#I FORGOT TO CROSS POST HERE

[flightless-birb]

Rune Factory 3 Pia

Save the fishies, eat squid!

[somegrumpynerd]

I like the idea that Cross realised Killer was touchstarved (he didn't have the words for it but he noticed how much Killer would settle down from it) and started giving him very small basic affection. Pat on the back, hand on the shoulder, maybe a quick friendly hug, all things he probably learned through royal guard training and thinks of as normal friend/coworker stuff.

But as they both got more comfortable in the routine of it, Killer started instigating touches and he was not shy about it (like not just leaning into Cross's side during movie night, he looks like he's trying to get into Cross's jacket with him)

And that this more intense affection made Cross realise he might also be just a little bit touchstarved

Bonus:

[rev3rb]

How Arai vs Akiyama should have started

[felizketch]

She def got grounded for 6 months after this stunt 💀

[jellymetric]

jackie jackie jack-o'

[anch-vaviel]

Last year's best pumpkin fits! Who else is excited to break the pumpkin heads out again this year?

See 2022's outfits here

[narcissosbythepool]

but in me love is slow

A PriceGaz getting back together

Sfw, 2.9k words

Read on AO3

//

“Hey.”

Price doesn’t flinch. He’s been expecting this the entire evening. He wonders if he doesn’t turn around, pretends that he didn’t hear, that this would not have to happen, that he would not have to turn to the voice.

But he’s never been able to resist him. This is no exception.

“Hey yourself,” Price says, turning to Gaz. He looks… radiant. Beautiful. Price could try to find the appropriate words for it all evening and it wouldn’t be enough. He looks incredible in formal wear, always has, but today there’s a certain air to him. Pride. 

He’s holding a glass of sparkling wine in one hand, and he looks right at home in the glitz and glamour of the venue. Price is here as a guest – Gaz is the person of the hour, freshly promoted and awarded with some new medals to join the others. It fits him. Attention always has. The bright, warm lights fall on him like a halo and he’s simply mesmerizing to look at. Price never wants to look away, and for the first time in years he allows himself to indulge.

“You came,” Gaz says, raising his free hand to Price’s arm, squeezing lightly. His hands are bare, his gloves hanging out from his pocket, and his touch is warm even through Price’s jacket.

“Of course I did,” Price tries not to lean into the touch, tries not to read too much into it. “Congratulations for the promotion. And the rest.”

Gaz looks bashfully to the ground and then meets his eyes again, his mouth curved into a lovely smile. “It’s all thanks to you.”

Price raises his brow. “I’m retired, Gaz. I had nothing to do with this.”

“Had you not picked me up,” Gaz says, “I would never have amounted to anything.”

“That’s not true.”

Gaz pauses for a moment, thinking. “Well, I guess I would have climbed the ranks either way.” Price almost wants to laugh – Gaz has never been shy about his accomplishments, and he shouldn’t be. “But I would never have come this far. Not without you.”

Price bites his lip and notes how Gaz’s eyes zero in on the movement. He waits for Gaz’s eyes to flick back to meet his again, and Gaz flushes beautifully at getting caught.

So it doesn’t stop, Price thinks as he loses himself into the brown of Gaz’s eyes. The love never stops.

*

They broke up over many things and many months. 

The secrecy was exciting at first. Stolen moments here and there, laughing in the hidden corners and shadows where they could press against each other and exchange hungry kisses. After years of pining and longing, it was easy to forget themselves into the novelty of their newly found happiness, to ignore the pang of loneliness and rejection whenever their affection had to be brushed off and swept under the rug in front of others. It was all temporary, the reunion would be ever sweeter, and for a while it was.

But life like that turns stale after a while. 

Price could not compartmentalise. He was all-in or not at all in all aspects of his life, and loving Gaz was one of those things. Time and time again he ran into the difference in their ranks, his inability to keep his head when Gaz was in danger, and that turned him sour – like maybe he could keep himself together if he was colder, harder, tougher. In private he tried to make up for it, with soft touches and sweet kisses, worshipping Gaz like he deserved, but there was only so much that intimacy could mend. 

Gaz could not take the secrecy, demanded more promises that Price could not keep. He wanted to intertwine their private lives together if their professional lives kept them apart, but Price could not give that to him, afraid to be too vulnerable. Gaz would beg him to stay during leaves, rent together, take a holiday, go somewhere else where no one would know them, but Price could not afford to be found out, could not give him what he wanted. 

And so one night, one long and teary night, they decided to break up. With sweet kisses, Gaz crying and Price trying not to, they fell apart.

And that was that.

Or so they thought.

*

“So, how has retirement been treating you?” Gaz asks. They’re sitting down at a corner table while everyone else is mingling or getting some fresh air outside. Price has a glass of scotch and Gaz is still nursing his sparkling wine. The white tablecloth is already spilled with red wine, almost like a bloodstain. Price resists the urge to swipe at it with his fingers. 

“It’s been boring,” Price admits. “Running isn’t an option yet so I’m going a bit stir crazy.” He pats his bad knee lightly, the subtle knee brace under the trousers. “Looking forward to getting that permission soon.” He does not say how much he dreads the pain of it – that even when he’s cleared it would not end, being perpetually restricted by his injuries. His knee aches on rainy days and when the air pressure changes, and he’s made nervous by it. Such a plain weakness.

