCH A COMPLEX PEROSN FROM THE BIBLE AND AND SHORTENED HIS CHARACTER SO BADLY.

Anyways, my TED talk is over. Thank you

Thanks for your TED Talk, Anon. It was an excellent talk.

#Anonymous #vivziepop critical #hazbin hotel critical #viv stuff #actual blog post

[vodika-vibes]

Round 2 *ding ding ding*

Fives and "Try and get some sleep. I'll stay right here– I won't let anything happen to you, I swear."

Please and thank you, my love 💚💚💚

@the-bad-batch-baroness

Safe and Sound

Summary: When you are doing a favor for your father you stumble across a clone who's been drugged and is being hunted for a crime he didn't commit.

Pairing: ARC Trooper Fives x Reader (future)

Word Count: 2185

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023

A/N: This is a sort of prologue towards the last Fives x Reader fic I wrote.

Divider by Saradika

“This is the place, Checkmate?” You ask as you regard the warehouses thoughtfully.

“Yes ma’am,” Checkmate, a clone formerly from the 91st, replies as he folds his arms over his chest, his sharp gaze flickering around the area, “By all accounts, the warehouses are up for auction within the next tenday.”

You hum thoughtfully, “And what’s your assessment?”

Checkmate is quiet for a moment as he looks around without leaving your side. His gaze lingers on a group of spice addicts for a moment, and he purses his lips, “It won’t be easy to keep the building secure, if you plan to use it for storage.”

“Hm…I agree.” You reply lightly, “What if we demolish the building and build something else.”

“Such as?”

“My brother is always looking for places to set up new clinics.” You reply with a light smile.

A small smile crosses Checkmate’s face, “He is an amazing man.”

“Careful Captain, you’re in danger of swooning.” You tease gently, and then you laugh when he bumps your shoulder with his own, “In any event, I didn’t see any clinics anywhere in the area.”

“Probably because there isn’t one.” Checkmate replies, “You know what businessmen are like.”

You shoot him an amused look.

“Businessmen who aren’t associated with Gryffin Industries.” Checkmate clarifies with a roll of his eyes, “Everyone knows that the people who run Gryffin are about as close to saints as mortals can be.”

You laugh again, “You think far, far too highly of my family.”

Checkmate glances at you out of the corner of his eye, “Your family takes vod’e who are no longer able to do their duty, like myself, and gives us jobs, medical attention, and a place to live. That puts you pretty damn close to sainthood to me and my vod’e.”

“It’s hardly-”

“Both of my legs were blown off, and you gave me prosthetics that helped me walk again. Pretty sure that makes you the Patron Saint of Lost Causes.” Checkmate interrupts with a grin.

“You’re awful.”

“Hm, maybe if you would pick a bodyguard, then I wouldn’t tease you so much.”

“Yes, you would.”

“Yes. I would. You’re baby sister coded.”

You pout at him, and then focus your attention back on the warehouse, “Putting a clinic here would help us win some goodwill with the lower levels,” You say lightly, “Plus we can hire a bunch of people, and piss off some very rich assholes at the same time-”

“What, exactly, did the rich and powerful do to your family to make you all so bitter against them?” Checkmate asks as he watches you buy the warehouse…and then another three just for good measure.

“People like that use their influence to hurt innocent people. And it’s disgusting.” You reply, “And…there. Gryffin Industries now owns about three blocks down here.”

“What are you going to do with three blocks worth of warehouses?” 

“A hospital, maybe? And a park, with a playground.” 

“I’ll just add another check in your ‘destined for Sainthood’ book.” Checkmate teases, and then he tenses, and a scowl crosses his face. “Incoming.”

You turn slightly, and see an irate man stalking over towards you.

“You,” He barks at you, and you arch a single brow, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Actually,” You reply pleasantly, “I own everything in a three block radius. Which means you are trespassing.”

“That’s-” He stops when you lift the badge marking you as one of the owners of Gryffin Industries, and his scowl deepens, “I am a General in the GAR-”

“Unless there are Separatists in my warehouses, I suggest you see yourself off my property. Before I call someone to do it for you.” You say pleasantly. 

“Someone tried to assassinate the Chancellor!”

“Which is a problem for the Guard, not the army.”

The General scowls and spins on his heels, “Fine. Then I’ll call the guard and they can search for him.”

“Do make sure they have a warrant, General.” You say to his back, and you hide your smile when he flinches. He shoots you a baleful look, and then stalks away, and you turn your head towards Checkmate, “Since when does the Army search for supposed criminals?”

