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pretty-oooodd · 11 months

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✂ AND WE'LL DANCE ALONE TO THE TUNE OF YOUR DEATH.

Notes: a little thing I wrote at 3 am instead of sleeping. Better with this song in the background. Remember that English isn't my first language, and I write to improve my skills and for fun!

Characters: Fyodor Dostoevskij, reader.

Genre: angst I guess?

Tw/cw: fem!reader, Fyodor being a bit ooc I think, major character death, fever-dreaming, slightly religious themes.

One step to the right, another one to the left.

Their feet barely touching while the rest of their bodies seemed to merge into one.

Two steps backwards, one forward.

Her head on his chest, her hands one on his shoulder, the other one tightly interlocked with his fingers.

A quick spin.

No words left their mouths, but the beating of his heart alone was enough. Piano notes came from somewhere in that dark ballroom. Only a few, shy, dying candles lit the death-stenched atmosphere.

Fyodor's other hand rested on her hip, guiding her through the soft music.

-You hold me a bit too tightly to be the one that killed me.-

Words sweet like sugar and her kisses, yet sharp as his knives, echoed in the ballroom together with the music. Still, she didn't dare to oppose his touch and he didn't dare to push her away.

-Maybe I regret doing so.-

His breath flew through her silky hair, like a fooling caress made by a way too sly wind.

-I find it hard to believe.-

She chuckled, but her laugh wasn't crystalline like before; her chest didn't tremble like flowers by the wind anymore. She was just clinging to Fyodor's body, like a stiff, lifeless doll.

Was her heart even beating?

Was she even alive?

"No" was the sad truth in a way too tempting reality, in which he didn't stuck too much to his own pride. But he and his pride were one, inseparable and omens of catastrophic events. Still she loved Fyodor dearly, like a devoted follower loves their God; and like a soldier craves war and like a starving hunter craves their prey to fall.

Even though he stuck with his pride, selfishly like a spoiled noble man, Fyodor missed her. He missed her fingertips through his hair and on his body, their skins against each other, her insatiable mind and her soothing voice.

Fyodor had let the house they shared burn and the gorgeous garden she sweetly, intensely cared for became ash, together with the land she was buried in.

The stench of death in that large room was almost like a perfume. The stench of death to Fyodor wasn't the same as everyone else. The one he felt invading his lungs was sweet: it was flowers, the ashes from his cigarette box and her garden, books and freshly washed clothes, rain, tears and despair of a loved one left to rot in a fancy coffin.

He looked up at the ceiling of the ballroom, while he kept on dancing with the imitation his mind had made of his past lover.

And the ceiling looked back at him; millions of eyes, eyes of angels and eyes of demons, eyes from the Heavenly Virtues and the Seven Deadly Sins, and eyes from tarot cards' figures observed his elegant movements. But those eyes looked so much, too much, like hers.

They were judgmental, but he had no fear of those wary stares from statues and painting.

-You are right. Even if it had to be done, I still miss you.-

He looked back down at her hidden figure and pushed her slightly, enough to see her face. She was just as beautiful as he remembered her to be. The light of the candles, barely surviving, traced her facial features just well, perfectly to refresh his memory like sea breeze.

-You are a cruel man. And you are terribly lonely. I took pity on you and I gifted you my heart out of love and devotion for a lonesome man that believes himself to be sent by God.-

Her lips barely moved, her voice was low and sounded heavenly to his ears.

-And I gifted you my heart back, milaya. You took it to your grave. My heart, that was the price I paid to lose you.-

Fyodor raised his hand over her head and made her spin, one, two, three times.

-That's the only thing that consoles my restless soul. My nails are now digging and carving your heart just like you did to mine. But beware that your heart, nor my love, will be enough to save you from your sins and your faults. My tears and care weren't enough to wash the blood off your hands and clothes, and my arms won't be enough to stop demons from dragging you to Hell.-

A candle died completely and he noticed that only two of them were still fighting to light the large room. The music started to fade, sounding distant as if the mysterious pianist was walking away with his instrument.

-I know. Soon I'll reach my goal, and I will rest in the same land were you lie, my dear. I'll make sure to leave my corpse next to yours and my soul to your judgment. Until then, haunt me. Bruise my skin and make me insane, but don't leave me.-

Fyodor spun her around two more times. Another candle faded away like a silent whisper in the night as their dance became more aggressive and the music grew more distant.

She moved her hand from his shoulder to his face, cupping his cheek gently.

-I won't leave you. Maybe I'll even follow you in Hell, who knows... Perhaps loving you was a sin itself.-

He raised his hand again to spun her one last time, but the music abruptly stopped and the last candle gave up to the darkness before he could face her again.

So he woke up, in a puddle of his sweat, a mess of his hair and sheets.

His forehead was hot and his vision blurry, he felt cold and oddly nervous.

Fyodor calmed down his breath and dizziness, and promised to himself that he would bring flowers to her grave and check if she were still in the coffin next time he visited her.

Don't steal, copy or translate my work!

Reblogs and reviews are very much appreciated!!

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chickenparm · 2 years

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John Seed/f!Reader(Deputy) 3,582 Words - NSFW Dubious Consent, Slightly Rough Sex, P in V, Orgasm Denial

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Escape should’ve been your first priority. The first and only thought in your mind as the echo of the door slamming shut rings in your head like a morbid metronome, so akin to the snap of a bear trap. Yet as you rock forward, nails digging into the arms of the chair with the effort of balancing yourself on your way across the room, the purpose you hold tightly to your chest is one less virtuous, more of that sin John is so obsessed with.

The tumble down the stairs is nothing compared to your single-mindedness, the pain of what likely equates to a cracked rib barely registers in your mind as you climb the stairs and drag the chair back up with you.

At the very least, this will be one sin you won’t need to confess. He’ll have witnessed it firsthand.

It’s entirely his fault, even if it was unknowing. The crack of his voice in his passion, the animation of his body as he described the ways he wanted to unmake you and piece you together into something entirely different. Blue eyes with blown out pupils had looked down at your too-exposed chest, a flash of something there that burned in your own veins.

A sinner you may be, but John isn’t without his own temptation. That alone is what moves you to crouch next to the door, fists at the ready as his footsteps come back down the hallway. It should bother you more that you’re already familiar with his gait, the timing of each step and the distance between each one. They’re light, almost carefree as you catch the sound of his whistling.

It cuts off sharply when the door opens and your empty chair is revealed. Relishing in the hard line of his shoulders as realization washes over him, you almost hesitate to swing your fist at the back of his head and knock him out.

Almost.

John landing face first on the bloodied floor is the right amount of disrespect he deserves, but it’s not where he belongs. It takes an embarrassing amount of time to get him propped up in the chair and secured with the ropes he’d been so eager to put you in. Wryly, you wonder how upset he’ll be when he awakes and finds the tables turned.

With a pleasant twisting in your gut as you lean on his workbench to wait, you selfishly hope that rage and passion will make itself known again. The very same that caused this mess, the fire in your blood and the saliva on your tongue that’s a direct result of your need for him.

It doesn’t take much longer for him to rouse with a groan and his head rolling forward. Patience isn’t one of your oft-used virtues, but the satisfaction of his discomfort gives you all the willpower you need to wait. Inked fingers flex against the arms of the chair, corded forearms tense as he pulls against the rope, shoulders jerk away from the back of the chair as his obvious panic begins to set in.

That won’t do. In a mimicry of his own placating ways, you shush him as you approach. All at once, the panic is gone, and in its place is unadulterated rage.

“You dare-”

“Yeah, I do,” nonchalance chafes at him, you know it does and you use it to your advantage to stoke the fires for your own greed, “What’ll you do? Carve up my skin, preach about my sins, keep looking at my tits?”

John’s eyes shoot to the floor so fast that you’re surprised they don’t fall out of his damn head. If you look hard enough beyond the crimson lights that shine overhead, you can almost make out a burning redness at his ears. Satisfaction surges through you at the confirmation - you were right.

Sucking a breath through his teeth, John bites back after chewing on his words, “That, and more.”

“More than looking at my tits?” You stop just within arm’s reach, watching his neck tense under the effort of retorting back something even more damning. John’s hands flex under your own as you brace yourself on them and lean in, your chest falling in his line of sight and nearly spilling from your ruined shirt.

John’s lips thin as he bites them together, eyes roaming the view you’ve given him with no small amount of shame coloring his features. Just by the pitch of his brow, you can almost taste his guilt as his chest rises with a shaking breath.

“Is this what your tactics are now? Seducing the faithful in a bid to sway them?”

It would be more intimidating if his voice was more than a whisper. It’s not entirely clear whether it’s from nervousness or anticipation, but you’re just fine with both. Either one means you’re getting to him, and crawling beneath his skin is your goal here, among other things. A flash of pink at your lips is what draws his eyes away, “It depends if it’s working, John.”

John’s entire body goes deadly still, a direct reaction to your knee raising and slotting between his legs. Without even looking to confirm it, you can feel the beginnings of him hardening against you. After so many taunts over the radio, a plethora of backhanded comments and thinly veiled threats, it comes so easy to return the favor.

“Looks like it is. I’m curious; is there a scar for lust on your body?”

The pads of your fingers drag along the raised scars on his chest, first the letters, then the horizontal line through them. John shivers visibly, his eyelashes kissing his cheekbones as they flutter shut. It appeals to the nebulous, fucked-up feelings that are overshadowed by your lust, and for a moment you simply observe him.

In another life, maybe the antagonism between the two of you could’ve been more than this. But such as it is, all you can do is press your knee closer and watch his brows twitch together at the friction. Swallowing thickly, keeping his eyes closed to avoid what you’re doing to him, John’s voice comes stronger than you expected it to.

“Look for it, if you want to know so badly.”

The open invitation is too much to resist, and the fingers on his chest wander lower to the buttons of his vest, popping each one by one. John’s knuckles are white as he grips the chair, tendons set in stark relief against his skin with the effort. You hope this haunts him, you hope this does exactly what he implied it would do.

As his shirt falls open and you’re free to take in the expanse of scarred skin across his torso, you hope this ruins him.

Greed along his ribs, wrath curls around his hip. Just over his belt are the tops of four distinct letters - LUST, carved deeply yet long-since healed into silvery scars. At the brush of your fingertips against them, featherlight and almost reverent, John’s hips jerk toward your hand, into your knee where he grinds against you through the fabric of his jeans.

John’s head rolls back as his eyes snap open, staring sightlessly up at the lofty ceiling for a long, lingering moment. Taking in the disproportionate reaction to something so small, you ask, “How long’s it been?”

No answer. Perhaps he can’t, or won’t, and you call his bluff by drawing your knee back, taking away the pressure he’d been savoring. A sound dies in his throat, perhaps the answer you want that he fights the urge to set free. The thoughtless gaze to the heavens is turned on you, suddenly full of the very fire that got you into this mess to begin with.

John wants to say something, maybe urge you to press against him once more to ease the ache, but any way of spinning it would sound like begging. He’s not ready for that, yet. Instead, you repeat the question, a little less teasing in an attempt to coax him to be forthcoming. As much as you want to wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze, you’re not entirely hardened like he is - there’s a shred of empathy for him, even now.

“John, how long has it been?”

“Seven years,” he grits between his teeth, the effort of forcing those two words out is monumental for this man. His reward is the return of your leg, pushed up against his cock. The fingers on his scar of lust wrap around his belt buckle and tug, lifting his hips and creating friction that finally, finally brings what equates to a whine from his throat.

Even as he chokes it off, the damage has been done and you repeat the process, over and over until his hips are moving on their own accord and you can use your now free hand to rake the hair back from his face where it’d fallen, “I’m gonna be the first in seven whole years? What a blessing.”

The snark isn’t necessary, but damn does it feel good to have his vicious glare burning into you, all its fire losing heat with every needy rock of his dick against your leg. It’s impossible for John to be intimidating when he’s grinding on you like a whore.

“Untie me and-... and I’ll show you a blessing, Deputy-”

“Nah,” your answer comes after a quick purse of your lips, “but if you’re good I’ll let you tell me where you wanna finish.”

John’s mouth clamps shut so tightly that the tendons in his neck grow taut against his skin. With that eagerness in mind, you withdraw to undo his belt and jeans. They slide off easily enough, down to his knees and leaving him hard and leaking against his own thigh. Suddenly, you note the harsh rise and fall of his chest, his fingernails digging into the plastic of the chair, his head lolled back and watching you through hooded eyes.

Absently, as you watch his cock twitch in anticipation, you almost think John Seed has a capacity to be beautiful. Or maybe he is beautiful, and you’ve never noticed it until he’s already threatening to fall to pieces at a single touch.

That’s what you give him; Your fingertips drag against the length of him, and he breathes something that seems like relief. It tastes bitter on your tongue - you want him to suffer.

The immediate grip you take on him is harsh, squeezing just over the line of too tight as you drag your hand and collect the wetness that rolls from his tip. John grunts, but still bucks into your hand and it sends a zapping feeling of excitement. Again you squeeze, watching his head fall back with another tortured sound.

He likes it.

John likes it to hurt.

You let him go and grab his jaw, smearing his own arousal against his cheeks and beard. Something in his eyes looks devastated as you let him go, a tinge of desperation coloring his entire being. The begging is so close you can taste it.

“Do you want me to hurt you, John?”