“Physiotherapy has been working, then?” Gaz leans forward, almost like he wants to touch Price’s knee but restrains himself last minute.

“It’s boring too,” Price huffs and Gaz’s eyes crinkle with the amused smile. 

“So just boring?” Gaz teases. “A man like you can’t find anything to entertain himself with?”

“I’ve watched a lot of shitty TV,” Price admits, taking a sip of his drink. It’s not great. “I did join a woodworking class.”

“Oh?” Gaz crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Never knew you had a crafty side like that.”

“I got it in my head to build a chair,” Price rubs his beard, feeling a little abashed. “But I thought it would be better to take a class first. No need to take unnecessary risks.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my Captain,” Gaz wonders and Price rolls his eyes.

“Your Captain has retired,” Price says, “and become boring.”

“Oh,” Gaz replies, something familiar dancing in his eyes, “you could never be boring to me.”

*

When Price woke up at the hospital, all he felt was pain.

It was sharp enough to drag him back to consciousness, but not the kind of searing pain that pulled him under in the first place. He could hear machines beeping, the sting and weight of an IV, all of it familiar to him. But he knew, somehow, that this was worse than what had come before, that this had been his last ride and he was as good as useless after an injury like this. Even through the pain he understood it with frightening clarity.

He didn’t want to think of it yet. He didn’t want to open his eyes. But there was a weight on his bed and he was getting uncomfortable.

Fighting his eyes open, the first thing he saw was Gaz.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. This had happened, like this and mirrored, time and time again whenever the other got injured. Unable to stay away from each other’s bedside, frantically making sure that the other was alright – that was normal, even after their break-up, before they had even gotten together. 

Before they had shared that kiss in his office in the early hours before sunrise, when Price’s resolve had finally broken and he had pulled Gaz’s body against his, kissed him like his life depended on it – and Gaz had replied beautifully, his hands in Price’s hair, his mouth soft and insistent at the same time. Before the frantic make-out session in his car, before the sweet kisses exchanged in the low light, before the fervent embrace right before a mission. Before all of that, Price would find himself by Gaz’s bedside like he belonged there. Before his love grew into something greater, Gaz would sit there and stand vigil, wait for him to return from the depths of medicated sleep. And after, when there were but the ashes of their relationship and a melancholic downturn of Gaz’s lips, Price would find him there.

“Gaz,” he called out, slowly moving his hand to rest on Gaz’s arm. He was sleeping uncomfortably in the hospital chair, his arms crossed over the edge of Price’s bed, head resting on his arms. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked exhausted, likely having stayed awake by his side all this time, and Price’s eyes welled up despite everything. His Sergeant, his beloved, always giving his all. He could not take it, his heart twinging in his chest with the ache, the longing. But he had to see, had to see those eyes open and meet his, wanted the reassurance even in the middle of the unraveling catastrophe, the end of his career. Wanted Gaz to look him in the eye and find the love there. 

Gaz’s eyes opened slowly, and there it was.

*

If Price was in better condition, he would have asked Gaz for a dance. But he’s not, and he would be too embarrassed to do so even if he wasn’t, so they stay seated and talk until it’s time to go. They’re not even drunk, having switched to water ages ago as the waiters cleaned the tables around them, but they never seemed to run out of stories – nor of subtle glances, small touches, on the shoulder, a brush of fingers, featherlight. It’s like a healing wound, itching and demanding attention, even after all these years.

“Oh shit,” Gaz says and then a fake sort of smile rises on his lips as he nods to someone, “I have to go network again.”

“Good luck,” Price says, sipping his water, mourning that he’s being left alone again but not taking offence at the obligation. 

“I’ll try to tear myself away as soon as possible, I’m not done with you yet,” Gaz tells him with an accusing tone, like he knows that Price had the urge to slink away once Gaz’s captivating attention was no longer like a spell on him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Price waves him off, but Gaz grabs his wrist, his expression serious as he gets up.

“Don’t go.” His grip tightens just a smidge. “Wait for me.”

Price swallows thickly. “Alright.”

Price watches him socialize, and finds himself slightly amused at how ill at ease Gaz looks. And still he looks fresh and young and proud, and Price can’t stop watching him, take in every detail. There was a new scar on his chin, almost unnoticeable, and Price is certain there are several more under his clothes, unmapped and unknown. He yearns to reach out, to ask to see, to take him away and undress him, take a look and take his time with it.

It never really goes away, a love like this. It stays with you in every breath, with every step, the kind of longing that ties you down to the ground like roots growing around your ankles. And yet it doesn’t feel restricting – it’s just nourishment, getting life from the earth that has trapped you. It pulses sweetly with every heartbeat, flows in his veins, a spark in his nerve endings, entwined into every single part of his body, now belonging to another. It’s an ever-bleeding wound that never mends itself, blood thin and love thick in it.

Even with his injury they didn’t get back together. Gaz kissed his hands as he woke up, apologised over and over as if it had been his fault. It wasn’t, but it didn’t change the fact that he was sorry, nor did his apologies atone for the future that was now robbed of Price – or whatever future that would have been, retirement creeping in either way. But he mourned it, still, losing years with Gaz he could have been by his side. Mourned the team he had gathered that was now disbanding. Felt like he was abandoning his boys. Like he was abandoning Gaz.