“Since never.” He replies, “The warehouses are ours?”

“Yep.”

“Then let’s see what we just purchased.” 

The first warehouse is empty, save for dust and some empty crates. The same for the second warehouse.

But in the third warehouse the pair of you stumble on one of the clones sitting on the floor leaning against a crate. He’s gray and sweaty, and his hands are shaking. “He looks like he’s in the middle of spice withdrawals.” You murmur as you crouch next to him.

The clone, who had a 5 tattooed on his forehead, turns to look at you and seems to look through you rather than seeing you, and you frown and press your hand against his forehead.

“That’s not spice withdrawal,” Checkmate replies, “He’s been drugged. Look at his pupils.”

You frown thoughtfully, “We have spare armor in the speeder, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll go grab it and bring the speeder around.” He turns and hurries away, it won’t take him more than a few minutes to bring the speeder around.

You set your hand on the ill soldier’s shoulder, “It’s okay.” You whisper soothingly, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Whatever he was drugged with seems to have stolen his ability to speak, as he doesn’t say anything. But he does whine low in his throat, and he slumps over against you, his head landing on your chest.

“It’s going to be okay.” You whisper soothingly as you stroke the top of his head, “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Checkmate returns only a moment later, and with his help you get the ill clone in a set of Gryffin Industries armor, which is much more streamlined that Clone armor, and is painted with dark teal and white accents. 

And then Checkmate carries him out to the speeder and you slide yourself into the backseat next to him. You call the family lawyer as soon as the speeder leaves the warehouse district, and when you hear the glee in her voice, you almost feel bad for the people who cross her.

Almost.

It takes two days for the drugs to leave the clone’s system, and another day after that before he’s actually able to walk and talk properly.

And so, here you are, four days after you found him in the warehouse, sitting at a roundtable meeting with the rest of your family, with the clone, Fives he introduced himself as, standing at the end of the table.

Your father’s smile in kind as he regards Fives, “Alright, young man. Take your time and say what you need to say.”

Fives takes a deep breath, and his hands settle behind his back as he stands at attention. And then he starts to talk.

He starts slowly, and then, when he realizes that everyone is listening and no one is interrupting him, he gains momentum.

He talks, non-stop, for an hour, and when he stops talking the room is completely silent. You lean back in your chair and rub the spot between your eyebrows.

Your father swears loudly, and you understand the sentiment. 

“I know you probably don’t believe me, but-” Fives says, sounding almost panicked.

“No, no. Lad, that’s not the problem.” Your grandfather says in his crisp accent, “The problem is that we do believe you.” He closes his eyes for a moment and then turns his attention to the table, “So, what do we do?”

“We can’t run at Palpatine directly,” Your cousin, the head of security, says from where he's sitting across from you, “He’s too powerful.”

“It’s also too risky,” You brother adds, “With the knowledge of what these chips are for…” He shakes his head.

“You’ve been removing them, right?” Your father asks.

“Of course.” He sounds offended, “Of course, I thought they were more like the Hutt explosive slave chips rather than free-will overwriting slave chips, so of course I’ve been removing them.”

“It’ll be easy enough to send the information to the battalion medics,” You say thoughtfully.

“How would they keep the surgeries a secret?” Your twin asks with a frown.

“They’d have to go slow.” Your brother murmurs, “No more than one or two at a time, and whenever someone is injured, or ill, they take the opportunity to remove the chip. I can reach out to the battalion medics.”

“And what about Palpatine?” Your grandfather asks.

“We can’t touch him until the men are no longer under his thumb.” Your cousin reminds, “For now, we need to pretend he’s no longer a threat.”

“I’ll think on that. For that matter, we’re going to need to make sure that not everyone knows everything. I’ll handle it.” Your father says, and then he pauses, “And what about Fives. He can’t return to the 501st, he has a price on his head.”

“I’ll take him.” You reply after a moment of thought, “You’ve all been hounding me about not having a bodyguard for ages now anyway.”

“Does that work for you, Fives?” Your father asks.

“Uh..yes sir.”

“Excellent.” He looks at his datapad, “Okay, I think that’s enough for now. Get him settled,” Your father says to you, “And make sure he gets proper armor.”

“I will.” You stand and walk over to Fives, “You can follow me.” He nods and turns to trail after you as you walk over to a hidden elevator and you press a button to activate it, “Until you get a proper helmet, we’ll be using the hidden passages and elevators.” You explain.