Nothing, not even a twitch of his muscles. You ask again, squeezing hard enough that you know the insides of his cheeks dig into his teeth, “Do you want it to hurt?”

Every word is slow and deliberate, as if you’re speaking to a child. Perhaps you are, at least with the wide-eyed and imploring way he’s looking at you, almost as if he doesn’t understand what you’re asking at first. Then it clicks, his mouth working to swallow before he nods in your grip.

The irony isn’t lost on you, and you can’t help the sick little smile that spreads on your lips. It almost strikes you to turn the tables and make him say it, just as you’d been forced to do in an effort to save Hudson. Instead you accept his gesture as the small victory that it is and back away.

It’s almost clinical how you kick your boots off and remove your pants, leaving you bare as you swing a leg over him and settle across his spread thighs. John’s skin is searing hot beneath your palms as you press them into his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat and relishing in his anticipation.

It’s too soft, remedied easily by your thumb sweeping across his nipple before pinching it viciously. Instead of flinching back, John arches into it, whining at the sharpness that doesn’t relent until his voice turns ragged. No doubt he wouldn’t have given you an inch of mercy, even if you pleaded for it, but you’re not John.

It’s why you lean in and drag your tongue across it, soothing the ache until he’s shuddering beneath you. His shoulders tense as he jerks against the ropes holding him captive, preceding the first demand, “Let me touch you.”

“Absolutely not,” you draw back, looking for all the world as if you’re unimpressed with something so ridiculous, “I can’t trust you not to pull some stupid shit and get me back in this chair.”

“I won’t. I promise, I swear it, I-”

“-am a liar?”

John’s mouth snaps shut again, suddenly unable to refute your absolutely-true claim of his trustworthiness. All you get is a breathy little sound as you reach down and take him in hand once more, holding him by the base to line yourself up, not quite sinking down just yet.

You find yourself distracted - hazy eyed, trembling, panting heavily beneath you, John strikes you as a vision once more. Not for the first time, you wished things had turned out differently; That you could fuck John Seed without worrying about the madness that lingers behind his eyes even now as you tease the head of his cock against your entrance.

“Do it,” John urges, voice ruined and frayed, “Every second you waste is going to make it worse for you when I catch you again.”

Gently, you rock against him, not nearly enough to let him breach you, “You’ll carve my sins a little deeper? Make it worse?”

“Oh no,” and the bastard has the audacity to laugh, breathless but no less ominous, “nothing of the sort. I’ll find you, and when I do you’re going to wish you hadn’t played with me, Deputy. I intend to lock you down and fuck you with whatever object I have within reach.”

“This is always within your reach,” you push down on his cock, letting the head pop inside and watching the way his fury falters in the face of stimulation. For all the world, John looks as if he’s having a religious experience, the chair groaning under the stress of him straining against the bindings. They’ll hold fast, and in the meantime you rock more of him inside you and relish the stretch.

Seven years is a long time, but you’re not too far off that mark, either. Maybe that’s the madness that stirred you to lust over a man like John Seed. That madness and his hysteria, his passion despite his absolute insanity. It’s present still, lurking beneath his skin and begging you to untie him and let it be free. You’ll do no such thing, but as he seats fully inside you, you clench at the thought of what he’d do if you cut those ropes.

Hurt you, without a doubt. Ruin you to the edges of your being, then leave you to pick up the pieces and put them into something recognizable. It’s almost tempting, if you weren’t entirely sure that John wouldn’t have the self control to hold back.

You’re leaving this bunker today, whether he likes it or not.

Beneath you, John’s hips jerk, bucking up into you while punctuated with a moan that echoes sharply off the walls. If you weren’t certain the room was soundproof, you’d be concerned. Yet you knew it must be to hide the sounds of his torture, and that spurs you into rocking against him, leaning back just enough that his cock drags against you at the perfect angle.

“Please let me touch you, Deputy.”

“Fuck you,” it’s said with such conviction that John lets out a huff of what could only be amusement. In retaliation, your hands find his shoulders and your fingernails dig into his skin, grounding yourself against the motion of his hips that meet your own. John tries to lean forward, to get his mouth on you somewhere and let out his frustration, yet you’re just out of his reach.

“You think I’m just gonna let someone like you touch me?”

John’s anger is absolutely betrayed by his pleasure, the glare melting within seconds as you purposely tighten around him, “Your hands can only cause pain. You might get off on hurting,” and you rake the nails of one hand down his chest, catching on the same nipple you’d abused prior, “but I don’t. And I just can’t trust you not to be an asshole.”

“Oh, but being an asshole is what turned you on, wasn’t it?”

Even tied up, John still has thorns, and he’s thrashing against the ropes to sink those barbs into you, “Don’t-... Don’t assume I’m anywhere close to a fool, Deputy. You would’ve escaped immediately, except s-something held you back, didn’t it?”

“How’d you know?” You try to deadpan, but it loses its effect as your breath comes short and your thighs tense with the effort of controlling the pace you need to finish. John holds eye contact, even as they threaten to roll back in his head when your hand leaves his chest to dig into his hair. Harshly, you tug at the roots until his neck is wide open for the taking.

John’s voice rattles your teeth as you suck a harsh mark on his Adam’s apple, perfectly placed where he could hide it if he so chose but with no real care for his comfort, “Did you think I didn’t notice? Th-The squeeze of your thighs together when I described the ways I’d drag your… sin from you?”

With stilted and halting speech, John taunts you even as he can do nothing but lift his hips to chase after you as you take your pleasure from him. The mark on his neck is stark against his skin, framed by a smattering of freckles that you kiss, one by one. It brings his scathing words to an abrupt end, choked off with a whimper that speaks leagues about his reaction to any sort of tenderness.

Startlingly, there’s no nausea when you imagine running your fingers through his hair instead of nearly ripping it out with the force of your grip. You’re not entirely disgusted at the thought of kissing along his scars instead of raking your nails across the ones slashed across his ribs.

Your heart skips as you lift his head and kiss him fully to muffle the moan of your orgasm, bearing down on his cock. John mirrors the sound, forcing his tongue into your mouth as if he could taste your pleasured sounds. Are they as satisfying as his own have been? You can’t help but wonder before your mind loses itself completely.

On reflex you curl into him, and John uses your lapse in control to thrust up into you and prolong your release until you force yourself to clamber from his lap. Knees wobbling, you back away and lean on his workbench, watching from a safe distance as he stares at you in disbelief. John’s lips are swollen, his skin red and welts from your fingernails, his dick glistening and painfully hard. And above all that, he looks crushed as you hurriedly redress with trembling limbs.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting out of here,” your answer is plain and simple as you lace your boots up and tuck the ends of your pants into them. John sputters for a moment, jerking against his bonds only until you get close enough to touch him again. First a moan comes when you grasp him, and then a sound of absolute outrage as you proceed to tuck him back into his pants and rebutton his shirt and vest.

“Y-You can’t just leave me like this!” John looks mad enough to spit venom, head surging forward as if to chase you as you back off from his reach, “I swear it, you’ll regret this-”

“Who says I already don’t?” You shoot back, and John’s tirade ends in sudden silence and an air of unbridled hurt. Suddenly, and secretly, you feel terrible about it - but it needs to happen, for John’s sake, as well as your own. Things had gotten too deep at the end, a sick sort of affection blooming when it was only supposed to be physical relief.

You don’t want it. You don’t want John.

As you descend the stairs and duck through the pipes, John’s furious voice doesn’t follow you like you expect it to. It would have been preferable to the deafening silence of a shifted paradigm and your own frustration rolling off you in waves strong enough to nearly make you slip up in your escape.

John doesn’t radio you as you leave. You hadn’t realized how fond you’ve grown of his taunting until your handheld lay dormant on your hip.

Perhaps there was some truth to you calling this feeling regret, but it sure as hell isn’t for the right reasons.

#john seed #john seed x reader #john seed x deputy #mdni #minors dni #mind the a/n for the warnings #here i go again

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cassianus · 1 year

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The Spiritual Combat:

Those who are trying to lead a spiritual life have to carry on a most skilful and difficult warfare, through their thoughts every moment of their life—that is, a spiritual warfare; it is necessary that our whole soul should have every moment a clear eye, able to watch and notice the thoughts entering our heart from the evil one and repel them; the hearts of such men should be always burning with faith, humility, and love; otherwise the subtlety of the Devil finds an easy access to them, followed by a diminution of faith, or entire unbelief, and then by every possible evil, which it will be difficult to wash away even by tears. Do not, therefore, allow your heart to be cold, especially during prayer, and avoid in every way cold indifference. Very often it happens that prayer is on the lips, but in the heart cunning, incredulity, or unbelief, so that by the lips the man seems near to God, whilst in his heart he is far from Him. And, during our prayers, the evil one makes use of every means to chill our hearts and fill them with deceit in a most imperceptible manner to us. Pray and fortify yourself, fortify your heart. Do not fear the conflict, and do not flee from it: where there is no struggle, there is no virtue; where there are no temptations for faithfulness and love, it is uncertain whether there is really any faithfulness and love for the Lord. Our faith, trust, and love are proved and revealed in adversities, that is, in difficult and grievous outward and inward circumstances, during sickness, sorrow, and privations. Do not believe your flesh when it grows weak and refuses to serve you, on the pretence of not being sufficiently strengthened by food. This is a delusion. Overcome it; pray fervently, and you will see that the weakness of your body was false, imaginary, not real: you will see in truth that “not in bread alone doth man live, but in every word that proceedeth from the mouth of God.” Do not put your trust in bread. The crucified flesh reconciles itself with the spirit and with God; whilst the flesh that is cherished, that is abundantly and daintily fed, fights hard against the spirit and against God, and becomes wholly an abomination of sin. It does not want to pray, and, in general, rebels against God by blasphemy, for instance, and estranges itself from God. This is from experience. Therefore, “they that are Christ’s have crucified their flesh, with the vices and concupiscences.” Do not suffer, Lord, that even for an instant I may do the will of Thine and mine enemy—the Devil; but grant that I may continually do Thy will, alone the will of my God and my King: Thou alone, my true King by Whom all kings reign, grant that I may ever obey Thee, reverence Thee truly and firmly. “Come let us adore and fall down and kneel before the Lord Who made us”; “serve ye the Lord in fear; and rejoice unto him with trembling.”

St. John Kronstadt

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gatekeeper-watchman · 1 year

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To Begin With

I am compelled to share this with you as I feel so very impressed with it as well as with its author, Mr. Gerry Spence. It is the introduction to his book, From Freedom to Slavery, copyrighted in 1993 and published by St. Martin’s Press and which I highly recommend to you. I hope you will enjoy it as well as I do. His introduction begins as follows:

“Writing a book about a lofty subject such as freedom is like trying to jump from rock to rock across the creek without getting your feet wet. No matter how you plan your course, you are likely to slip off into the water somewhere. The choice, of course, is whether one wishes to stay on the bank with dry feet. Or take the risk of wet feet to get to the other side.

Doctors called upon to attend to the sick cannot prescribe a cure unless they are first able to diagnose the illness. Even before that, they must detect that the patient is ill. In the case of our freedoms, I can confidently say the patient is in grave danger. Having said so, and should you agree in whole or in part, we have, together, taken the first step toward the cure.

As for the solutions, there are only two kinds—those from outside the self and those from within. The first suggests that we destroy our enemies, that we manipulate or neutralize them, that we discover detours around them, that we suffer their impositions against us, or, at last, that we even love them. In any event, the solution acknowledges the existence of outside forces that deter our progress and impede our happiness. On the other hand, there persists the idea—one with which I agree—that solutions are mainly matters of the self, that power vested in others is often irrelevant to our freedom, and that the only change essential for the betterment of the human condition is to change within, that we are the fountainhead of power, and that, therefore, we need not free the world—we need only free ourselves. Yet I have never been an exclusionist. It makes no more sense to argue that all solutions should fall into one category or the other than to argue that mustard plaster is the proper remedy for every ailment.

The problem, however, is not so much in finding solutions as in making the solutions work. Any splinter can cause a fatal infection. This being so, one also knows one can never detect all the splinters that make up the smoothest stick. Marx, for example, hated the exploitation of the masses, but his solutions, however, corrupted in their application, resulted in the enslavement of whole nations. Christ also had a good idea—that we love one another. But his followers, attempting to realize his simple, perhaps perfect remedy, disagreed on what they thought were crucial points—whether they should hold their meetings on Saturday or Sunday—whether members of the flock at baptism should be nearly drowned to wash away their sins, or whether a few drops of water on the head would suffice. In the end, his followers proved to be strong on organization, unsurpassed on dogma, supreme on sophistry, but not much on love. They fought endless wars in his name, murdered hordes of the innocent, burned countless women at the stake as witches, bashed in the heads of “heathen” Indian children, and left the world riddled with guilt and fear.

Freedom in America, as bountiful and precious as it is, has always been a strange conglomerate of the divine and the fanciful. Understanding freedom in America is like listening to a one-armed piano player. His one arm performs not only its assigned task but has painfully attempted to undertake the function of the missing limb. He plays the melody with the magnificent frills and rolls of the virtuoso. He represents all of the higher virtues of the species: He is resourceful, creative, vigorous, and he is very brave. In listening, our minds provide for us what our ears do not—the music of the other hand. But after we assess his performance, as admirable as it has been, we know that something is, indeed, missing.