But even as they said goodbye, when Gaz left his side to return to the world Price could never go back to, there was a certain sense of promise in the air. 

Don’t give up on me. And so Price didn’t.

He waited, for a while. When he sat at home, cursing his broken body and fighting the pain tooth and nail, he waited for Gaz to appear behind his door one rainy day and kiss him in the doorway. It never happened, and he didn’t fault Gaz for it – it wasn’t Gaz’s fault that his heart never stopped longing for him, that his chest throbbed with every thought of him – but he had to admit he was a little disappointed by it. 

And then came the invite. A gala, to the honour of the servicemen receiving some awards. He would not have gone, was it not for the little handwritten note.

‘Come see me.’

So he went. And here he is.

After a while he gets up to stretch his legs. He’s had enough of watching Gaz be pleasant to people that aren’t him, not even jealousy but boredom at not being the centre of his attention anymore. Gaz’s eyes snap to him like an eagle and Price just waves him off, gestures at the empty hallway with his head. Just going for a short walk. He does not mean it as an invite.

Still, not soon after he hears footsteps behind him.

“I told you to wait,” Gaz says. Price turns around and it suddenly occurs to him that the lights of this hallway are dimmed down.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” Price replies. “You interrupted your mooching for nothing.” He means for it to come out as scolding, but he can’t help the pride in it. That his departure is more important than any networking Gaz could possibly manage tonight. 

“Not for nothing,” Gaz says and steps closer.

What’s remarkable about the lights, really, is that they evoke certain kinds of memories. Memories of being pressed against a wall, taking advantage of the shadows and dark nooks that a lighting like this offers. Not complete darkness, so they could still see each other’s faces, hands finding their place on the other’s face to caress. Could map each other’s expressions, the tense silence before dipping in for a kiss, a perfect kind of low light. 

“You sure you want to waste your time with me?” Price tries for it to be a joke, but it comes out too sincere. Like a genuine question.

“Is that what you think?” Gaz asks. He stays two short steps away from Price, keeping a polite sort of separation between them. “That I’m wasting my time with you?”

Yes. No. Yes again. “I don’t know. Aren’t you?”

Gaz watches him for a moment, looking for something, and then closes the distance.

“You know,” he says, tilting his head a little, “I’ve never kissed you out in the open before.”

Price’s breath hitches. 

“I never got the chance before,” Gaz continues, his voice low and soft.

“We couldn’t—” Price says and Gaz brings his fingers to Price’s lips.

“I know.” His hand drops to Price’s shoulder. “I still wanted to. All the time. Show them what I had, like some toy I could parade around.” His thumb worries the seam of Price’s jacket and he doesn’t look Price in the eye, follows the movement of his own fingers as if fascinated. 

“I wanted to,” Price clears his throat, “to mark you up.”

“Yeah?”

“Couldn’t bear the thought that they didn’t know who you belong to,” he says. He shifts, his hand finding Gaz’s waist, testing the waters. Feels Gaz’s ribs expanding as he takes a deep breath. “It was foolish. Like some kind of animal.”

“I think I would have liked it.”

“I think it would have landed me in jail.”

That makes Gaz laugh, despite it not being a laughing matter at all. “That’s probably true.”

When he looks at Price his pupils are wide and Price blinks slowly, wondering if his look the same. They’re so close and Price has missed him so much. But he waits, waits for the right moment, waits for a signal that tells him that it’s not just some kind of hypothetical. What could have been, and which will never be again.

“This is not,” Price murmurs, “out in the open.”

“No.” Gaz smiles. “I have you all to myself.” His hand on his shoulder inches to the back of Price’s neck, playing with the short strands there.

“That you do,” Price admits. “You have all of me.”

Gaz leans in to kiss him. Price meets him halfway.

It’s soft, sweet. Gaz’s mouth is relaxed, his kiss unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be. Like a mere greeting after a short goodbye and not a farewell. The softness of it makes Price weak, his hand not on Gaz’s waist coming to cup his cheek. Gaz bites his lower lip lightly, makes him gasp, and with that Gaz gently deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing against Price’s. 

They stay like that, slowly relearning each other and making up for lost time. Price’s head spins, and he can barely keep himself from turning the kiss into a hungry, needy thing – but Gaz keeps him in line, pulling back when he gets too rough and softening the kiss again with light pecks, on his lips, the corner of his mouth. Take it slow. There is time.

When Gaz pulls back, Price makes a desperate kind of noise and Gaz laughs at him.

“Let me learn you,” he scolds Price, his breath warm against Price’s skin. 

“You have places to be,” Price tries to cling to sanity.

“Not anymore.”

And with that truth he dips in once more.

END

[angry-geese]

Cardinal Copia x Reader

Warnings: not osha compliant//nsfw. fluff and smut; oral (cunnilingus), overstimulation, afab reader. use of petnames (ex. my love)

synopsis: copia and the reader decide to spend a morning in :) i just wanted an excuse to write smut tbh

word count: 3.5k

Rain from the previous night has carried well into this morning, and shows little signs of stopping. Dawn is bleak and gray as it crests upon the horizon. In your state—stuck between the waking world, and sleep—you reach out for him, finding the bed beside you cold. The little villa Copia calls home lies empty, save for you, and the constant tick tick tick of the clock on the wall.