“That makes sense,” He replies, sounding deeply, deeply exhausted.

You smile at him soothingly as you step into the elevator, and you press one of the buttons. The elevator goes down seven levels, and then the door dings open and you lead him through a richly decorated hall, and you stop in front of a door, “This is my room.” And then you walk a single door down, “This is yours.”

You push the door open, and reveal a proper studio apartment. “This is all mine?”

“Yes. At the moment, nothing is stocked because I haven’t had a bodyguard since I was a child.” You explain, “I’ll make sure food is delivered, and you can use the datapad to order anything you might need.” You motion at the datapad on the counter, “Food, clothes, and hygiene items are included as part of your paycheck. Anything you want for fun, movies, books, games, you have to buy yourself. But that’s what the paycheck is for.” 

“That seems really generous.”

You shrug, “We can afford it. Armor and weapons will be supplied. My twin will get you set up with armor as soon as you’re feeling up to it. We have a paint room with the appropriate colors all in stock.”

“Alright.”

“The bedding is clean, so you’ll be able to sleep in here tonight, or whenever you want to sleep.” You motion towards the closet, “The laundry shoot is in there, generally laundry is returned the day after you put it in the shoot.”

“What’s that door?” Five asks, as he motions to a door on the opposite wall.

“Oh. Right.” You walk over to the door, and press the button to open it, “This door connects my room with yours. It can’t be locked on either side. You have to be able to get to me quickly as my bodyguard, but I also need to be able to get to you quickly for the same reason. The door can be left open, or shut, depending on our preferences.”

“Alright. Can we keep it open? I’m not used to sleeping alone.”

“Of course.” You press another button, and the door locks in the open position, “Any other questions?”

“No-” His sentence is broken by a yawn, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You gently guide him towards the bed, “You should get some sleep.”

Fives hesitates, “I don’t know if I can. I keep thinking that someone is going to swoop in and kill me-”

You very gently sit him down on his bed, “Fives, try and get some sleep. I'll stay right here– I won't let anything happen to you, I swear.”

He hesitates for a moment longer, and then lays down on the soft bed. Fives tosses and turns for a bit, but after you grab his datapad and sit on the side of his bed, he settles a little bit.

He’s still not sleeping restfully, but he shifts and he slings his arms around you, clinging to you like you’re a stuffed animal, and he presses his face against your back, and you heave out a silent sigh of relief when his breathing becomes deep and even.

With Fives asleep, you decide to take the time to go through and place his food order. As well as ordering some clothes and the necessary hygiene things that he might need.

Everything’s going to be alright. You won’t stand for anything else.

#star wars #tcw #arc trooper fives x reader #fives x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #answered asks

[megalony]

My Beloved

This is a Morpheus (Sandman) imagine, I know its been a while since I’ve written for Sandman but I am getting back into it so any requests would be lovely.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez-blog @jonesyaddiction @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me  @hellsdragon @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg @allauraleigh @onceuponadetectivedemigod @ceres27 @avyannadawn  @noonenuts @sleepylunarwolf

Masterlist

Summary: When (Y/n) isn’t well, Morpheus comes to the waking world to take care of his beloved.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A soft smile fluttered on Morpheus' lips when he watched (Y/n)'s eyes slowly begin to open. He leaned a little further back into the sofa that seemed to swallow him whole, and continued in his administrations of carding his fingers through her hair. It was a new habit he had acquired when he realised the action was a good remedy for helping (Y/n) to sleep.

It wasn't very often that Morpheus found himself in the waking world, he could conjure up dreams, entice people to sleep and keep an eye on all of his creations from his own realm of the Dreaming. But sometimes his work brought him into the waking world and sometimes he just fancied a wander through.

With (Y/n) around, she was more of a reason for him to be in this world rather than his own.

He should have gone back to his realm a while ago but he simply hadn't found it in himself to leave her yet. (Y/n) was like a drug Morpheus was addicted to and being away from her was like going through withdrawal.

"Did you like your dream?"

Morpheus couldn't help but indulge himself just a little.

He never got to ask humans what they thought of his creations, he didn't see their reactions when they woke up and how they acted in his realm didn't always give away what they thought. The humans always believed dreams to be of their own creation, they inadvertantly took credit for Morpheus' ideas and even if his creations were sometimes based around each human's experience, they were still his own making.

Now that Morpheus had (Y/n), he could pry into her thoughts and find out what aspects of his creations she loved and which ones needed improving on.