Freedom in America works best for those who can afford it. As the fellow said in The Grapes of Wrath, “You’re just as free as you’ve got Jack to pay for it.” It is not as much an idea as it is a commodity. It is not as much a liberated state of being as it is an item on the shelf that, along with the purchaser, may be purchased. It is not as much a right as a component of commerce.

The danger, of course, is that we have become the purchasers of the fable of freedom. When we vigorously argue to our neighbors that Americans are free, our neighbors will likely assert that they “buy” that. Having bought the fable, it belongs to us, and we fight to keep it like howling apes protecting their trinkets and their tinfoil.

On the other hand, some of us enjoy a state of freedom that never enters even the dreams of those in many other cultures. I sit warm and comfortable at my desk recording those thoughts. My stomach is full—too full. I do not fear intrusions from brown-shirted agents of the government. If I make minimal efforts at compliance with the rules that preserve the power structure, I will likely be left alone, even if I criticize the power structure, I am essentially free to rant and rave and to emit all manner of noxious noise. It is this dichotomy that serves as both our pride and our poison.

Today there are, as indeed, there have always been, insidious, enslaving forces at work in America. Today’s emerging tyranny emanates from a New King, from a nonliving power center composed at its core of monolithic corporate entities encased and protected by endless layers of governmental bureaucracies. The primary state of the New King is to convert all rights, all human energy, all goals and, at least, all humans into fungible commodities, for the New King exists solely for commerce and its life’s blood, its green blood, its money—and its singular mission is profit. The New King’s principal means of control is the media that sells us the myths of freedom, that, when we doubt, reassures us we are free, and that programs us and our children to accept the notion that all humans function, all human desires, indeed, even immortality itself can, at last, be satisfied at the marketplace.

I am not against religion—nor am I against commerce. I am, however, reluctant to offer solutions. If the Church has anything to do with it, those who offer solutions outside the scriptures will be condemned to eternal hell. If government has anything to do with them any sound idea will be consumed in the bureaucracy, and if the idea should somehow escape the grinding teeth of its machinery, the author will be labeled an enemy of the state and disemboweled in one fashion or another. If corporate America has anything to do with it, any ideas that threaten its power will be branded as leftist, commie, or un-American, and the author of such reform banished as a heretic against the most sacred of all religions in America, Free Enterprise.

At last, I have tired of the issue as well as these arguments. If this collection of free-floating thoughts about freedom is to have any efficacy, it will come from freely saying what is on my mind, saying it as well as I can, saying it in such a way that satisfies me, or even amuses me; and if a solution seems to appear, well why not give it recognition It does no one any good bounding around in the mind’s soupy fog where, in all probability, it will eventually be cast into the trash pile of the magnificent and the forgotten. And if no solutions seem at hand, well, I was never born to solve all of the world’s problems, and those who tried were either fools or martyrs.

Sometimes it is easier for a poor man to tolerate his corns than to go barefoot and discard the shoes that cause them. Despite the existence of sharp rocks and cockleburs, there is something magical about a boy’s barefoot freedom. If only we could convince the world’s leaders not to walk in each other’s shoes but, instead, to meet and talk to each other in their bare feet likely, the people, as well as the earth, would benefit immensely. I think, therefore, I shall walk bare-footed herein. I think I shall walk wherever my feet will take me. I hope you’ll come too." From: Steven P. Miller @ParkermillerQ, Founder of Gatekeeper-Watchman International Groups Wednesday, May 17, 2023, Jacksonville, Florida., Duval County, USA. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/Sparkermiller.JAX.FL.USA, https://www.facebook.com/StevenParkerMillerQ Instagram: steven_parker_miller_1956, Twitter: @GatekeeperWatchman1, @ParkermillerQ, https://twitter.com/StevenPMiller6 Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gatekeeperwatchman, https://www.tumblr.com/gatekeeper-watchman, https://www.pinterest.com/GatekeeperWatchman1/ #GWIG, #GWIN, #GWINGO, #Ephraim1, #IAM, #Sparkermiller, #Eldermiller1981

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god-whispers · 2 years

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aug 24

can't touch this

forgive me for even making the comparison, but today i was thinking about the holiness of God again and words from the mc hammer tune in the 90's kept coming to mind - "u can't touch this."

indeed, none of us can come near to the holiness of God. moses pleaded with God, "please, show me Your glory." exo 33:18 His glory would most definitely be His holiness. the definition i found for holy - spiritually whole or sound; of unimpaired innocence and virtue; free from sinful affections; pure in heart; godly; pious; irreproachable; guiltless; acceptable to God.

yes, it is acceptable to God. it is pleasing to God. it is God. HE IS HOLY! "be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God." rom 12:2 i used to have a pastor who would say, "His will is good and perfect and that's the only thing acceptable to God."

we certainly will not attain perfection until we shed these tents and receive our new bodies. sin, imperfection and error, is now the "default setting" of these bodies. yes, they are being "restored", but restorations often take pain-staking care and time.

i don't want to wander too far from the topic at hand - holiness. the point is, we can always look around us and our viewing will find some who are better and some who are worse than ourselves. they are not to be our goal or our gloat. the only person we need to be better than is the person we were yesterday.

i heard a preacher speak of the holiness of God yesterday with tears flowing from his eyes. he had an encounter and it had become "imprinted" - more than a memory. he had only caught a glancing glimpse (maybe 90 seconds) but was forever changed. i know my words could never convey his testimony.

he said in the mist of shaking and weeping it was hard to catch his breath. the holiness of God was so majestic. it was like the greatest royalty of any royalty one has ever experienced. (after all, He is the King of kings) the shame is, we have have lost our awe of royalty. we know them as only people like us, birth alone distinguishing them. "even though we have known Christ according to the flesh, yet now we know Him thus no longer." 2 cor 5:16 soon we shall know Him in His glory.

true royalty, true majesty brings one into fear and awe at the same time. (something dreadful and breathtaking at the same time - you want to look away but can't) knowing "all things are naked and open to the eyes of Him to whom we must give account." heb 4:13 it is a light and knowing that penetrates our innermost being. our righteousness quickly becomes "dung" in it's presence. "woe is me, for i am undone! because i am a man of unclean lips, and i dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts." isa 6:5

one becomes acutely aware that no act by us could hide the mess we have made of things. only the precious blood of Jesus fuels the ambition burning within us - to enter the holy of holies. only the blood can fulfill the desire that drives us - "that we may be partakers of His holiness." heb 12:10

our eyes must be steady on the prize - to be acceptable, to be like Him. there's nothing we can do in ourselves to attain that except, to submit and let Him have His way. if we do that to the "best" of our ability, Jesus will always make up the difference. if we slack off and coast on His grace; if we do not treasure the cost of that blood, then you should seriously consider whether you are "in the faith" or not. "when Jesus Christ shed his blood on the cross, it was not the blood of a martyr; or the blood of one man for another; it was the life of God poured out to redeem the world." — Oswald Chambers

what can wash away my sin? nothing but the blood of Jesus. what can make me whole again? nothing but the blood of Jesus.

o precious is the flow that makes me white as snow; no other fount i know; nothing but the blood of Jesus.

no, we "can't touch this." but our reach should always exceed our grasp. "for the earth yields crops by itself: first the blade, then the head, after that the full grain in the head." mark 4:28 so it is in the spirit realm also. the growth may be gradual but it must be steady. "that you may walk worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing Him, being fruitful in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God." col 1:10

"i will see Your face in righteousness; i shall be satisfied when I awake in Your likeness." psa 17:15 maranatha!

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pseudo90sdreaming · 2 years

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Patron Saint of the Damned and Condemned

here’s a small drabble I wrote for Childe a while back. might make this into a series or something

There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you. There wasn’t a sea deep enough to drown him or a desert dry enough to burn him to keep him away from you. There wasn’t a knife sharp enough or a word harsh enough to steer him away from your love. Hell would be raining down on earth—the seas would flood over the land and earthquakes would shatter the ground beneath your very feet, as the stars rocketed down in a flurry of hatred and self-loathing, and the seas would never be as suffocating, an earthquake as strong, or a star as bright or as beautiful as you; as pure and as holy as your love.

Anything for your love. For the holy water which poured from your lips and he drank greedily. For the sins which were washed away at your breath. For the hymns you whispered in the dead of night—a prayer, a chant, a plea to him. For him to stay safe. To stay unharmed. To stay with you. And he would do it. He would do it for his savior. His holiness. His love.

You were to be protected. You were to remain unstained. He was filthy. Rotten. Unloved and unwanted. But you: you were something good. The only good left in this world. You stood for every virtue there was and is and will be. You were the canticle of saints. You were who they dedicated churches to. You were the statues they prayed to; left offerings to; asked for intercessions to. You were the prophet spoken of in scripture.

To hell with the sacrilege, you are religion.

You are who he worships. You are his god. His holy one. His sanctified. Your bones should be something preserved in the deepest of tabernacles. Your crown of thorns molded from gold to remain on your coffin in his heart. Your stigmata burn him. His hands and his feet burn with the wounds of your love. They carve deep and true into the bone and cartilage in him, drawing out the blood you so deserved. The prick in his side will bleed for you until you tell him to stop. The blood will rush down his head and into his face, matting his hair, staining his freckled cheeks. Your stigmata will burn him, yes, but it’s in a way only someone who self-immolates can understand. He hopes your wounds burn into him scars for all to see. He hopes that others will witness his preaching and follow in your light.

He wants others to see the god that he sees—to see the human he worships so fervently, so ardently, and he wants them to realize that his god is for him and him alone. That despite his god’s benevolence, there is only benevolence for him.

Because he is a selfish, selfish person. He is no god. He is no saint. He is your prophet. Your baptized. Your follower. Your devotee who stands under the warmth of your neon church lights and basks in the glow of bastardization.

There is no room for an apostolate. But there is him: St. Ajax, patron saint of the damned and condemned. A child martyr. An innocent led astray before returning to the light of God.

You.

Your word is his command. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you. His devotional he prays every day. From your lips, he blesses himself with the most wicked of a Baptism. His Eucharist is your heart, bore opened and willing for his cannibal. His drink is the ichor in your veins, burning hot and painful. It gleams gold like money; like power; like love. He chants the hymns he knows by heart, seared into his flesh and soul so you know his dedication to you. So you know the worshipper lying at your washed feet. He would use the shirt on his back to dry your tears and your scars. He would take the flogging at the post and he would walk the 600 meters for you. He would nail himself to a crucifix upside down, bury himself miles beneath the earth’s surface, and rot in hell with all the other sinners and bastards so that you could remain pure for him. So you can continue to love him, heal him, make him something clean, something loved, something human. You didn’t deserve to feel pain. Gods shouldn’t carry the wounds of humans.

Ask him of anything you want. All your needs, your desires, your whims and your pleasures, he will make happen. He will sin for your peace of mind. He will steal and maim and murder and massacre. He will revolt and revolutionize. Evangelize, prophesize; he will see to it that your word is spread to the masses. That your church is built upon your final resting place; that your bones become his home when he finally succumbs to his own ten plagues.

“I want the head of John the Baptist.”

And the head of the false prophet you shall have. There isn’t anything the patron saint of the damned and condemned wouldn’t do for you.

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sweetcathedral · 3 years

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Note: Finally back from my break! Lots of things keep happening in my life that I’ve never expected, so I’m busier than usual, but I have queued up some quick stories for the next few weeks. Although this was inspired by the Are You Am I dresses, it’s more centred around Catholicism that I have a love-hate relationship with. Enjoy!

⚠️: 18+, fem! reader, altar sex, raw, church sex, overstimulation, creampie/breeding

“I don’t think we should be doing this.”

“Cut the act. You’d be fighting me, if you really opposed it,” Sukuna scoffs, admiring the view of your legs spread open—laid on top of the altar. Your ripped stockings, now webs of black thread, running across your thigh, like it’s still trying to keep him from tainting the last bit of innocence you had left. Beams of light fell from the skylight of the church, casting a soft glow on the God that was once loved, but now abandoned and left to be eaten by what he created.

“The hell are you wearing?” Sukuna arched his brow in a grimace expression.

You looked down at your outfit, not seeing what could be wrong with it. It’s your first time wearing something like this; a silk dress with dainty straps and a raw hemming that looks like it’s about to come undone & sheer opaque black stockings. “I don’t see anything wrong with it, does it look bad?” Sukuna strides towards you, analyzing your outfit, even lifting the hem of your dress as if he doesn’t know what’s already there.

“I will never understand the evolution of clothing in this era,” he cocks his head to the side with a placid look in his eyes. Ah, right. He died a long time ago.

“What did people used to wear in your time?”

“Fabrics that actually clothed them,” he tugs at your stockings and wiggles his finger in them, still trying to wrap his head around its function.

“Hey, stop that, it tickles and it feels weird,” you giggled, pushing his hand away.

“I don’t see any point in wearing it. I could rip this off right now.”

“Sukuna, no! This is expensive!” you bicker at him, clinging on to your dress as he tugs at it like a child does when they want their mom’s attention.

“Just ask Gojo to buy you a new one when we’re finished.”

“Finished?” the sound of threads shredding apart startles you.

You scan yourself like a puppy chasing its tail to see if he’d actually ripped your dress apart. Nothing, but something felt off—looking down at your stockings, you see that there was a large slit running down your leg, exposing your thigh.