Despite his absence, you’re in no rush to get up. On a Saturday morning, there’s little more to do than basic chores, or lazing around the house. Maybe you’ll catch up on some reading, or perhaps some leftover paperwork—Sister Imperator seems to love her paperwork. Perhaps you could start with the sweeping, or dishes, but both tasks sound especially dull. Staying in bed sounds like a preferable option.

Outside, the incoming storm has rendered the sky dark, and the cobblestone path shiny. Fat droplets of water race down the window pane, spilling into the rocks below. Clouds are low enough that the tops of trees are obscured. Somewhere, not too far off, the abbey’s bells ring out, signaling the hour. Nine O’Clock. Various siblings will be gathering for mass soon; an optional ritual which only the most devoted—or those with nothing better to do—will attend. Copia will most likely be there. Certainly Sister Imperator will be.

When the door to the bedroom finally cracks open, the most movement you’ve made is that of rolling onto your side. The bed dips under his weight as he sits. A hand smooths over your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear.

It’s about that point in which you roll over to face him. Copia’s red cassock is replaced with a much more casual button down, and trousers. Black, although some red stitching is visible as he rolls up his sleeve. A nice touch. 

“I didn't mean to wake you,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn't.” You say. “I’ve been awake.”

The yawn that leaves you seems to say otherwise. You scoot back a bit on the bed, and he sits, tugging his pillow away from the headboard. Copia sighs, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. He doesn't seem to quite know what to do with his hands as they switch between laying limply at his sides, and fiddling with the top-most button of his shirt. 

You reach out to him, and he takes your hand, only to be pulled back to bed by you. A soft “oof” leaves him as his head hits the pillow, mere inches from yours.

“You’re back early today,” you say, “was there no meeting?”

“Terzo was terribly late,” he says, “and Sister had other important matters to attend to.”

“So you skipped work? How scandalous…” you say flatly.

Copia makes a show of rolling his eyes, though a small smile tugs at his lips. “Says the one still in bed. Isn’t it nearly ten?”

“Does our dark lord not revel in sloth?” You ask.

In reality, you have kitchen duty this week, and you’re dreading it greatly.

In theory, you could use your position so close to someone in the upper clergy to your favor. Little things like job assignments, roommates, special meals. Names could be swapped, tabled tipped in your odds. You know better than to do such a thing. Sister Imperator’s ire isn't something you want to earn, and she is aware of most things in the abbey.

Copia must not find it within himself to argue with you. And though his eyes are closed, you know very well he’s awake. You move closer to him, seeking the warmth of another body. He accepts you openly, allowing you into the space directly against him. You lean forward to kiss him—just a quick peck on the cheek. Copia catches you on your way back, pulling you in for a proper kiss. The taste of coffee lingers on his lips. 

“Is there any left?” You ask. “Coffee, I mean.”

When his eyes open, a look of guilt is visible within them. “I’ll make more.” He says.

And though you wish to stay in bed just a little while longer, you trail after Copia. The hallway leads directly into a small, but cozy living room. Shelves are stacked floor to ceiling with books, some old, some new. More wood goes into the fire, and the kettle is set on the stove to boil. The remnants of last night’s tea remain on the coffee table, aside half-read books, and video game controllers. You make yourself comfortable on the couch, shifting pillows and blankets to make room for yourself. Copia settles onto the couch beside you not long after, fishing the TV remote out from between two pillows. At this hour of the morning, nothing interesting is going to be on cable; shopping channels and reruns of game shows are the only programs available.

“What a dreary morning,” you comment, resting your head in your hands.

“I like the rain.” Copia says.

It was his timidness, and devotion to his work that first caught your attention; the passing glances in the hall, the looks that lasted slightly longer than they should have. By all accounts—his upbringing, his way of life—Copia should be a different kind of man. Sleazy. Lecherous. Rough around the edges. Someone who takes more than he needs, and does so greedily. But behind his strange exterior lies a timid, sweet man. A strange tenderness is behind each of his actions.

You never would have realized it if it weren't for Terzo’s scheming nature. Maybe one day you should thank him.

This rare, quiet moment is interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. Copia hops up to attend it, returning later with two mugs. Before, you never were much of a fan of coffee, but countless late nights and early mornings in the clergy gave you a new appreciation for it.

“How do you take yours?” Copia asks, although he already knows the answer.

“Sugar and cream if you have it,” you say.

He does.

Maybe a minute passes before he returns to the living room, carrying a mug in each hand. He settles back onto the couch, and when the opportunity to sprawl out presents itself, you take it, laying your legs across his lap. One of his hands trails along the curve of your leg. The other finds the remote, mindlessly flipping through channels. Copia eventually settles on a cooking show, although neither of you are paying attention to it.

Moments like this are fleeting—something to be savored—and that adds to your reluctance to get up. His hand ghosts up the side of your calf in slow, repetitive motions. Soothing. The pads of his fingers are rough, but gentle. Copia’s attention turns from the TV, back to you. The corners of his lips twitch upwards in the slightest hint of a smile. 

“What?” You ask quietly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Who knew one little librarian would corrupt me so much,” he says.

That earns an eye roll, and a quiet laugh from you. “Me? Really?” You say.

“I used to be a pious man,” he says, “deeply devoted to my work and…”

“And I showed you there was more to life than work.” You say, and he nods.