It did get hard.

Even if Morpheus was weak at the knees for (Y/n), he had to remain objective in his work. She had to experience nightmares and bad memories and some tough worlds in the dreaming because he couldn't favour the one he loved and be responsible for her lack of inspiration and motivation in the waking world.

"It was beautiful, I wish I had wings like hers."

(Y/n)'s voice was laced with the last remnants of dream and her eyes were desperate to close and go back into the best world she had seen so far.

If she was being honest, (Y/n) couldn't quite remember all of the dream which happened to most people and with the best kind of dreams, they faded away to keep the magic for the next sleep. But she remembered the beautiful creature she had seen dancing in front of her eyes with wings the size of cars that resembled bubbles with all the glimmering colours and see-through patches. And the feeling of falling just at the end of the dream- something (Y/n) knew Morpheus couldn't control- just made it all the more exciting.

"You don't need wings, you're already exquisite."

With the last of the dream fading in the back of her mind, (Y/n) slowly sat up, realising she had fallen asleep on her lover's lap and he hadn't had the heart to move her. How long had he stayed there as her personal cushion, waiting for her to wake up? She hoped he hadn't been waiting long or been uncomfortable.

She could see his pasty skin lighting up with a faint pink blush that blossomed up his neck and onto his pale white cheeks when she slowly hooked her legs on either side of his hips and perched on his lap. (Y/n) turned her cheek to rest on his shoulder and draped her arms around the back of Morpheus' neck, smiling into his black shirt when she felt his arms slowly coiling around her hips.

Morpheus wasn’t used to lovers being close or touchy with him and after nearly a century in a glass dome, cut off from everyone and every touch, things felt different. He realised just how touch-starved he had been for the last century and it made him want to make up for lost time. He was desperate for contact and love and closeness and soft kisses or someone's skin to be close to him- for (Y/n), to be close to him. That wasn’t who he was before he was captured.

When he pulled her closer so their chests were touching and there was no longer a small slither of a gap between them, (Y/n) smiled. She could feel him breathing in her scent, his nose tickled her forehead where he pressed a soft, slow kiss to her temple.

"I'm afraid I must go soon, my beloved. It's almost dark out."

(Y/n) couldn't help the pout that formed on her lips and she tightened her arms around his neck. She wished she had woken up earlier so she could have more time to hold him like this.

The night was just beginning and that meant Morpheus' day was only just starting. There weren't half as many people who slept during the day as there were the rest who slept at night. Morpheus could be anywhere during the day time and conjure up a few worlds for people to idle in and visit with their messed up sleep schedules or a few little valleys for those who were having a short nap.

But when the sun set behind the clouds and the darkness started to creep around the corner, that was when the real magic began. And the best place for Morpheus to be was in his realm or out in the streets, he had millions of people to serenade and pull into his world and he had to keep them occupied and on their toes or else if he didn't have their full attention, they would slip back into the waking world.

"Can I come with you?"

Lifting her head from off his shoulder, (Y/n) pressed her lips to his forehead and moved her hands to cup his face between her palms, something she knew drove him crazy. He loved when she would rest her forehead against his, their noses brushing like they were now, and their gazes interlocked like thousands of stars joining together in the midnight sky.

"If you were feeling well I would bring you with me, darling. Go back to sleep, I'll conjure up another world for you and when you wake, I will return."

In any other circumstance, Morpheus would indulge (Y/n) and never deny her request to come back to his realm. But she wasn't well, it was why she had been dreaming with his creations for most of the day and why Morpheus had stayed with her for almost all of the day. If (Y/n) stayed in his realm, he would sense her while he was working and he would know when she came back to the waking world and he would visit her then.

"I wish you didn't have to go." Even as she spoke, Morpheus could see she was halfway back to his world already and it only made his soft smile widen.

With one arm still around her hips and the other hand moving to cradle the back of (Y/n)'s head, Morpheus slowly turned them round and laid (Y/n) down on the sofa on her back. He hovered over her, leaning between her legs that were still wrapped around his hips as if to make sure he didn't escape without her consent.

His fingers tangled in her locks at the back of her head as he squeezed the flesh of her hip before he kissed her softly. He could feel how warm she was, heat was radiating off of her and flooding the room with warmth that was buzzing through his skin. But the way (Y/n) tightened her thighs on his hips and tried to pull all of his weight onto her made a groan scratch against the back of his throat.