"Heh, whoops," he flicks the small shred of fabric off his nails, walking you into a corner. The shadow of the room contrasts his face making his eyes glow a deeper crimson. "Don’t look away from me," grabbing your face, his nails dig into your skin as you try to fight off his grip. Lifting you against the wall, he softly drags his nails along your exposed thighs, teasingly drawing circular patterns the higher up he goes.

"Sukuna," you pleaded softly, his hand now on your neck, lifting you ´til you were on your tippy toes & trying to balance yourself so that you wouldn’t fall into complete suffocation.

"Shh, someone might hear you," he whispers in a low octave. You forgot you weren’t in a closed off area. The two of you were originally sent to an abandoned church to investigate a curse user of the Roman Catholic religion, that is until Sukuna took over Yuji’s body.

Your body jolts at Sukuna brushing his knuckles over your clit. The heat of you traces over the length of his finger through the thin fabric of your panties, stifling a moan. "Don’t be shy. It won’t be your first time sinning in front of a God," he cooed in your ears. He told you to be quiet, but he really just wanted to see you hold yourself back as he evokes your temptations & diminishes your composure. He loves seeing you corrupted, especially when it’s in a respectable church built to honour a God who guides herds of blinded sheep.

Only shame & humiliation wash over you as you avert your gaze from looking at the smaller crucifix hanging over the doorway the two of you came from. He turns to look in the same direction you did, a sly grin stretches from ear to ear. “I have a better idea,” his eyes narrow in defiance as he turns to look at the God overseeing the center aisle.

“I don’t think we should be doing this.”

You released a deep exhale at the feeling of something soft and wet trailing over your inner thighs—Sukuna. The warm feeling eases the tension all over your body and you can feel the heat of your blood pumping in your ears, his face getting closer and closer to where you want him the most. “Maybe we should find a more private setting,” you try convincing him.

“Now why would I want that? Just look at how wet you are down here,” he bites on your panties and pulls them off, revealing a dripping mess. It was embarrassing, immoral, but there was something about how good it feels to be doing something so wrong. The thrill of it sends a rush of adrenaline through your veins, your heart beating against your ribcage. More. “Tell me what you want.”

Everything, but even that thought wasn’t enough. “I want you . . . to take me to hell,” you whisper to him.

Taken aback by the words that just came out of your mouth, he brings himself back with that same sly grin and a soft look in his eyes. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

From one moment to the next, Sukuna drove your sanity out from you until you could think of nothing, but only him. The bold movement of his tongue reaching in to taste you, his fingers teasing around your clit and fondling your breasts, his lips pressing on every part of your skin, leaving wet splotches that are deep enough in colour to bloom into an aching bruise afterwards.

“Sukuna,” you lift the hem of your dress over as you fold your legs to your chest—revealing your painfully aching cunt, glistening with desire. The syllables of his name roll off the tip of your tongue like nectar. “More.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” he pulls your hips towards him, enough for your cunt to be pressing against the thick bulge fighting the strain of his black jeans. The altar creaked, as if in disappointment, at the sudden weight change.

Mesmerized by the sight of you laid on the altar like an offering, he takes his time to soak in the image, burning it into his mind; the burnished oak altar with the scene of the last supper carved beneath it, a warm glow cascading from the skylight of the church and the large crucified God, looking down at the lustful act unfolding in his house of worship. But then the feeling of your hips impatiently bucking at him interrupts his thoughts. “You know, they say patience is a virtue,” pleased at your eagerness.

“Fuck the virtues.”

“What a bold thing to say in a church,” he softly chuckles, the sound of his zipper perking your ears.

You reach for his belt, but he laces his fingers into yours, pressing your hand down. The tip of him brushes against your soft folds, lubricating itself with your juices. Without a struggle, his cock unfolds you, pushing a welcoming entrance open between your legs. Your walls flutter in excitement, pulling him in, as the creaking floors of the church groaned in disapproval.

“Oh, God,” you gripped at the altar cloth.

“You should moan louder for the angels to hear,” he thrusted into you harder than when he entered, the sound of skin slapping bounces off the walls. “Fuck.”

All righteous thoughts were purged out of you, like a soul being cleansed anew at adoration. Demon. It wasn’t your first time with him and it definitely won’t be your last. You can feel your body getting desperate to finish as you began to buck your hips faster.

“Closer,” you held your breath, arching your back.

The sound of his name falling off your lips sends a painful feeling of the need of wanting more. He wanted to strip away your senses to see a side of you that no one else has ever seen, the first to discover you and explore whatever you hid away from plain sight. That is what drove the King of Curses, Father of All Sins, to greed.

Echoes of your panting and moaning became a choir of sultry tones, replacing the familiar sounds of organs and bells in the church. Even though your legs were trembling from reaching your limits, he kept on going, ignoring your pleas and begging.

“Not yet,” he grunts in your ear.

“Please . . . I can’t take it anymore.”

Tears stream down your face as you grip onto Sukuna’s arms. The feeling in your legs were no longer there and you were having a hard time controlling your tremors. Just when you thought you couldn’t reach another climax, your cunt began pulsating rapidly as your body uncontrollably tensed up again.

When Sukuna pulled out, a waterfall of cum spilled out of you and pooled onto the altar cloth, dripping down the carving of the Last Supper. The two of you pant in exhaustion, he’s laying on top of you with his arms wrapped around your head, his hand firmly holding you close to him.

You brush your fingers through his hair, reciprocating the same affection back. “Tell me you’re finished for today,” you giggled.

“I wanna say ‘no’, but that’d mean you’d be knocking on Shoko’s door again.”

Both of you laughed as you teasingly tugged at his ear.

“Should we clean—!”

As he helped carry you off the altar, you looked back at the aging oak and crumpled cloth that had been perfectly fine and untainted—now dented with deep inhuman scratch marks surrounding the faint imprint of where you laid.

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ficsnroses · 3 years

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𝑯𝒊𝒔 - 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜

johnny silverhand x fem! V [reader].

summary : johnny and you both want this, a physical exchange to feel relief.

warnings : smut, nsfw. rough unprotected sex. swearing. 2.5k words. no spoilers other than johnny’s status.

notes : something new! next to zero plot, just some good ol fucking each other’s brains out smut. I had a lot of fun writing this, might write some more fics for him if readers are interested. enjoy! feedback appreciated as always. also! i’d love to read some johnny fics if you have recommendations :)

She’s slipping away, day by day by day.

Exhilarating, exhausting. The steps under her feet hurt, they mock. With each dragged, littered breath trudged out her lips, she crumbles. Crumbles in what feels as if the boneyard of a dream; the debris of a reverie.

She hurts, she needs relief. Something temporary to match what swills inside.

Relief that would come in something more than amber kissed crystal glasses, something stronger than the wash of bitter liquor searing down her throat. Alcohol feats in her head- but so does he.

He feats in her head, he’s taking over. Day by day, by day.

“Hey highness, why don’t you make yourself useful and get more smokes.”

His voice comes in loud barrels, thuds of lightening that crash in her veins. It’s sharp, pronounced. Gravelly, a contrast, disparity to her quieter, mellower one- one that caused a ruckus to be heard for the entirety of her being, to be remembered.

Yet, it hadn’t gotten her far. She’d been far from what she’d dreamt.

Her voice, her quiet, broken voice that plead to be heard.

He stands crisp, muscled back brave against the cold metallic wall. Broken drags and hostile exhales haste out his throat, the tared smoke serving as a dire remembrance of what he used to be.

Real.

“Gonna move or what?” Strong, cynical. The tone he spits is rough, pessimistic. He’d come as a parasite, something humane no more, driven by a dream, a delusion. His delusion, he’d use her for. There’s no affliction in his voice, no compassion. His voice registers dimly through the rumble of her own agony.

Somewhere along blurred lines, parasitic growls became usual; anticipated.

It’s tough being angry at someone who hears you.

And somewhere along the dreary lines, he’d felt it too.

It’s tough being angry at someone who sees you. Sees someone, the world had long forgotten.

Her voice comes in sharp daggers, strident. “Shut up.” Long for relief brews in her nerves, threatens to overtake. Threatens to destruct. “Shut the fuck up for one second” She growls, a low huff under her breath. The burn is breaking her, the yearn scorches inside long empty walls.

He knows too, he senses the deliberation inside her. He feels it in cold, chilled ghastly bones. He could help her, and she could help him, with something more than the mission at stake. Something sinfully bigger than the dream.

Something to feel human, again. He walks, a hologram that leaves louder, heavier steps than anyone she’d known prior. She feels a tingle; a twitch in her skin ignites, she feels a dark warmth.

It comes from him; it calls from his body.

“You’re an asshole. Nothing more.” She pierces, the toxins fall her lips, a desperate attempt to keep him away. Keep him out.

The drags of his steps thud louder in her head, the shift of his holographic form closer. There’s a hoarse gravel in his throat, something so negative, yet so familiar. So painfully familiar. He lives inside her, he’s all she’s began to remember. “Cigarettes make me feel something.” The cool air that stings the nape of her neck sends a shiver down her spine. “Something fucking real for once.”

“Fuck off.” She spits, avoiding a sworn intense gaze. Her stare in the abyss out the distant paned windows causes a churn in her mid, something sickening. A quiet realization falls, creeping.

“You’re taking over me.”

A chuckle off his mouth, a smirk curled to his thin taut lips. “We are bound.” He growls. “And I am owed.”

Chained; she reminds herself. You are chained, shackled to him.

“You’re owned nothing.” She grits. He watches the way she tenses, visibly burning.

In his hallow shell of a mind long forgotten, he’d undressed her a thousand times; watched the way she slept so vulnerably, thought of the way the threads that hug her body like a lover could peel off so easily. So sinfully. “Can’t help but wonder what this pretty pussy of yours could make me feel instead.” A growl emits his throat, stocked fingers finding their way palming thin fabric shielding her cunt from prying gaze.

And the touch that registered leaves her panting. His touch, something she’d never felt before, was real. He was real. This ghost that drowns in her every thought was existent as day, dark as night.

“You want me, as much as I want you.” His voice comes in drowned out waves; the long inside her body for something physical slowly enveloping. “Fucking say it.”

She dreams of relief, of release. She dreams of good, pleasure that could wash her lungs; quench the burn. She dreams of something more than the familiar scald of liquor sent in cascades down her throat. She dreams of something physical, something filthy to satiate relief.

Sex starved, she succumbs. Sex longing, he smirks, and smirks,

and smirks.

Stop, says her mind.

Go, haunts her body. Let him use you the way you’ve always wanted.

“Fuck me.” She mutters, breath rugged, crisp desperation rung on shade stained lips. “Fuck me. Now.” The words rip, long pent frustrations urge. He’s far too appealing, perfectly groomed beard and lengthy locks raven on his mane; toned muscles, cryptic bolded ink litter his skin. Deep-rooted ink bedecks his un robotic arm, and she sighs at the way his smirk induced lips crawl at her neck. Lingering kisses, gentle bites leaving faint purple bruises to her delicate skin;

Something about the way he speaks, the way his touch held the power of a million fucking bullets.

Unmatched, unprecedented.

Cold and stoic, his bionic hand plants to her chest, above the valley of perfectly plump breasts. Slowly, he guides, her body finding refuge on her bed covered in a sea of soft sheets and cottoned pillows. The same bed, where she knew he’d fuck her into oblivion, now that she’d asked.

A fire burns in his belly, a smoke that matches lustrous eyes roving and bulging pants. Through brown leather, the outline of his impressive cock causes a gulp in her throat, the anticipation tightening in her ached cunt, long yearned for the fruit of any friction. “Take everything off.” His shallow voice demands, and she watches the way he palms a throbbing cock shielded from her gaze.

Johnny was equipped, experienced; expert to say the least. He knew well how to please a woman, how to mix the perfect blend of pain and pleasure. If there’s one thing groupie affairs taught;

all pussy is good, but only few, came heavenly.

He’d known since he’d saw her, since their first encounter. There’d been no place he’d wanted to be buried guts deep, no place as tight, warm, inviting than her cunt. Her movements follow obliged, skimpy cloth and thin bottoms tugged off for his view. Amatory lace bottoms and a matching bra unhook through the brittle fingers of her hands; her eyes never leave him. The way his prying eyes dig into hers, piercing. He palms, and strokes, cold hands moving to unbuckle a heavy belt that falls to the floor with a dense thud.

In the chilled air of the futuristic room, a cold shiver pecks at her skin; inch by inch a warmth blazes inside. The anticipation of what Johnny would, could do to her. He could destroy her.

He could ruin her, with every thrust.

Much to his splendour, her bare breasts sit perfectly swollen on her chest, pert, hardened nipples vibrant with tint. Silky skin, perfectly dewy. She was a fucking goddess in her own right; a sex siren his cock pulses for, in dire need. A flush to her skin ignites, visibly frustrated. “Haven’t been fucked in a while, have you.” He states firmly, less of a question than proclamation. A cold, robotic finger grazes her bottom lip, stony, iced, a snicker loiters. “Or haven’t been fucked well?” His finger trails down, gently, sub-zero, feather light as it glosses her skin, brushed against the petals, the slippery folds of her tender womanhood; two digits enter, curling inside her beautifully slick, warm walls.