What is the fun of the clergy if you can't relish in life’s luxuries? Much of your life was spent burying your own needs for the sake of others. Once you found a place you belong, and could truly, freely exist, you had years to make up for. A life to live freely and love fully.

Of course, Copia was born into this life. Perhaps he doesn't know the difference.

You tuck your legs back under you, leaning against his shoulder. Copia is quick to make room for you, looping an arm around your waist. His gaze falls to the bare curve of your legs. Nothing too scandalous. At least, not more scandalous than being found barely-clothed in his bed. Yet if you ask him, he’ll say something about appreciating the view regardless.

It’s a dangerous game you are playing, tangling your limbs with a member of the upper clergy. The various cardinals and papa’s are no stranger to casual relations. Casual sex, and one night stands come with the position. People love shiny, new things. They love to feel in power if only for a night. But to form a long term relationship—let alone one with the son of Sister Imperator—would be to put a target on one’s back. Not a great idea if you wish to fly under the radar.

Copia is not papa, and you will not be his prime mover.

This time, when he kisses you, there’s more of a need behind it. A set of warm hands find your cheeks—then your hair—pulling you impossibly close. The cardinal is typically a patient man, but today brings a strange desperation.

You can't help but wonder just what happened in the meeting this morning. Did Terzo say something to him?

When he pulls away, a line of saliva connects your lips to his. Warmth blooms in your chest, spreading out into your extremities. You pray he can't pick up on your racing heart. Probably not from such a distance, but the feeling of it beating within your chest is too much to ignore.

“Sister Imperator is less than pleased with how distracted I have been from my work,” he says.

So it was Imperator then?

“Was it not you that first distracted me from my work?” You ask, a coy smile spreading across your lips. “If my memory is correct, it was you who instigated that night at the library…”

If anyone is to blame for this, then it is Terzo. Without him, your little crush on the cardinal would have gone nowhere.

Copia separates himself from you just enough to slide off the couch, coming to rest upon his knees. “And who would I be to resist such sweet sin?” He asks.

Was it not the forbidden fruit that tastes most sweet?

He sits on his knees before you like a man bowed in prayer. Truly blasphemous. Your legs part just enough to give him room to settle between them. Copia moves slowly, achingly slowly. It’s not in his nature to be so direct; he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to make the first move.ands trail up your thighs before coming to rest on your hips, pushing up the hem of your—his—shirt. A small hum of approval leaves him as he realizes you have nothing on underneath.

A set of mismatched eyes meet yours, clouded with lust. His shoulders are hunched forwards slightly, head tilted down, gaze trained on you. An expectant look. From here, the once powerful cardinal looks vulnerable now.

If he ever asks, you’ll say you didn't plan this. Really, you didn't, but one has to be a little scheming to last within the clergy.

“What is it, Copia?”

He swallows hard. Your eyes follow his adam's apple as it bobs in his throat. “My love, I wish to taste you,” he says, voice low. “May I?”

“You may.”

He hooks his arms around your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch—that draws a small gasp from you. Now, your legs hang mostly off the couch, coming to rest on his shoulders. Copia’s stubble is rough against your skin as he presses his lips against it, trailing kisses up your thigh. Three on the left, one on the right. Achingly slow. You don't think his movements are meant to be so—you truly think he’s trying to pace himself—but they all feel teasing in nature.

You wish for nothing more than to lean down and kiss him. To hold him gently in the same way he holds you. His tongue traces up your slit once before you can no longer contain yourself, and pull him close, hands guiding him by his hair. From him comes a small, muffled noise of approval.

Copia is a man who claims he is not skilled with his tongue, although that couldn't be further from the truth. He’s no stranger to your taste, your feel, the subtle movements of your body. He laps and sucks like a man starved for weeks, finally presented with a meal. A tongue devoted in total worship, for such reverence can only be that: worship. Moans spill past your lips and you do nothing to stop them. There’s no reason to be quiet in here, nobody is around to hear you. They only seem to make him more eager to please.

You’re reminded of a sermon from a few nights ago. Terzo led it. He would soon become intoxicated, but not before bestowing the crowd with a few words of wisdom:

Our pain, our pleasure…

One finger presses into you. Then another. Curling and pumping into you. The leg that’s no longer supported by his shoulder hangs loosely at your slide.

We devote ourselves to Him…

Sister Imperator looked about ready to strangle him once he started bringing up female orgasms. Maybe he had a point. Maybe Terzo was just alluding to what was going to happen at the afterparty.

The nails on Copia’s free hand dig into your skin. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to leave little crescent shaped marks. It’s enough to bring your attention back to him, and his mismatched eyes.

A low noise rumbles up from his chest as your grip tightens on his hair. Your own release comes upon you sooner than intended. Copia seems to notice it before you do, continuing to lap at your poor, sensitive clit. You can only writhe helplessly before him as he works you up to—and through—your release. Even then, he is unrelenting, continuing to work you over with his tongue; a mix of lust, pride, and gluttony in their most primal forms.

When Copia does finally pull away, his chin glistens in the low light of the room. You’ve done quite a good job at messing up his hair. It sticks out at strange angles now, and is only slightly fixed when he runs a hand through it. Something in Italian spills past his lips, although you can’t tell if it’s a prayer, or a curse. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, moving to sit beside you on the couch.

