#I need to fuck that old man it is IMPERATIVE

[evilminji]

OKAY, FIRST? Like the Picture Says...

So!

Here I was, sittin', thinkin', pondering my thoughts. Thing to myself? "How could one? Presumably female, much like myself, Jedi repopul-" and THAT is when my brain, worn and weary, from years of The Internet? SLAMMED its fucking pint down on the bar counter, turned to me with an ugly scowl and sneered?

"You KNOW fucking how. Don't be coy."

( O.O) w-well alright then, brain. Little aggressive. Kinda wondering where you got the knife. I... I'ma just... go... *pint glass is thrown after me, shattering on the door as it just barely misses*

So! Yeah. Birth, probably. But STILL! That's like? Still ONE(1) fuckin Jedi right? And even IF Mr. "I am literally half midi-chlorians by blood" sired two Force Sensitives on his first go? That's no guarantee EVERYONE does?

Unless..... >.> we are taking into account a Force Sensitive RACE. THEN? Oh, THEN? It's not a matter of IF, but HOW MUCH. Enough to hit that arbitrary cut off point? What if you don't care? What if you say "everybody can be a Jedi"? Want to TRUELY spread the Light. Not just to those who are STRONG enough... but to EVERYONE.

There are a few races like that! But! That STILL? Doesn't solve the Puzzle! The Problem! Of how could One(1) VERY determined Jedi lady, who? Presumably is pretty cool with motherhood. Rebuild The Jedi Order, by NOPING™ out before Order 66.

Again, presumably AFTER taking on the role of Creche Master. And AFTER taking all the youngling on a Super Fun Unplanned Don't Tell The Other Grown Ups Suprise Feild Trip~☆ (yaaaaay!)(who wants snacks! Everybody got their travel bags and buddies? Let's gooooo~☆!)

Cause like? Still need a stable population. And enough Jedi to *obscene gestures multiculturally* at the Sith.

My? Proposal? We turn to the Wisdom of the Monster Fuckers. (Wait wait WAIT! Don't leave! HEAR ME OUT!) I KNOW this sounds like a sex thing! Not a sex thing! It's a "Who said Humanoid Meant Live Birth? Were fucking Aliens, Bro" thing! Just because? Our SI-OC? Was reborn AS a vaguely human shaped sentient?

DOESNT MEAN SHE'S A MAMMAL.

That weird hair color could mark her as some WEIRD, man! Fuck, for all we know she could be a fungus! It's vaguely body horror! You get over it! Adapt to new biology!

Learn?? You lay CLUTCHS. Fuckin EGGS. All baby making is external after the first bit. Something, something, easier to defend against predators. SI-OC doesn't remember that part. There was this high pitched ringing in her head then a thump. She was on the floor. May have fainted. What're you, a cop?

They offer her weird alien birth control.

She takes the birth control.

Learns she is a Rare and Near Extinct Species, a la Master Mundi. Learns it's VERY detrimental to her health to lay clutches. Takes a lot of resources, she can't LEAVE it, so with out a partner or community (or sufficient hoard of food) she WILL starve to death. It HAS happened.

No, seriously, look Mafame Che in the eyes. It HAS happened. And no you CAN'T "push your impulses into the Force". It's a biological imperative. Your body physically won't LET you.

Exactly three options. Babies born, they die, or YOU DIE.

......little intense. Got it. Yes she would like that birth control. She will continue to be both average and forgettable. Pay no attention to the Jedi Creche Master In Training! Oh look! It's kenobi! *yeets fellow jedi under the speeder*

Take some.... research trips >.> <.< >.> which is of course totally not scouting out new Temple locations! To the Wild Zone. Mmmmm, no one for WEEKS by hyperdrive! It's so calm out here!

Only took, like, 278 different planets scouted! To find the right one.

*starts building dwellings.* *starts directing "too old" Force Sensitives or Families that want to stay together and are willing to move, towards the location.*

New secret Jedi planet? Whaaaaat? Nooooooo. That would be illegal. Jedi can't break RULES! Don't be silly. Oh? Is that Skywalker? *same Speeder, new jedi. YEET!*

But WAIT! The War Approachth! D:> upsetting. Better get ready to give that "we totally need to Hide The Babies For War Reasons" presentation she has prepared. But FIRST?

A clutch. Got a transport pod ready to go. Got food stockpiled. Got the birth control out. Now? Just need a male! Too uh... contribute.

.......look, she wants her legion of tiny jedi babies okay? They glow like STARS. Everything is BETTER with them around. And she's kinda come around to this whole... disgusting slime... goo... Thing™. Cause I mean? At LEAST it's not pushing one OUT! ( o7 Padme, you have her respect. But also you are a madwoman.)