“You’re gonna remember me for days, princess. Gonna wreck this pretty pussy of yours, show you what it means to be alive.”

In this moment, she’d swore she belongs to him. She’d permit his pessimistic soul to do whatever he sought, with her frail body.

“Gonna pull it out or what, coward.” She allows, that familiar confidence she’d so desperately tried to hold true finding light once again.

She tries, she pleads to be strong. Yet she knows, she’d be sure. She’d crumble under him; she’d fall mercy to his mechanical touch.

“Patience.” He sneers, motorized hands unzipping. “Patience is virtue, darling.”

Somewhere along the way, she’d gotten accustomed to snarky remarks, egotistical transcriptions.

His cock falls out of his pants, heavy, thick, big, beautiful. She swallows, intrigued by the grandeur, a rosy tip swells with beads of wet pre cum, seeps. A thunderous vein runs down a curved shaft, copious balls surrounded by a jungle of dark hair.

She swallows at the sight; his words stay true. Intimidated, she’d for sure remember him, for days. The ache he’d leave would triumph for days to come.

“On your back.” He demands, pants long forgotten to the flat below, a few meagre tugs jerked to his raw, throbbing member.

Johnny Silverhand had fucked countless women, yet none made his cock as painfully erect, tender as she did. In the most sinful of ways, his cock would become her prisoner, and they hadn’t even started yet. With a rock hard cock digging into the skin of her stomach, he takes positon above her, towering. The scent of need fills the air as silky legs spread for his taking,

She spreads for his taking. A gasp dies in her throat as his cock springs, the deep baritone moan in his chest grumbling as his erection dips forcefully into her tiny mouth, impeding down her throat with a sole thrust. His hips buck forcefully in her wet, tight mouth, lingering as his jaw tightens, before plummeting out.

He’d primed himself in her throat, preparing to be buried between feeble legs, drowned inside her tender cunt.

Glancing between sweat stippled bodies, she stares and stares when his hands line a pulsating cock up with her entrance, firm hands planting to her hips, his massive member sinks inside her, rough, robust. A heavy thrust implores, big, warm, beautiful. One deep, harsh thrust was all it took. All it took for her to ascend, a loud moan of pure pleasure let off her lips at the sheer weight of him inside.

The bass of his voice moans harsh, sucking in a sharp breath to the feel of her wrapped, glistening his cock with her creamy, wet releases. His pace proves animalistic, hard off the get go, minimal time for her to adjust before he pounds her hastily, laboured breaths and quickened heavy exhales channelling out both their bodies. Delicate, weak arms desperately hold his broad shoulders as he drills into her needily, sloppily, the sound of thick balls slamming her core echo grey walls, dark eyes and enticingly deep grunts kissing her ears as he takes her body whole. “Fuck…you’re...” He breathes, rugged, harsh. “You’re…so fucking tight. So fucking wet.” Growling, he watches her become a whimpering, disorderly mess under his weight as beautifully plump breasts jerk hastily to his hostile pace. Her eyes flutter closed, lips slightly agape as she breathes tiny, gasped moans, fingernails clawing into his fleshy shoulders.

His hips rock expertly, so rough, so quick she feels warm tears singe in he corners of her eyes at how well he fucks her, how guttural his moans fall. Praises for her pussy dawdle his lips in hasty exhales, chasing his orgasm as her cunt cocoons, moulds to his cock so perfectly; as if a glove, as if she’d been made just for him. Solely for him to use, for him to fuck. His hold on her tightens, hands kneading tantalising hips as one moves to squeeze her breast, tough. The stretch he leaves proves incomparable, eyes widening when the curve of his cock hits her G spot repeatedly, hisses of her name and rapt desire overtaking. A selfish pace conjures, her body jerks, stifling moans with each imperative thrust.

The pain, the pleasure. The unholy pleasure of this parasite splitting her inch by inch. His cock glides easily, slips in and out gratifyingly; whimpers and yelps brew her voice, a chant of his name desperately recited as if a prayer she’d held, punctuated by growls and throaty gruffs of his. With her tits bouncing vigorously to his pace, Johnny’s need only cultivates further, and he drowns in the feel of her heavenly cunt.

His, all, and only, his.

Her legs tremble, a bite sinks into her arm covering her mouth to cage particularly gruesome moans. The violent labour of his hips, over and over, and over leave every vein inside her snapping, every nerve ending sparking with lust, she feels him all. His entire cock barely fitting; she squirms under him, his buttery voice filtered with demand. “Tighten up for me. Milk this cock like it’s the last thing you’ll do.” His moans fall heavier, as his thrusts; sultry, stiff voice surging her ears as he shudders, shivering, buried deep, deep inside. A cocktail of glossy, creamed releases they’d create together drip to the sheets below, although neither cease to care.

A joint euphoria builds, something they’d needed dire. Her limbs wrap his frame, his muscles cage her tight. He pounds, he thrusts, he jolts, he relishes in the tender haven she’d given him to spoil in; the sound of his cock slicking in her wetness through unaltered thrusts proves far too much, she feels each ridge, each inch of his godly cock assaulting her core.

“Gonna cum,” Johnny asserts, pace never faltering. She jolts, and jolts, and cries, and whines to his speed, to his feel. Within a few particularly intense thrusts, lewd moans drive out her lips in frantic succumb, her pussy throbs for him, skin colliding, arousing him further. Holding dearly, she practically melts into him, hips bucking to meet his as a blissful, earthshattering orgasm washes over her in currents; in oceanic waves, a tsunami of all things good, all things filthy.

Her pussy falls sore, aching, delicate from the action when he grunts imperatively, the sound of hammering hips into her heat dying down when his cock twitches within her, slipping through silky arousal easily, slamming relentlessly when his high comes. It comes, he cums, deep, deep inside her trifling cunt, swollen thick and jerked as spurts of hot, scotching cum coat the insides of her pussy. The groans he lets out prove impatient, hoarse, coursing, currenting through her ears. She beats with his succulent release inside, a cocktail her juices and what he’d left behind coating the insides of her thighs.

In sex gratified bliss, her eyes widen when he collapses on top, thunderous arms holding her still, cock excruciating felt within. Tonight, she’d been told. She’d been shown,

Johnny likes it

Sloppy. Vulgar. Tight.

pornographic.

Johnny likes it rough, hard.

Ruthless, and she’d crumbled in each inch of it. Addicted, long gone. He’d sworn the same, intoxicated by her unrivalled cunt, those soft, whingeing moans that flee her lips;

With their skin sticking together through beads of peppered exertion, laboured puffs and heavy huffs pound in their chests, bodied still fitted together as if a puzzle piece, cock still sheathed inside. Simpering, smirking, his cold, contemporary finger lifts the faint of her chin,

the world seemed to have ended in this moment.

her world had ended, shaken.

But time still passed, it passed, it tightened, clawed in her chest.

Nothing compared to him, nothing tasted as sweet.

“We are bound, kitten. This pussy is mine, and mine alone.”

A declaration, a fate written.

He’d taken over another part of her; and this time, she let him.

Her body belongs to him, in all forms.

His fuck doll, she’d be.

And she knows, she feels it in her bones. He’ll be the death of her through what comes;

he’ll love to ruin her.

and she’ll love, to be his.

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

#johnny silverhand x reader #johnny silverhand x you #Johnny silverhand x female v #Johnny silverhand x V #Keanu Reeves x reader #Johnny silverhand fanfic

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halibellecter · 2 years

Text

This House is Not On Fire

I remember I was talking to my therapist.

It was November or maybe it was May, or June, or July, or August. No... before I got sick. Couldn't have been November. think it was spring.

And I was trying to express,

somehow,

the yawning chasm between self care and underperformance and how slowing down when confronted with burnout wasn't always possible, nevermind if it was even enough.

And I said,

Look. The house is on fire. People are passing buckets. And your arms are tired and your legs are tired and your chest feels hollow and your back aches and someone comes up to you and says,

Slow down. You are burning out from passing all these buckets. Take a break. Rest. Pass fewer buckets--

But you already ARE passing fewer than you need to.

You need to pass ten per day to put out the fire and save all the innocent people inside and you KNOW this and you've been TRAINED for this but you barely manage three. Sometimes only one.

And while you're slacking and aching and lazily dying, while you're working, while you're sweating, and still not doing enough... the flames are spreading and the babies inside the house are screaming and

THE HOUSE IS STILL ON FIRE.

Pass fewer buckets? Are you mad?

Can someone else--

no.

No one else. Every available hand is needed. This is a FIRE, you IDIOT, it is an EMERGENCY, a matter of LIFE and DEATH,

if I walk away the buckets do not get passed.

So here you are, clean... ashless... sootless... telling me I'm burning out as if I can't feel it, being scorched and scraped hollow by this, from the inside out, and you're saying that me passing the buckets is the problem but let's say I try your way, let's say I take a break, be "selfish", pass no buckets for a day, a week.

THE HOUSE IS STILL ON FIRE.

The people inside are still charring and screaming with poisoned black throats and cracked lips, red burned cooked cracked bleeding tongues, with saliva boiling from the heat.

Because I needed to "rest", while they are DYING.

...

This house is not on fire.

This house is clean and cool inside. It doesn't require nor does it want my blood, sweat and tears to stain it-- it wants only my paintbrush, some dropcloths, some clothesline to string from its back porch.

Walking up to this house is not an exercise in overcoming

my fight or flight response

it is not a trial

and I am not a suspect in the Case of the House That Was Allowed to Be On Fire.

And I am no longer an arsonist

By virtue of exhaustion.

I... remembered. This morning, thinking about how it would be okay, it would be okay, not being perfect, it would be alright.

Missing a deadline. Not working so hard.

These things were sins before;

they've been washed clean.

They're virtues now.

Not burning out is a virtue.

I still carry buckets, but one is enough. None is enough. When we arrive at the house I don't throw the water onto it to put it out. I don't expend it all at once and rush back for another on my aching legs.

I set it down in the floor and begin to mop with it.

Slow circles.

Because this house is not on fire.

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witchofthesouls · 1 year

Note

Title: Burn Your Sins and Wash Away Your Virtues.

My take on the trope where a human ally time travels to the past to save Cybertron. (Or from a certain point of view.)

June Darby-centric fic. She's from a bad timeline and manages to activate a lost Primal Artifact with a sacrifice, Megatronus Prime's to be exact.

The ghost of the Fallen gives her a chance to change everything, to turn back to the beginning, and forge a different outcome at the cost of herself and her timeline.

The catch: She needs to take his mantle.

#ask #skyite #transformers #transformers prime #tfp #june darby #megatronus prime #humans into cybertronians #humanformers #time travel #fic ideas #magic #maccadam #my thoughts #ask meme

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herstarburststories · 4 years

Text

Make Me Yours

Day 4 of Kinktober: Body Ownership

Day 4 of Suptober: Branded

Pairing: Michael!Dean x reader

Summary: Michael wants you to be his.

A/N: I swear I'm not that pornography on daily basis I'm even more, but branding is very kinky here. I also strongly support you listening to False God while reading. @itsangelpie @deanmonandnegansbitch, this is the Michael one I was talking about xD

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, p in v, bit of power play, marking, brief fingering, grace

CATCH UP KINKTOBER & SUPTOBER

Michael enjoyed leaving a trace behind like any other powerful celestial.

Once, the loyal son convinced himself that it was because he wanted, not only humans, but his siblings, father, and any other being to know that he could be a savior like he was built to be. No matter what, he was a righteous warrior who would do anything his beloved father wanted him to. He was a perfect soldier, earning nothing but pride and all the head pats possible.

At least, that was before. It was back when Michael thought that God truly loved him and that he had a bigger purpose than gaining adoration from his fragile humans to overthrow Lucifer — his little brother, the archangel that was thrown away like a rough draft. Now, Michael couldn't care less about living up to his goody two shoes reputation. He didn't care about his brothers and sisters either, much less the humans. The archangel wouldn't say that he hated them like Lucifer foolishly did. His brother was wrapped in a bubble of jealousy that was almost embarrassing. No, breakable things didn't deserve attention. Michael just didn't care about them or their little world. All of his heaven-made goals had melted into one thing to look forward to — getting Chuck back to kill him.

So what if he had to burn a couple of dimensions and their human inhabitants? That was just an unfortunate side effect of Chuck’s little creations being the only thing that could catch his attention.

Burn a book? Get the author’s fury.

Michael was more than satisfied with the idea of leaving a trace of calamitous fire behind. It was such a beautiful legacy that would put fear into the atmosphere of the universe, and Michael would be God. He would be better one — the evolved version of what he’d always been as an archangel.

The torn holes of vulnerability inside of him had only grown wider, gaping into an open wound when his father left him as though Michael were as useless as a broken toy. That wicked, selfish side said it was because he wanted everyone to know how terrible he can be — fear him so no one will ever be close enough to hurt him again.

Terror had worked better than adoration for millenniums.

The archangel is good with that. Unlike his father, Michael's ego is as big as the amount of blood in his hands, not the people on their knees or the number of démodé cathedrals to worship him in the name of a bible that he never wrote. He doesn't need humanity’s adoration.

You bit your bottom lip to contain a smile, glancing at him. Michael could read from your mind and erratic heartbeat that you were both excited and curious about what was going to happen. Yet, he didn't need to. He knew your body — that perfect body — very well by himself with no help of his powers.