Once your shirt comes off, you’re left bare before him, nipples stiffening when exposed to open air. Copia takes you in greedlily, admiring the curves of your body. The angles. The softness of it—you—all. His reverence is a form of worship in its own right. He must be painfully hard now—the bulge in his trousers is a telltale sign of that. Copia palms himself through them, before you lean in to take charge, straddling his lap. Off comes his shirt, a task that takes both of you to complete, your hands fumbling for buttons in unison. His neatly tailored slacks are the next to go, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. Your discarded clothes go into a pile on the floor, tossed aside carelessly.

If the circumstances were any different, you’d go through the effort of finding a condom. Today you don't, though, it’s not for a lack of abundance. You wish to feel him in his entirety; limbs tangled, bodies becoming one. Like a pair of horny newlyweds, you’re all over each other. The first kiss he gives you is soft—gentle—but grows more needy as your hands brush across his erection. He lifts his hips just enough for you to tug down his boxers, freeing his hardened cock. Copia must be painfully hard now, yet he still tries to contain himself.

Copia leans back just enough for you to straddle his lap, and you do so, with your thighs on either side of his. The redness on his cheeks has now spread to his chest, and the tips of his ears. His breathing has evened out now. His lips find your neck, but not in a kiss—no, he’s savoring your closeness. His hands find your hips, and yours find his chest, guiding you as you lower yourself onto his hardened cock. There’s a slight sting as you do so—a stretch—although it’s the kind of pain that inevitably feels good. The two of you just fit together so perfectly, you can't help but think. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, combined with a mix of gasps, and moans. Copia’s hands wander up and down the length of your body, finding your hips, thighs, breasts, but never resting in one spot for very long. Your arms wrap around his neck, wrapping around them as you try to find purchase against his body. The couch creaks in protest underneath the two of you. Quiet, nonsensical words of praise spill past his lips, only muffled further when his face is shoved against your breasts. Copia doesn't seem to mind.

“Beautiful—” he huffs, “you’re so beautiful.”

You’d say it back if you could form any words. And he truly is; skin flushed, and slightly shiny with sweat. The veins in his hands are more prominent now—you’ve always had a thing for his hands. The feeling of them around your neck, or down your body. Gloved or not. Taking one of his hands in yours, you bring it to your lips, wrapping them around his pointer and middle finger. He still tastes of you.

Copia’s breath catches in his throat—the muscles in his thighs tense—all telltale signs that he’s going to cum. His nails dig into your hips hard enough to leave little crescent shaped indents. Maybe they’ll bruise. Maybe not. And when he finally cums, he cums hard, spilling into your unprotected womb.

Your second orgasm isn't far off, and you’re still oversensitive from the first. You’re content to chase your own release, grinding down against him. Copia helps you along with his thumb, toying messily with the bundle of nerves. Broken strands of sentences spill through you, and Copia seems to take that as high praise of his work. It comes upon you all at once, like a wave rolling over you, pulling you under and spitting you out wrong. Your thighs are a mess of his cum, and your own. The couch is certainly a mess.

Once again, you feel his stubble against your neck as he presses a kiss to it. Then your cheek, then your forehead. A hand smooths over your hair as your head falls into the crook of his neck.

It’s another moment before you remove yourself from him. If you had any say in the matter, you’d stay like this for the rest of the day. Copia guides you onto the cushion beside him, taking a moment to admire his work; the red nail marks, flushed skin, and cum seeping down your thighs.

“Eh, sorry my love,” he says, and you assume he’s referring to the mess.

“It’s okay,” you say, “it’s not my couch anyway.”

Copia groans as he stands, heading for the kitchen. When he returns, he has a washcloth in his hands. Patting the inner part of your thigh, he motions for you to lay back. Copia takes great care to clean your thighs, dragging the cloth across them. The damn cloth is slightly cold against your skin, although the chill feels nice. An ache has settled into your hips from the events of the morning. Nothing that some ibuprofen won't fix. 

“Maybe we should do that in Terzo’s office,” you say, and you swear you feel him twitch beside you, “teach him to miss a meeting…”

“Unfortunately, I think this is something that happens in his office often,” Copia sats, “not much work gets done in there regardless.”

That draws a small laugh from you. You can believe it. You’ve never been to one yourself, but you’ve heard stories of the afterparties Terzo throws. Calling them extravagant is putting it lightly.

Sleepy, and sated, you curl up in the space beside him, and the arm of the couch. The warmth of his body, combined with the smell of his cologne threaten to lull you to sleep. Your body seems to associate him with safety, and as such, staying awake becomes a challenge. You sip from your now-cold coffee, turning your attention back to the TV. Outside, the rain grows heavier, tapping against the windowpane. Fog leaves the outside world in a hazy, dreamlike state. You know at some point in time you’ll have to get up and begin your daily chores. For now, you’re content to stay by Copia’s side.

“I guess the rain isn't so bad,” you say.

“Is that so?” He asks.

A small hum leaves you—a nonverbal confirmation. Maybe the rain isn't so bad. Maybe it was Copia who taught you to like it.