She was making it impossible for him to leave.

"I'll be back soon, you need to rest. Now, sleep."

He didn't need dust when his voice was so addicting and intoxicating that it had (Y/n)'s eyes closing and her mind was hooked on each little world he spoke. She felt his words softly against her temple before a burning kiss simmered against her skin.

Then he was gone, and she was asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't want to wake her.

For over twelve hours, Morpheus had felt (Y/n)'s presence in the back of his mind. He had felt her instantly fall into his realm, then wander and drift before he finally felt her settle into an old dream he had waiting for her. A small valley with a river flowing through that he knew (Y/n) had been laying beside while he was out making sure the rest of mankind found their place in his realm.

Now, as he walked back into her apartment and found (Y/n) in the exact spot he had left her, he debated whether he should wake her or leave her be in her dream. After all, he had told her to rest and that was exactly what she was doing. But when Morpheus bent down beside her and pressed a small kiss to her temple, he felt a sudden urge to wake her. She was burning a fever.

With how long she had slept during the afternoon and on and off throughout the night while he had been gone, Morpheus decided (Y/n) had slept for long enough. He needed to wake her and rid her of her fever before she felt any worse.

"Love, wake up." With a small brush of his fingers, Morpheus carded his fingers through the soft wisps of hair hanging around the sides of (Y/n)'s face, delicately placing them back behind her ear. Even with just a small action like that, he could feel the sweat dripping off his fingertips from her burning hot skin that was flushed.

A small murmur bubbled past (Y/n)'s lips and she leaned into the touch delicately dancing across her forehead like a cold bag of ice was slowly swaying above her.

"Dream... I thought you were leaving?"

"I did, and now I've returned to see you've gotten worse."

How had he gone and come back so quickly? (Y/n) could have sworn she'd closed her eyes for a few minutes, maybe dozed off for an hour, not nearly long enough for him to go do a full night's work and come back again. But when her eyes tried to open, she was scorched by the sun slowly creeping up into the sky and dazzling light through the living room window.

Had she gotten worse? All she did was doze off for a while, it didn't feel like she was any worse than how she felt earlier- yesterday, or whenever it was. (Y/n) could still hear Dream's voice in the back of her mind, telling her he would come back and asking her to go to sleep while he left her. She didn't even feel him slip out of her arms as she went into the dream he created for her.

Morpheus didn't know what to do, he wasn't used to suffering from any ailments himself and it had been so long since he'd taken care of someone who was ill. But he didn't like how hot her skin was to touch or how she was glistening with sweat from a raging fever that had appeared suddenly out of nowhere.

He didn't suppose holding some ice or something cold to her skin would do that much to take her fever down. Maybe a cold bath...

"Can you sit up, love?"

(Y/n) let her floppy arms be moved at Morpheus' will and let him hook them around his neck so he could hold her hips and gently pull her up.

"Are we going somewhere?"

A soft hum passed through his lips and he loved to perch on the edge of the sofa before he reached into the pocket of his trench coat. Morpheus paused in his movements for a moment when (Y/n) shuffled forward a little more until she could press her face into his chest. Her cheek burrowed in against his soft coat and her nose was bunched up in his shirt so she could breathe in his intoxicating scent.

With a handful of sand, Morpheus sprinkled it around them like glitter, using it sparingly before he closed his eyes and waited for his creation to do its magic. (Y/n) felt a soft breeze licking at her bare arms when the whirlwind feeling slowly disappated. It took a few moments for her to open her eyes and catch her bearings, but when she looked around, she realised they were back in Morpheus' kingdom. More specifically, they were on the beach on the edge of the realm.

She couldn't help but reach her hand out and drag her fingers through the sand they were now sitting on, it was as warm as it was soft but it wasn't damp from the shore like (Y/n) expected.

Morpheus couldn't help but smile when (Y/n) turned her face so her cheek was pressed against his shirt again like she was listening in for his heartbeat.

He kept his arms around her middle before he slowly started to stand up, gently pulling (Y/n) up with him until they were stood on the sinking sand. His arms held up most of her weight that soon fell onto his chest, but Morpheus didn't mind in the slightest. With an arm around her lower waist and the other gently cradling the back of her head, Morpheus kissed her temple before he guided them closer to the shore of the water.

The moment the water crept up (Y/n)'s ankles a shiver ran through her body that jolted through Morpheus too. The water was colder than an iceberg but it created such a funny sensation, like little teeth nipping at her feet.