Correction: he needs one human's worship.

As mentioned beforehand, powerful beings like to leave a trace behind for multiple reasons: marking their territory like a big dog, making a point to gain respect through terror, or boosting their self-confidence.

“Get on all fours, little one.”

For the first time, Michael wanted to make someone a living reminder of him. He wanted to mark a human for being his: you.

You were obedient, quickly moving to the position that he had asked. You can hear Michael humming in satisfaction, moving in such a quiet way that you almost feel surprised when he placed his hand on your back.

Michael watched your body with care, his fingers dancing with tenderness on your skin. He used to believe that a vessel was everything a human body was worth. Sex was a foreign concept, nothing but an earthling’s attempt not to feel alone — if they weren't fighting, they were fucking. It got boring after the first few centuries.

And then, you happened.

“So marvelous, little one.” His words were laced with gruffness, startling a whimper out of you. “All of this…” He held your waist and pulled you back swiftly. You gasped, feeling his hardness against your ass. Michael didn't slide in, but he kept rubbing himself on you. “All of you…” One of his hands slid down your body, making way for his fingers to catch your sweet spot. You were so warm and wet: there was nothing on Heaven, Earth, or Hell as splendid your needy cunt. “Who do you belong to, Y/N?”

“To you, Michael. I belong to you. Please.” You should be ashamed of begging so early, but how could you judge yourself? Michael's hard cock behind you, making your ass dirty with precum along with two fingers inside your pussy and his possessive words stewing inside your head — you were still just a human, after all. “I need you.”

It was blissful, to have someone he was enchanted by to worship him as the Sabaeans did to the stars.

“Patience is a virtue, little one.” The archangel wore a proud smirk, adding another finger into your wet mess. You groaned in response, pressing your hips to his pelvis in an obvious attempt for more.

Michael's cock welcomed the growing arousal, dropping more precum than before and twitching. It was difficult not to give himself any relief, but he had to teach you a lesson before taking you again. Religion came with strict rules.

He pulled away from you, grabbing your neck from behind only to push your head on the bed. Your cheek to the mattress made it was painfully easy for reality to sink in: the archangel’s fingers on your bare skin, his fingers that were inside you. There was something uniquely blasphemous about sinning like this.

“You take what I give you, and you're grateful for that. Understood?” He howled, tightening his hold on you. “I picked you.”

“Yes, master.” The two words fought to leave your mouth before ultimately escaping. You know you should be afraid, but your soul refuses to welcome any feeling other than excitement. Michael didn't even use his grace yet. He wouldn't hurt you: at least, not enough for you to suffer. Everything he did to your body was a blessing.

“Good.” He exhaled, letting go of your neck. The archangel had been way too patient, and you waited long enough. You dared turn your head to look at him, and Michael was divine. His gorgeous body was crouched with his knees on the bed while he patiently observed you. His length was large and rock hard against your leg. You just wanted to give him release. “Like what you see?”

You gulped, nodding furiously. The archangel chortled before he slid his cock inside you without any other warning.

You let out a shamefully loud scream. What else could you do? His cock was fucking its way inside you, cleansing your body with the prayer of being everything you could ever need or want: to feel holy, to feel full. Michael grunted, grabbing your hips to pull you closer, and you moved back and forth in sync with him. Soon, the bed was the one clamoring with noise. Both of you became hollow when you were like this — hungry, craving for something to fill up your empty pieces.

Michael was the right hand of God, the protector — whatever treasures he chose to deify would be eternal because he could make it happen. And for Heaven, he adored you.

His cock found your G-spot, and his grace flooded into your veins as if it was meant to be there. Your walls were tighter and tighter around him, and you couldn't wait to feel his load inside you, marking you from inside. There was a wash of glowing pleasure in your body. You had never felt so light before. This felt like the precipice of your glorified religion, and God, you could make a church out of this.

“That's it, my love.” Michael moaned, his eyes bright blue as he fucked himself into you. You bit the pillow to keep another scream down. He squeezed your waist. There was something burning in your bones with a painful pleasure as his hand glowed. He was branding you as his, writing his symbol all over your soul, bones, and heart. And you were enjoying every single ache of it. “Cum for me. I want to hear you coming for me.”

He may be a false god, but he certainly brought you to heaven.

Your lips parted into a moan as your juice came all over his pulsating cock, and Michael came inside you in a rush. Everything hurt as if he had rearranged your bones, but it was as comfortable as if they were all snapped back together in the right places. You fell on the bed out of exhaustion, wondering if you'd live to see another day. All of you seemed to be on fire, much more than the other times. Your pussy was pulsing, and you could smell him all over your skin. He had made your body his. You were his.

Michael pulled away from you, a lopsided grin on his lips as he glanced at his possession. The archangel laid down, pulling your tired body to him. You clung to Michael while trying to breathe properly. What had just happened?

“Wh — What was that?”

“I marked you, little one.” Michael gave you a devilish grin while his eyes shone a dazzling blue. He was the apocalypse of your soul, and you couldn't wait for the sweet destruction. “Now, everyone will know that you are mine. Your pussy, all your body, and your soul. You belong to me, Y/N.” He had everything now. The world and you. He was ethereal. “I'm your god now.”

You made an altar out of him, and you'd always be a loyalist to this love, no matter the sacrifices you'd have to do for this.

Leave a comment and reblog. Feedback is magic! Check my day 1,2&3 of kinktober & day 3 of suptober, and my masterlist ♡

Dean's sweethearts: @akshi8278 @hardcoresupernatural

Hunters: @demonhunterbarbie @bi-danvers0 @emilyshurley @desimarie12

Kinktober taglist: @psych0crybaby

WANNA BE TAGGED? SEND ME AN ASK OR DM.

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cassianus · 3 years

Text

Prayer to St Mary Magdalene (Feast July 22nd)

by St. Anselm

St. Mary Magdalene, you came with springing tears to the spring of mercy, Christ; from Him your burning thirst was abundantly refreshed through Him your sins were forgiven; by Him your bitter sorrow was consoled.

My dearest lady, well you know by your own life how a sinful soul can be reconciled with its Creator, what counsel a soul in misery needs, what medicine will restore the sick to health. It is enough for us to understand, dear friend of God, to whom were many sins forgiven, because she loved much.

Most blessed lady, I who am the most evil and sinful of men do not recall your sins as a reproach, but call upon the boundless mercy by which they were blotted out. This is my reassurance, so that I do not despair; this is my longing, so that I shall not perish.

I say this of myself, miserably cast down into the depths of vice, bowed down with the weight of crimes, thrust down by my own hand into a dark prison of sins, wrapped round with the shadows of darkness.

Therefore, since you are now with the chosen because you are beloved and are beloved because you are chosen of God, I, in my misery, pray to you, in bliss; in my darkness, I ask for light; in my sins, redemption; impure, I ask for purity.

Recall in loving kindness what you used to be, how much you needed mercy, and seek for me that same forgiving love that you received when you were wanting it. Ask urgently that I may have the love that pierces the heart; tears that are humble; desire for the homeland of heaven; impatience with this earthly exile; searing repentance; and a dread of torments in eternity.

Turn to my good that ready access that you once had and still have to the spring of mercy.

Draw me to him where I may wash away my sins; bring me to him who can slake my thirst; pour over me those waters that will make my dry places fresh. You will not find it hard to gain all you desire from so loving and so kind a Lord, who is alive and reigns and is your friend.

For who can tell, beloved and blest of God, with what kind familiarity and familiar kindness he himself replied on your behalf to the calumnies of those who were against you? How He defended you, when the proud Pharisee was indignant, how He excused you, when your sister complained, how highly He praised your deed, when Judas begrudged it.

And, more than all this, what can I say, how can I find words to tell, about the burning love with which you sought him, weeping at the sepulchre, and wept for Him in your seeking?

How He came, who can say how or with what kindness, to comfort you, and made you burn with love still more; how He hid from you when you wanted to see Him, and showed Himself when you did not think to see Him; how He was there all the time you sought Him, and how He sought you when, seeking Him, you wept.

But you, most holy Lord, why do You ask her why she weeps? Surely You can see; her heart, the dear life of her soul, is cruelly slain. O love to be wondered at; O evil to be shuddered at! You hung on the wood, pierced by iron nails, stretched out like a thief for the mockery of wicked men; and yet, "Woman," You say, "why are you weeping?" She had not been able to prevent them from killing You, but at least she longed to keep Your Body for a while with ointments lest it decay. No longer able to speak with You living, at least she could mourn for You dead. So, near to death and hating her own life, she repeats in broken tones the words of life which she had heard from the living.

And now, besides all this, even the Body which she was glad, in a way, to have kept, she believes to have gone. And can You ask her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" Had she not reason to weep? For she had seen with her own eyes -- if she could bear to look -- what cruel men cruelly did to You; and now all that was left of You from their hands she thinks she has lost. All hope of You has fled, for now she has not even Your lifeless Body to remind her of You.

And someone asks, "Who are you looking for? Why are you weeping?"

You, her sole joy, should be the last thus to increase her sorrow. But You know it all well, and thus you wish it to be, for only in such broken words and sighs can she convey a cause of grief as great as hers. The love You have inspired You do not ignore,

And indeed You know her well, the Gardener, who planted her soul in His garden. What You plant, I think You also water. Do You water, I wonder, or do You test her? In fact, You are both watering and putting to the test.

But now, good Lord, gentle Master, look upon your faithful servant and disciple, so lately redeemed by Your Blood, and see how she burns with anxiety, desiring You, searching all round, questioning, and what she longs for is nowhere found. Nothing she sees can satisfy her, since You whom alone she would behold, she sees not.

What then? How long will my Lord leave his beloved to suffer thus? Have You put off compassion now You have put on incorruption? Did You let go of goodness when you laid hold of immortality?

Let it not be so, Lord. You will not despise us mortals now You have made Yourself immortal, for You made yourself a mortal in order to give us immortality.

And so it is; for love's sake He cannot bear her grief for long or go on hiding Himself. For the sweetness of love He shows Himself who would not for the bitterness of tears.

The Lord calls His servant by the name she has often heard and the servant knows the voice of her own Lord. I think, or rather I am sure, that she responded to the gentle tone with which He was accustomed to call, "Mary." What joy filled that voice, so gentle and full of love. He could not have put it more simply and clearly:

"I know who you are and what you want; behold Me; do not weep, behold Me; I am He whom you seek."

At once the tears are changed; I do not believe that they stopped at once, but where once they were wrung from a heart broken and self-tormenting they flow now from a heart exulting. How different is, "Master!" from "If you have taken Him away, tell me"; and, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him," has a very different sound from, "I have seen the Lord, and he has spoken to me."

But how should I, in misery and without love, dare to describe the love of God and the blessed friend of God? Such a flavour of goodness will make my heart sick if it has in itself nothing of that same virtue. But in truth, You who are very Truth, You know me well and can testify that I write this for the love of Your love, my Lord, my most dear Jesus. I want Your love to burn in me as You command so that I may desire to love You alone and sacrifice to You a troubled spirit, "a broken and a contrite heart."

Give me, O Lord, in this exile, the bread of tears and sorrow for which I hunger more than for any choice delights. Hear me, for Your love, and for the dear merits of your beloved Mary, and Your blessed Mother, the greater Mary. Redeemer, my good Jesus, do not despise the prayers of one who has sinned against You but strengthen the efforts of a weakling that loves You. Shake my heart out of its indolence, Lord, and in the ardour of Your love bring me to the everlasting sight of Your glory where with the Father and the Holy Spirit You live and reign, God, for ever. Amen.

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mattchase82 · 3 years

Text

Saint Dominc and the Rosary

TAKEN FROM MIRACULOUS STORIES OF THE ROSARY by SAINT LOUIS de MONTFORT

Saint Dominic, seeing that the gravity of people’s sins was hindering the conversion of the Albigensians, withdrew into a forest near Toulouse, where he prayed continuously for three days and three nights. During this time he did nothing but weep and do harsh penances in order to appease the anger of God. He used his discipline so much that his body was lacerated, and finally he fell into a coma. At this point our Lady appeared to him, accompanied by three angels, and she said, “Dear Dominic, do you know which weapon the Blessed Trinity wants to use to reform the world?” “Oh, my Lady,” answered Saint Dominic, “you know far better than I do, because next to your Son Jesus Christ you have always been the chief instrument of our salvation.” Then our Lady replied, “I want you to know that, in this kind of warfare, the principal weapon has always been the Angelic Psalter, which is the foundation-stone of the New Testament. Therefore, if you want to reach these hardened souls and win them over to God, preach my Psalter.” So he arose, comforted, and burning with zeal for the conversion of the people in that district, he made straight for the cathedral. At once unseen angels rang the bells to gather the people together, and Saint Dominic began to preach. At the very beginning of his sermon, an appalling storm broke out, the earth shook, the sun was darkened, and there was so much thunder and lightning that all were very much afraid. Even greater was their fear when, looking at a picture of our Lady exposed in a prominent place, they saw her raise her arms to heaven three times to call down God’s vengeance upon them if they failed to be converted, to amend their lives, and seek the protection of the holy Mother of God. God wished, by means of these supernatural phenomena, to spread the new devotion of the holy Rosary and to make it more widely known. At last, at the prayer of Saint Dominic, the storm came to an end, and he went on preaching. So fervently and compellingly did he explain the importance and value of the Rosary that almost all the people of Toulouse embraced it and renounced their false beliefs. In a very short time a great improvement was seen in the town; people began leading Christian lives and gave up their former bad habits.