[the---hermit]

end of the year study masterlist

I have made this kind of post a few times in the past. I have lots to keep in mind and although I do have very specific to-do lists in my bullet journal I like to have a big list on here too to make me feel accountable. This helps me having a clear overview of everything I have to do and the progress I am making. I will be crossing things off as I complete tasks, and I will probably add more tasks every once in a while. This is meant to be a sort of preparation for winter exams to do list, I haven't given myself deadlines yet, but the more I get done soon the better. I also want to keep in mind that I am still doing the self care journey 3.0 with my friend @oneardentstudybuddy, so productivity is the goal here but I still need to keep an eye out to avoid burning myself out, and take time in my days to actively take care of myself.

English lit: this whole list has now been deleated because I decided to move my exam from January to April, so I will be working on all this stuff after my winter exam session.

History of enlightment philosophy:

finish attending lectures (and stay on track with fixing my notes everyday)

additional post-holiday lectures 1, 2, 3, 4

finish reading book #2

read book #3 (since it's digital see if I need to write down some notes while reading it)

reread important passages in books (1,2,3)

notes of the main points of each book (1,2,3)

highlight presentation notes

big reread of all notes

list of key words

review out loud (1,2)

practice answering exam questions out loud

Power practices and men theories in the modern era:

reread and highlight lecture notes

fix notes by adding the infos I originally annotated on the texts

read and annotate book (intro, ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9)

write down list of key words

review out loud (1, 2, 3)

make sure to check all the images and pictures that were discussed in the lectures because they could come up during the exam

guest lecture stuff:

brain dump

get back all my thesis diaries and other tumblr posts where I talk about my experiece in detail to see if there's useful elements to talk about

guide lines to have a coherent speech

rehearse or smt idk

[bonnibelerm]

East Coast

[scaryfangirl2001]

Hephaistion and Warrior Angel and Clark Kent (fanfic, 1050 WC)

@flufftober

While Martha is unconscious in the hospital, Lex learns that Jonathan is frantically searching for a cure. That means nobody is home with Clark. Lex steps into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Clark’s room is warm and comforting, filled with the scent of freshly laundered sheets and a faint hint of hay. He sits down on the edge of the bed, trying to act casual as Clark moans again.

"You're just a little under the weather, Clark," Lex says, his voice trying to sound reassuring. He doesn’t want to scare the farm boy with the way his mind is racing. "Nothing a little rest can't fix."

He looks at the books on Clark's nightstand. "I see you're quite the reader, Clark. Do you like…history?"

Clark groans again, his eyes still closed. Lex leans back in his chair, feeling more than a little awkward. He doesn't really know what to say to someone who has a fever and is delirious. He tries to distract himself.

“You know," he begins, "Alexander the Great…he was quite the…warrior. He had this friend… Hephiestion… they were very close. Almost inseparable. They shared a bond that transcended time itself. Their friendship was a beacon of loyalty and trust, much like ours."

Clark's unfocused eyes flicker as Lex's words fill the room, his mind struggling to grasp the meaning behind the historical parallels drawn by the older man. In his delirium, Clark can only listen, the lines between reality and fever dream blurring before him. So, Lex continues, his voice warming with nostalgia.

"Just like us, Clark. We navigate the challenges of life side by side, our friendship a testament to strength and resilience."

Lex trails off, caught in the middle of a story about ancient Greece and its legendary warriors. He's been thinking about Clark a lot lately, and it’s been driving him a bit crazy. He tries to push the thought away, focusing on the comics he sees on the dresser.

“Do you like Warrior Angel?” he asks Clark, hoping to find something to connect with the farmboy. “It’s a great series. The Angel of War… he’s powerful. You know, he has a nemesis, Angelus Devilicus. "Clark, you and I are just like them,” he says, his words tinged with reverence for the fictional heroes. “Warrior Angel, the protector of the innocent, and Angelus Devilicus, the cunning adversary. Our friendship, it’s just like their eternal battle. You, Clark, you’re the embodiment of goodness, just like Warrior Angel. And me? Maybe I’m more like Angelus Devilicus, the misunderstood villain with a hint of darkness.”

He develops childlike enthusiasm as he delves deeper into the intricacies of the comic series, his words painting a vivid picture of their friendship. Clark makes a noise in response, but it propels Lex forward. The room seemingly blurs around them, the lines between fantasy and reality becoming increasingly blurred. Lex is lost in the world of his beloved comic series, his voice rising and falling with the rhythm of a well-worn tale. And Clark, in his delirious state, drifts in and out of consciousness, catching only snippets of Lex’s passionate monologue. Lex feels a strange sense of satisfaction when he sees that Clark is staring at him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But he knows he’s just delirious.

“I… I’m… the Angel of War,” Clark mumbles, his voice barely audible.

Lex doesn't bother to stifle his laugh, "Of course you are. You’re quite the warrior, Clark.”

A weird noise outside makes Lex jump. He sees the mail carrier out the window and decides to carry it in for the Kents. He picks up the stack of letters and magazines and brings them inside, absentmindedly flicking through them. That's when he notices a crumpled pink paper on the porch next to the door. Curiosity piqued, Lex gently smoothes out the paper, revealing a letter from Chloe. His eyes scan the words on the page as he walks back to Clark. Seeing the words “Clark,” “My Dearest,” and “Chloe” written in a neat, feminine script, he realizes it’s a love letter to Clark. 

"Your friend Chloe wrote you a letter, Clark. I'll read it to you, okay?"

Clark hums, so Lex reads, "I want to let you in on a secret, Clark. I'm not who you think I am. In fact, my disguise is so thin, I'm surprised you haven't seen right through me. 