"Come here," With a gentle voice that sounded so sugary sweet, Morpheus sat down in the shallow water that came up to his hips. He spread his legs so that (Y/n) could sit between them, not caring that both their clothes were going to be soaked. As long as (Y/n) felt better and her temperature went down a little, everything would be fine.

He rested his chin on top of (Y/n)'s head and kept his arms tight around her waist as she curled up so her side was tucked up into his chest and her hands were clutching at his shirt as if she thought she might drown.

For a little while, (Y/n) kept her eyes closed and focused on listening to Morpheus' heartbeat thudding patiently and calmly against her ear, drowning out the sound of the water rippling around them. When she slowly opened her eyes to take a look around, her breath caught in her throat.

Butterflies.

Small, tiny butterflies were glistening against the distant sun and had shimmering reflections on the crystal blue water. Their wings were transparant with small pink and blue lines like veins across them making them look like floating bubbles. Resembling the wings on the creature in her dreams earlier.

One butterfly came closer and fluttered so close (Y/n) could almost feel its wings fluttering against her nose before it started bobbing along just above the water.

"Are you feeling better?" As he spoke, Morpheus pressed the back of his hand against (Y/n)'s forehead, relieved to feel that she was a tiny bit cooler than she had been. The water was beyond freezing and it was turning his legs numb but (Y/n) was like a small heater bundled up in his coat and she looked like she was happily melting into him and the water.

"Much... don't leave yet, will you?"

"I'm not going anywhere, love."

(Y/n) smiled lazily to herself and closed her eyes again when she felt Morpheus' lips pressing against her hair. He started to speak, she wasn't sure what he was saying but his voice was so soothing and calm, she was sure he was telling her a story. He did that a lot when she couldn't sleep. His voice was the sound of dreams, he could speak a horror story and it would sound like a fantasy. His voice was calming and intoxicating and provoking and ruggid all at once.

It was one of the many reasons why (Y/n) loved him.

#morpheus #morpheus x reader #imagine #The Sandman #sandman x reader #sandman imagine

[pazzesco]

St. Maximillian Kolbe the ‘Martyr of Auschwitz’, Polish priest who was known by the Nazis at Auschwitz as Prisoner 16670, voluntarily took the place of a stranger who was condemned to forced starvation.

Artwork by Pennsylvania sacred artist, Neilson Carlin.

THE STORY OF MAXIMILIAN KOLBE (AND WHY IT MATTERS NOW, MORE THAN EVER)

By 1938, Father Kolbe was presciently convinced that the Nazis were going to seize Poland. As the Nazis approached in 1939, Father Kolbe sent away almost all the friars, but Father Kolbe chose to stay behind with three dozen friars, and Niepokalanow was essentially converted to a hospital for wounded Polish soldiers.

The Nazis rolled their tanks into Poland on Sept. 1 and the town of Niepokalanow was bombed on Sept. 7. Yet Father Kolbe remained in place. Not only that, but with the Nazis figuratively, if not almost literally, breathing down his neck, he continued to publish materials critical of the Nazis.

The Nazis had seen enough of his writings that illustrated the evils and lies of Nazism, and on February 17, 1941, Father Kolbe was picked up and arrested. On May 28, he was sent to his final earthly destination: Auschwitz.

In July, the Nazis discovered that a man had escaped. The Nazis had a procedure for punishing the remaining prisoners after an escape: ten men would be starved to death. A German officer named Karl Fritsch gleefully chose the ten men who were standing in ranks. When one of these men, Franciszek Gajowniczek, pleaded, “My wife and children,” Father Maximilian Kolbe broke ranks and made a plea of his own: “I am a Catholic priest. I want to die for that man; I am old; he has a wife and children.”

Father Kolbe’s wish was granted, and he was led away to die naked in a dark cellar.

St. Maximillian is the patron saint of families, prisoners, journalists, political prisoners, drug addicts and the pro-life movement. St. John Paul II declared him to be “the patron saint of our difficult century.”

With men on one side, and women and children on the other, the selection process of who will live and who will be sent to the gas chambers begins. In the background can be seen the main gate of the Auschwitz II–Birkenau camp. May 27, 1944.

They call him the Martyr of Auschwitz, but we shouldn't forget that there were thousands & thousands of martyrs at Auschwitz...

#holocaust #auschwitz #st maximilian kolbe #kolbe #st maximillian kolbe #patron saints #father kolbe #martyr of auschwitz #cliff clavin