WHEN YOU START PRAYING THE DAILY ROSARY, YOU CAN STOP FEARING DEATH…

The Fifteen Promises of Mary Granted to those who Recite the Rosary Daily

The Blessed Virgin Mary Promised to Saint Dominic and to all who follow that “Whatever you ask in the Rosary will be granted.” She left for all Christians Fifteen Promises to those who recite the Holy Rosary.

Imparted to Saint Dominic and Blessed Alan de la Roche

1. Whoever shall faithfully serve me by the recitation of the Rosary, shall receive signal graces.

2. I promise my special protection and the greatest graces to all those who shall recite the Rosary.

3. The Rosary shall be a powerful armor against hell, it will destroy vice, decrease sin, and defeat heresies.

4.The Rosary will cause virtue and good works to flourish; it will obtain for souls the abundant mercy of God; it will withdraw the hearts of men from the love of the world and its vanities, and will lift them to the desire for eternal things. Oh, that souls would sanctify themselves by this means.

5. The soul which recommends itself to me by the recitation of the Rosary, shall not perish.

6. Whoever shall recite the Rosary devoutly, applying himself to the consideration of its sacred mysteries shall never be conquered by misfortune. God will not chastise him in His justice, he shall not perish by an unprovided death; if he be just he shall remain in the grace of God, and become worthy of eternal life.

7. Whoever shall have a true devotion for the Rosary shall not die without the sacraments of the Church.

8. Those who are faithful to recite the Rosary shall have during their life and at their death the light of God and the plenititude of His graces; at the moment of death they shall participate in the merits of the saints in paradise.

9. I shall deliver from Purgatory those who have been devoted to the Rosary.

10. The faithful children of the Rosary shall merit a high degree of glory in Heaven.

11. You shall obtain all you ask of me by the recitation of the Rosary.

12. All those who propagate the Holy Rosary shall be aided by me in their necessities.

13. I have obtained from my Divine Son that all the advocates of the Rosary shall have for intercessors the entire celestial court during their life and at the hour of death.

14. All who recite the Rosary are my sons and daughters, and brothers and sisters of my only Son Jesus Christ.

15. Devotion of my Rosary is a great sign of predestination.

The Seven Great Blessings of the Rosary

In The Secret of the Rosary (p. 65), St. Louis De Montfort states:

"The Rosary recited with meditation on the mysteries brings bout the following marvelous results:

1. It gradually gives us a perfect knowledge of Jesus Christ;

2. It purifies our souls, washing away sin;

3. It gives us victory over all our enemies;

4. It makes it easy for us to practice virtue;

5. It sets us on fire with love of Our Blessed Lord;

6. It enriches us with graces and merits;

7. It supplies us with what is needed to pay all our debts to God and to our fellow men, and finally, it obtains all kinds of graces for us from Almighty God."

#catholicism #traditional catholic #catholic #heaven #christianity #love #its the truth #jesus christ #catholic saints #catholic faith #saint dominic #the rosary #catholic prayers #catholiscism #immaculate heart of mary #the blessed virgin mary #mary mother of jesus #mary mother of god

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eveningstar1516 · 3 years

Text

Demonic Angels

This is a Human AU where the brothers aren’t brothers and Lilith is Lucien’s younger sister. Lucien is the human name I chose to represent Lucifer although Lucifer himself is mentioned. I used my HC’d version of Angel!Lucifer which is essentially how Satan looks but with longer hair. Angel!Lucifer’s name is not specified. TW: Graveyards, Demons, Angels, Attempted Corruption, Gay relationship, Manipulation, Mini Panic Attack, Angst, like, lots of it, Guilt Tripping, Abusive Relationship, Abusive Parents. If I missed anything, please let me know.

Lucien had finished closing up the shop and had started making his way home. As always, he always passed by Asmo’s Flower Palace and picked up his weekly order of Lilacs. The champain haired boy rang him up. His sunset eyes held his usual look of comfort as he knew why Lucien picked the same flowers at the same time each week. Lucien paid for the flowers and left the shop and made his way to the northwest end of the city. The walk was quiet. Not many people worked in this part of town which left the streets bare save for the few couples enjoying the end of the day. Reaching his destination, he waved hello to the usual attendants. Twins, although the only real similarities were their eye colours. A tall orange haired cuddly giant that loved food and his younger twin with navy hair that prefered to sleep. Stepping onto the land, he took a familiar route through the headstones. The sun had started setting and casted a warm orange glow over the cemetery. He stopped in front of a small but modest headstone. “Lilith Morningstar.” Kneeling down, Lucien removed the previous bouquet before placing the fresh one he purchased in its place. He stayed on his knees by his sister's resting place, telling her about his day. His new hire, a rowdy white haired boy. Always messing up but somehow fixing everything every time. He messed up in the most comical ways that Lucien couldn’t even be mad at him. Kneeling in silence, he reminisced about the time he lost her. He tried to protect her from their father and his abusive tendencies but was too late. Tears welled up in his eyes as he let them fall. Silently crying, his head bowed against the cool stone.

“You could have done more. You could have saved her” He ignored the voice in his head. His dark thoughts always rearing their heads at the worst of moments. Instead, he kept still and silent until a second voice joined, one that he didn’t recognize. “You did all that you could. You gave her a second chance of a life without pain.”

Lucien’s head shot up and looked around an empty graveyard. It’s just your imagination he told himself. “Not your imagination young boy” A chuckle escaped the creature. A tall raven haired man with ruby irises that seemed to glow was standing to his left. The most notable feature however, were the 4 pairs of midnight black wings , the jewel on his forehead, and the pair of curved horns that sprouted from his head.

“W-who are y-you?” Lucien had stood up and asked the creature with a noticeable tremble in his voice. The creature smirked. His deep melancholy voice sending shivers through Lucien’s body. “I’m you. Or more accurately, who you will be, young Lucien.”

“Now now Lucifer, you don’t know that for sure. You shouldn’t scare him like that.”

Lucien turned around, eyes going wide as he recognized the sound of the new voice. Another man, one with blond hair and sea green eyes was standing to his right. 3 pairs of milky white wings sprouting from his back and a golden halo over his head. “Fear not Lucien, we will not harm you, not so long as you’re still human, although that time is regrettably coming to an end.” “Speak for yourself Angel. You’ve seen the sin he has committed, he won’t be one of your charges. He’s one of us.”Lucien had backed until his heels had bumped into Liliths headstone. A hand on his chest in fear of the two beings in front of him. His body shaking. “W-what is it you two want?” The blonde turned to him first first.

“You need not worry yourself young Lucien, I am simply here to help you pass peacefully. You can join your sister up in the clouds. You-” “Lie Angel. You’ve seen his actions. You know of the pride he carries. I will be taking him!”

“He has also embodied humility in its purest of forms. Such as is a virtue in Father’s eyes!”

Lucien had sunken to the ground as the two beings bikered. Tucking his knees to his chest, he laid his head on them and took deep breaths. It’s just a dream. He kept on repeating. It’s just a dream.

The two beings had gone quiet and looked at the man on the ground. Lucifer took advantage of his weakened form and crouched down low. His voice echoing through Lucien’s left ear.

“You deserve it all. He abused you, humiliated you, took your sister away from you. He deserves to suffer don’t you think. We could make him suffer together.”

On his opposite side, the Angel had knelt down next him and tried his own persuasion. “He’s not in your life anymore. Your sister is happy. You can go be with her now. Neither of you will ever have to see him again and you can live together with the happy life you wanted. Don’t you want that? To see her again? To see her smile? To hear her laugh? To feel her arms around you when you see each other again?”

“Please, no more,” Lucien mumbled. His tears had returned and were flowing steadily, staining his pants as the droplets fell.

He felt his head being tilted up. Ruby red eyes met his in a captivating gaze. Sea green and Ruby red mixing together as the two beings held eye contact with him. The angel closed his eyes first. His body disappearing as Lucien felt a sudden presence in his body. White wings sprouted from his back.

Lucifer growled. He also closed his eyes and disappeared too. Joining the Angel in Lucien’s body, the two beings fought an invisible battle for dominance over this man's soul. Trapped in the middle, all Luciel could do was scream and clutch his head as his eyes screwed tight. He could feel the pain of horns growing, the halo burning, a pair of white wings turning to ash as another pair burned away revealing a silky black feathers blending in with the radiant white ones. All these senses assaulted him, his human body and mind not being able to take it all before he passed out from the sheer pain of it all.

“Father?”

Lucien groaned and opened his groggy eyes. A mop of blond hair and green eyes met him. He had a moment of panic before calm washed over him. The boy was clutching his black cat plushie. A small smile formed on Luciels face as he reached out and ruffled the blonds hair affectionately. Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as the young boy climbed onto the bed next to him. Lucien held his son close. His dream, forgotten, like it never happened. He felt a pair of arms wrap around his torso and pull him backwards into a hug. Messy red hair could be seen in his peripheral vision as his husband cuddled him and left a good morning kiss on the side of his forehead. His son moved forward and nestled in his lap, the three of them cuddling each other. None of them aware of the ruby and sea green eyes watching the one in the middle.

#Drabble #Angst #Lucifer obey me #Diavolo obey me #Satan obey me #Asmodeus obey me #Asmo obey me #Mammon obey me #Beel obey me #Beelzebub obey me #Belphie obey me #Belphegor obey me #Angel!Lucifer #Someone take away my angst juice before I finish chugging the bottle #wait #don't do that #if you will I'll just draw angst instead #baby Satan is adorable and no one can change my mind

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theotheroccassionalfanficwriter · 4 years

Text

the rumor concerning a certain demon lord and me

Summary: I am the Celestial Realm’s Liaison for Devildom, my duties include reporting the results and minutiae of the Exchange Student Program, and fostering a good relationship with the Devildom’s government. I am the paragon of virtue but somehow...can anyone tell me where did the rumors that I was dating a certain Demon Lord come from?

Tags: Oblivious Reader, First Person POV, Angel!Reader, slow burn, Mammon falls in love first...or does he?, only fluff, no angst, no intellectuals in this house only queer people who share one brain cell.

A/N: If anyone thinks that it’s impossible to get into a relationship without your knowledge I want to share to everyone that it happened to me and I was a sugar baby for like 1 whole year and only realized it 5 years later. Sequel in the works

Rated: G

As an Angel, living in the Celestial Realm was what the humans would call a Socialist paradise. Our working hours were few and the pay was high, all Angels regardless of rank could afford housing and have enough money to spare. Everyone was free to pursue their interests and I was no different. I had set my goal from an early age, slowly and steadily built up my skills and worked diligently.

All the senior Angels praised me for my good work ethic and I was relatively well-liked among my peers. It wasn’t that I had no shortcomings, it was just that I was able to hide my shortcomings and pass it off as quirks. You might be wondering, what my goal is. It’s a secret~

Hehehe...right now that isn’t important, what’s important is that after a long time my goal is already half-way done. That’s because~starting today I am the Celestial Realm’s Liaison for Devildom~

Teehee! Is what I’d like to say but the truth is, I’ve lost all happiness I gained from that promotion.

Ever since the Second Lord, Mammon, became my body guard I’ve lost all happiness. In the morning, I’d wake up and trip on the plush carpet because of a gold bar, on my way into the bathroom to wash my face I’d slip from stepping on pearls left carelessly on the marble tiles of my bathroom floor. Then on my way to the kitchen to eat my breakfast my cute ceramic mug had been replaced with a chalice made of gold.

Isn’t this just harassment? Isn’t it cruel of him to plant evidences to insinuate I’ve harbored the sin of Greed? I badly want to throw the gold bar on his face but the two golden rules I follow held me back. Aren’t I good? Aren’t I kind? Therefore I’ll keep on enduring that cute foolish Second Lord but the moment an opportunity to take a little revenge on him comes...yeah I’ll just go and confess my sins after.

The opportunity to take revenge came when we had our daily brunch routine at Cat’s Eye. It was a cute cat cafe that I stumbled on and had stupidly mentioned to Mammon, at that time I had foolishly trusted that he would be kind towards me and spare me of the odd ways of the demons, that it’d be nice to come to it with someone familiar.

“In that case, I, the Great Mammon will take you there every morning!” His toothy grin and bright aura of happiness made my pure angelic heart quiver.

...but only a little bit okay? It wasn’t like it made me want to give him all the gold in the world and see him be happy alright?

“Mammon-sama, thank you!”

He blushed fiercely and for some reason it made me want to squeeze him a little bit. Thus the daily routine of eating together came to be and every day I’d end up sharing half of my food with him while he hand fed me half of his food. You might be thinking, “Yo! Little Angel isn’t that too fast?!”

And I agree with you but have you ever been on the receiving end of his puppy dog eyes? Have you ever felt the feeling of having someone smile at you sweetly for something so meaningless? In all my life as an Angel, it’s my first time meeting someone who’d grow so attached just because I shared my food, gave him the first taste of my cream puffs I’d buy, gave advice to so they’d succeed in a business venture, and randomly giving them trinkets I bought on a whim.