I'm the girl of your dreams masquerading as your best friend.  

Sometimes I want to rip off this façade like I did at the Spring Formal, but I can't because you'll get scared and you'll run away again. So I decided that it's better to live with the lie than expose my true feelings. My dad told me there are two types of girls: the ones you grow out of, and the ones you grow into. I really hope I'm the latter.  

I may not be the one you love today, Clark, and that hurts. But I'll let you go for now, hoping one day you'll fly back to me. Because I think you're worth the wait. Wow,” he says, his voice low. “Chloe, she, she really loves you.” Clark still seems asleep, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that makes Lex’s heart pound. "She's a lucky girl. You're a good man, Clark."

The superboy stirs, his brows furrowed as he tries to focus on Lex. He mumbles something unintelligible as he cracks open his eyes, a flicker of recognition in their depths. Lex has to ask what he said, leaning a little closer. Clark lies back down with a soft smile on his lips.

"Sorry Chloe," he rasps a little louder, "I love Lex."

Lex’s heart stops. He blinks, unable to comprehend the words he just heard. The letter falls from his hand. Clark believes that Chloe is sitting here; does she know about Clark's crush on the billionaire? Clark apologizes to Chloe again, and the older boy's breath hitches in his throat. He stands, tucking Clark back into the bed. After a moment's hesitation, he brushes Clark's hair off his forehead and leans down to kiss his head.

"Lex loves you too, Clark."

Clark hums contentedly, snuggling into the blanket as Lex turns to leave the farm.

[odd-chips]

"They/them", but in the multiple guys sense, you see.

Bonus art of Tim/Ratman dabbling in weirdgender stuff from 2 years ago, and ramblings under the cut!

I couldn't really expand on the scope of it on twitter (280 character count and all that), but Ratman in my mind tends to be like. Weirdly label-less. Tim is explicitly gay, but I never say as much for Ratman's sexuality, because it's just not important enough to his character for him to think about. (I can just say "Oh yeah he's pan" but I dunno, it feels weird)

So in the same way, I don't tend to think of him as a man in a binary way, because, not only does it also hits that mark of "it's not really important enough to his character that he'd label himself", but he also quite literally was MADE. He sprung forth with only the memories of Tim's lived experiences as man without the societal pressures to back it up. Copy of a copy and all that.

He's a man, it's in his name, but he's not a man. If you asked him if he was a guy, he'd say yeah, but not in a cis way, but he wouldn't understand he means it in a non-cis way. His red is red, but it's not your red, and he doesn't realize he's seeing his red differently. He's experiencing manhood in genuinely the only way he knows how: through the filter of Tim and what little knowledge of gender roles he understands. (Although if gender roles were ever explained to him, he'd be super confused about it, to be fair)

Anyways I think Ratman's a man, but not in a cis way, but saying he's nonbinary feels about as wrong as saying he's pan. He's just fucking Ratman and his gender is Ratman. It doesn't change much about him, but it's just How It Be.

[sorimmori]

hey look commissions! no theme! just art! i draw ur ocs and we have a good time :) 

[ordering information under the read more]

style options: chibi [$50]: A, B, and C options for posing! oc will be drawn over the base, expression can be altered  basic [$90]: the standard good stuff, flat color full-body (the bulk of my art looks like this) experimental [$150]: honestly just me having fun with colors, simple/vibey background and lots of lighting effects, looking for primarily pin-up style poses 

additional options: basic double [$180]: two ocs instead of one experimental double [$200]: two ocs instead of one 

 you're free to request to include my own ocs, but I may veto if the idea is not in character! nsfw and sfw ideas are fine, go wild babes 

please supply: - style (basic, experimental, chibi A/B/C) - prompt (varying degrees of detail fine) - personality of your oc(s) (just a sentence or two will help!) - visual reference(s)  - height (if more than one oc) - email for the invoice - name for public queue (if different from contact name) - name/username for crediting (twitter/FA/tumblr handle preferred) 

 Include VACATION in the title of your email so I know you read this :) 

You'll receive a sketch wip, and upon approval, I'll finish the comm and send it over. Minor edits are free, but major issues that should've been addressed in the sketch stage may incur a cost. :( 

 i have a lot of bills coming up in may/june because i'm graduating and then moving into a new apartment soooooo i'd love the support! i primarily work on the weekends bc i have a dayjob so wait times can get up there but i'll try to be efficient and keep my queue updated, please be comfortable with a month to couple month turnaround. i'll try to have everything finished asap, reach out for updates i'm happy to provide them. 

 Payment is in USD through Paypal only. 

 READ MY TOS ON TWITTER. YOU MUST BE 18+ TO COMMISSION EXPLICIT WORK. Queue is linked on my twitter [sorimmori].

 Send all inquiries to felldews@gmail.com. NO DM ORDERS.

[weaponizedmoth]

Been meaning to do another one of these for a second, but didn't have any cool outfit pics--until I remembered these blurry pics I had from 2021 that I could never do much with. Libbyframe is the inspo for these as usual,✨️

[meepy-ultra]

dragon au hecate

[kernelongeforce]

90s OVA Missing character design part 3: Maxi! Norris partner! He did got a design in 2nd OVAs but I really wanted to try a different take. I've got to rework a bit on him he's not into the style yet I think. (Two last ones are 2010's official canon designs)