Ahhh...Sorry for getting riled up, this is also one of the side effects I’ve been experiencing since becoming friends with Mammon. When it comes to that cute fool, I can’t keep my calm. Probably because he just makes my Angelic nurturing instincts tingle.

Now, you must be wondering what sort of revenge I had planned, the thing is simple.

Mammon likes spicy stuff and he knows that I like to try spicy foods as long as it doesn’t get too spicy, therefore, today I’ll order scrambled eggs and strawberry pancakes! And pay for it with his planted marked money!!!!

With that in mind, I happily ordered my brunch while holding his hand, happily took out the planted marked money from my wallet and paid for both of our foods. Then Mammon brought the tray to our usual table and we sat side by side and began the daily routine of feeding each other...I sneakily took a glance at him and he only had a look of extreme smugness...

As expected of an Avatar of Sin...this level of revenge...meant nothing to him.

๐·°(৹˃̵﹏˂̵৹)°·๐ So frustrating!!!

Hello everyone! Several years had passed since my unsuccessful revenge on Mammon and as a result his harassment only grew...my soft and comfy cotton padded pink comforter has been replaced with 100% Egyptian cotton sheets...my cute pastel tea set had been replaced with ones from Chelsea...Everyday he’d give me trinkets worth a fortune and I’ve learned not to ask how he acquired it if only so I could have a peace of mind...

I’ve also gained a new habit of praying for my sins every night as opposed too once every few nights...Father even sent a letter asking me if I was alright ever since the frequency increased.

It made me want to cry a little bit.

Nevertheless I bravely continued on, and wore my head high as the Celestial Realm’s Ambassador to Devildom.

Hehehe... that’s right from Liaison to Ambassador it was quite a jump. And it had just been officially announced recently, and now 500 years later, I can finally celebrate my promotion!!!

After being appointed as the Ambassador to Devildom, I was temporarily sent back to undergo training that for some reason or another also included Mammon as my training partner. Yep! That’s right! Normally, a period of separation would occur in this part of the story right? right! But what happened was!!!before I could even do a tearful parting between dear friends and then have a joyful and tearful reunion between close friends...

Mammon had his luggage with him and he was holding my left hand as he and the rest of his brothers looked nervous. Listen, I understand you all rebelled and lost but can all of you lighten up and explain to me why Mammon is coming with?

I glanced at Diavolo, who became one of my closest friends in Devildom after Mammon, and silently begged him with my eyes. Hearing my pleas, Diavolo nodded and then said,

"Now, now, there's no need for any worry after all Mammon would be well protected by our Little Angel?"

I can't help but retort, "This year I grew by two millimetres and the top of my head is just an inch below Mammon's shoulders."

I knew that I begged for help but Diavolo...there's no need for a personal attack on my height. Besides that, you didn't even explain why my training includes Mammon. Also, why are all of you sending Mammon off as if he was a bride?, I'm talking about you Lucifer-sama.

Please stop looking at me as if I was a good-for-nothing sibling-in-law.

"...I’ve been looking after him from the start...I wouldn’t stop doing it now...” I mumbled, averting my gaze from their intense looks.

I know its arrogant of me since Mammon has been taking care of himself since the aftermath of the Celestial War but by now, I’d only end up worrying if anyone other than Lucifer and me can take care of him right. Millennia of cleaning up his messes and busting him out of trouble had led me to develop anxiety over his general well being, it had led me to buying him his own set of toiletries and clothing and even household items just so I wouldn’t worry about where he stayed on nights he didn’t want to be with his brothers.

Being conscientiously kind and helpful really is hard.

“In that case, I’ll leave my brother in your care” Lucifer-sama told me solemnly, in his usually cold and stern eyes was a small trace of warmth.

I don’t understand why you’d suddenly look like that to me but, “Thank you.”

Yep. Let’s just thank him and be done with this.

What separation? What tearful and joyful reunion? Bullshit!!! We arrived at the Celestial Realm and it felt like I was someone who came home for the first time since getting married! Also, I know I said I’d take care of Mammon but why does it have to be that we would share one bed?!

Look! He’s blushing all the way to his ears! His face is so red it looks like it’s his natural skin tone!

Is this what’s going to make me Fall? Huh?! Isn’t it a bit pathetic that I became a demon because someone decided to redecorate my house without my permission?!

“I-i didn’t expect they’d be this welcoming...” Mammon mumbled cutely.

Okay, let’s forget about it. Since, Mammon didn’t mind but just in case, it’s better to at least clear it up to prevent any misunderstandings.

“Well...it’s probably because you’re the first...” I trailed off, saying he’s my first friend that I made on my own would be pathetic right?

“Anyways, let’s set your stuff up. Do you want to rest a little bit or should we go shopping for the things you’d use here?”

Mammon didn’t seem to mind the abrupt changed of topic but why is your face redder than before? If you’re embarrassed by this I’d end up embarrassed too! Look! I can already feel the tips of my ears heating up!

“I-I want to have you all to myself for now...”

I simply nodded and took away his luggage and had him rest on the bed while I shed off my human form and brought my wings into the physical plane. I began organizing our shared closet and silently decided to just ignore the fact that Mammon’s earlier words made it seem like we were dating or something.

Mammon probably never had any friends before me too. After all, other than me and his brothers isn’t his number blocked by everyone back in Devildom?

Reassured with this thought, I easily and happily began rearranging my clothes to accommodate Mammon’s stuff and ignored the prickly feeling of Mammon staring at me. We left in the afternoon and I led Mammon around the places that had the best of everything I know.

Each Angel would look at us, whisper a little bit, before coming forward and congratulating the two of us. I’m glad they aren’t discriminating Mammon or looking at him with contempt but there really is no need for the entirety of the Celestial Realm to congratulate me for having a friend okay? I kept to myself out of choice and the knowledge that I knew my limits.

If you lot kept up with this then I’ll really go ahead and Fall! Look, Mammon’s being bashful!

Ah! Fuck it! Never mind then! Since this congratulations spree makes him happy, I’ll turn a blind eye.

By now, you’ve all probably noticed how weird it was right? right?! Every time I would treat Mammon the same as I did back in Devildom I’d feel the intensity of the stares from my fellow angels, and then Mammon would make it weirder by blushing and looking at me coquettishly. Keep that up and everyone would start thinking we’re a couple out on a date! By the way, this just brought up the painful fact that other than my abhorrent almost null platonic relationship, I also never got into any romantic relationship with my fellow angels...anyways who cares I have Mammon now.

I had no intention of hiding our friendship but just how much did Mammon doubt me that he had to look so pleased whenever I didn’t deny our relationship. I know my shortcomings when it comes to the emotional side of the relationship but even I’m not that unreliable okay?! So please! Mammon! Stop looking so cute whenever I’m considerate of you!!!

This is a normal angel thing!!! You can even ask Simeon!!!!

Ah...I apologize that I went off on a tangent, anyways it’s time to go back to the original point which is! Mammon and I are out celebrating my promotion right now. And since we’re celebrating he told me that I can do as my heart pleases.

So now, I’ve decided to up my revenge! If last time spending his money was nothing to him and making him eat overly sweet stuff was useless, I’ll take him to a bistro I’ve never been before and eat there with him! A place with no guarantee of being delicious! A place that had no assurance that our money won’t be wasted! Wouldn’t that make his liver hurt? Wouldn’t that make his Goldie bleed? Wouldn’t that make him mad?

Gosh! Being evil is so easy, I better pray to Father and repent for my sins after this dinner date.

And so, I took him to Restaurant la Penyora in Girona, Spain. Instead of using the normal routes of transportation to the Human Realm, I just snapped Mammon and myself into the Restaurant with the use of one of my allotted miracles. Our table was nicely furnished with a lit candle, and the ambiance was nice. Perfect!

I looked at Mammon and teased him, “Isn’t this place perfect?”

He looked at me with an impassive face and asked, “Have you been here before?”

“How can that be? Every time I leave Devildom aren’t I with you?”

That was the sad truth, every outing I had to play around included Mammon...I did try making friends with other demons and it would succeed for awhile but later on...they’d break off our friendship and each time I’d run into Mammon to vent.

Of course there were times I couldn’t do it, all of those times had to do when he would get picked to be a human’s first demon, and that only drove to further make friends. It wouldn’t be nice if I resented a human for taking my only friend after all. Somehow, that cold look on Mammon’s face disappeared and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I really thought he’d figured out my revenge plan now.

The atmosphere eased up and I bravely ordered what I could think I could finish. Worst case is I could just miracle away the organs of this vessel. It’s not like we actually need those to function. And so under the wonderful ambiance, Mammon and I ate a splendidly delicious meal, had a wonderful conversation and deepened our bonds of friendship.

Haha.

My revenge plan failed.

The two of us strolled about in the streets and just existed. Mammon held my hand and I silently sulked that my revenge plan failed.

“I thought I was the only one who sulked in this relationship” He gently teased me.

The city lights in the background combined with Mammon’s rare soft smile made my heart clench. For some reason I thought about the humans he occasionally became fond of and it hurt just a little bit that I might not just be the only one who knows this side of Mammon.

“I’m not sulking” I lied and looked away from him. Squeezing his hand tight and staring intently at my feet as I walked.

“If you’re that jealous of a human, I’ll start turning down Lucifer when he asks me to be the one to ease them up.”

I blinked, “You don’t have to...”

He’d probably end up in trouble with Lucifer and then I’d be friendless for a few days. I frowned at the thought and suddenly felt something soft and warm press to my forehead.

“Huh?”

Mammon had a fond smile and weird look in his eyes. It made my non-human heart start beating rapidly.

“If I explain it to Lucifer, he’d let me off ‘sides you’re more important to me than the exchange student program.”

I blushed and covered the wide smile on my face. Yep. It wouldn’t be good to show to the world how happy I was to hear that. I’m glad that Mammon treasured our friendship that much.

“E-even so, don’t let me be the reason why you end up not doing work, okay?” I mumbled and Mammon only let go of my hand to wrap his arm on my shoulder and bring me closer to him.

...I think I need to pray longer and harder this time to Father. It isn’t good for an Angel to be greedy after all. Hopefully this would banish all thoughts of wanting to keep Mammon to myself. I am after all the Paragon of a Perfect Angel.

After that date on Spain, somehow, Mammon and I became closer. What used to be where I wouldn’t even drop by the House of Lamentation became weekly scheduled dinners where I would bring food for the seven of them for dinner and then a sleepover in Mammon’s room. It became a weekly ritual and thus I ended up growing closer with the rest of Mammon’s brothers...Demons who used to be my fellow colleagues.

It was odd, especially since they seem to know something I don’t and think that I know it as well.

Mammon didn’t even give me a heads up on what was happening. Which brings me to my current predicament:

The new Celestial Realm exchange students were fairly young and even younger than me. Waaay younger than me. And now I had to go and answer the question,

“Are you really dating the Demon Lord Mammon?”

Before I could even answer, I felt Mammon's familiar aura and found myself embraced by him. I know we've known each other for a while now but even so why does he have to wrap me in his arms??? I'm maybe the paragon of virtue but I've never been this intimate with anyone!!! At most...at most I've held hands...

(/ω＼) Even the Holy Mother was more experienced than me.

"They're mine!"

I blinked at Mammon's proclamation and simply let myself be led away by my very grumpy friend. It is important for you to know that he was still holding my hands, firmly might I add, and his hands were bigger than mine, calloused from all the sword training we went through and slightly scarred from,what I assume, Falling.

"Mammon?" I called out to him softly.

If this had been in the past, I would have been able to perfectly hide my worry for him but as it was, with training together and spending so much time together, it was inevitable that I would end up being unable to hide my worry for him.

“Next time, you don’t have to hesitate!” He ordered me, looking very much like an angry bird. It was not at all frightening and yet my heart was beating fast and though I felt no fear, I knew that I was shaking.

“Wha-what do you mean?”

He looked at me in the same way I had seen our baby crows looked at something puzzling. He grinned a feral smile that made me wary and yet whatever angelic training from the Celestial War that had been trained in me did not activate. He leaned close to me, our breaths mingling, and I can only get lost in his ever so familiar eyes that makes a part of my soul sing, that makes my aura reach out to his.

“Angel, haven’t you noticed that our wings beat as one?”

Oh.

“Fo-foul fiend!” I stuttered and this time didn’t bother to hide the fact how easy I melted in his arms.

...It seems that the rumors about him and me...came from me...how embarrassing. His deep chuckles reverberated through his chest and I could only burrow my face deeper into his chest as his arms hugged me tightly. His aura reaches out to mine and entangles with it.

I sighed, “No wonder Lucifer-sama looked like a father giving away his precious daughter when we left for the Celestial Realm.”

Mammon choked and warily told me, “Even now...you still don’t have any sense of fear towards Lucifer...”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

I stopped and hiding and pouted at him but Mammon only looked at me fondly and unabashedly letting his deep love for me bleed through his eyes. I blushed and squirmed in his grip. Please forgive this Angel for not being well-versed in love...after all Mammon is my first...and only...hehe.

“It’s fine if you don’t remember” He told me and then kissed me sweetly and deeply on my lips.

I’m definitely telling this to the Holy Mother once we take a vacation in the Celestial Realm...that would shut up even that cheeky Holy Son for teasing me with my inexperience!

#mammon x reader #obey me mammon x reader #mammon x mc #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x mc #obey me

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