The Healers, are of course, FROTHING at the mouth.

YOU DUMB MOTHER FUCKER. They hiss, like healing and very concerned paragons of needle weilding fury. Where the FUCK are you going to just? GET?? A male of you INCREDIBLY RARE AS FUCK Species? You damn near dead and no longer existent species??!? You have DELIBERATELY put yourself in EXTREME medical distress! For WHAT?! Did you HAVE a plan!?

Yeah. :3 I call it Pulling a Yoda's Linage *Yoda ears move from Concern, to Intrigued*

*click*

..........what was that. Jedi SI-OC, What Was That?? *comms start blowing up* What did you just DO?

Oh :3c simple. She asked. It's the only polite thing to DO after all. She DOES need assistance. Surely someone would be willing to offer. If they can. How? You may ask?? Why look so CONCERNED Councilors! She simply assumed, that? Since there is no way of KNOWING where in the Galaxy surviving members of her Race are? And time IS of the essence? She SHOULD reach as wide an audience as she can, as FAST as she can... RIGHT?

>:3c so, of course, she posted her request to the Holonet.

Video and all.

"Grettings, I am Jedi SI-OC. I am an [race] and currently a Creche Master here at the Jedi Temple of Coruscant. I require the assistance of a healthy, willing Male of my species, as I have laid a clutch. And wish to have it fertilized. I would like to have children. We would, of course, discuss co parenting the children before beginning. I have, attached, further details. Thank you for your time. May the Force be with you"

Sexiest shit a LOT of people for egg laying races have seen in years. Well... those with Very Specific Jedi Kinks. Of course, no one ADMITS to jedi kinks. But like... you've thought about it. Don't lie. Everyone's thought about it. It's them and the Mandalorians.*commiserating noises*

But like? The NEWS CYCLE.

Holy SHIT.

Yeah, yeah, tensions and possible succession from the Republic. Sith plots in the background. But? *new casters violently clear their planned segments for THIS* JEDI? Horny on main!? Is THIS ALLOWED? IS this horny? What race is that? C-can other people volunteer? And if so, who? We take to the streets! Sir, what's your opinion on-?

OUTTA MY WAY, I'MMA BANG A JEDI! *frenzied mob like behavior*

*temple guards, unnamused.* back! BACK! Horny jail! For ALL OF YOU!

Just?? It's? So, SO? Important to me? That their are Mandalorian [race] that show up. Because the need to repopulate their people is more important then *scrunch nose* Jedi(ew). That it becomes the Galaxy's hottest Bachelorette show. WHO? Amongst these Fine And Acomplished Men? Will the Jedi CHOOSE? To have babies with! They ask.

And, presumably, marry and learn the power of family and friendship and emotions and be HEALED by LOVE etc etc.

There are shipping charts. It's horrifying. The talk shows LOVE it.

Council? Day drinking. Except for Mundi. He's just like "....but did you HAVE to you they Holonet? It's so MESSY >:/ everyone's in our BUSINESS now." Cause he's not a hypocrite. Grumpy asshole? Absolutely. But not a hypocrite.

Just? The single most "....who?" Jedi ever. Causing the BIGGEST fuss. Right at the worst possible moment, for Sidious. Causing an explosion of glee and hope and laughter etc, all across the Galaxy. Good feeling towards the Jedi. EVERYBODY talking about them. There's gonna be HUNDREDS more!

If she does this AGAIN (in a decade. Madame Che was NOT joking on the stress it puts on the body) there could be thousands new Jedi over the coming years! (Probably why the Sith fuckin wiped them OUT, not that she thinks about it. Fuckers. Who's laughing NOW?! Huh? WHO LAUGHING NOW?!)

Again! Very, unspeakably Ace. Not a sex thing. I just think I'd be funny? That the Forces answer to The Evil Sith plan was... Babies™.

What are we? Fuckin YODA?

@babbling-babull @hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @spidori @hypewinter @mayfay

[4th-make-quail]

Anyway, if anyone is wondering where i am for long periods of time, well I'm basically playing dragon age with every spare hour I have lolol, not that it's not obvious from all the screenshots, BUT WELL

I took today off for the dentist cos there's no point going into work when it takes me so long to get there, and I was like well, might as well take Friday off too! So I'm having a full four days marathon rn and it's FANTASTIC

[enochianforest]

i really would 250k word a post finale fix it with doom patrol. i truly would

[oh-babylove]

~7k. copia/f!reader. explicit. established relationship, smut, filth and fluff. copia does date night, and you show him your appreciation-- it's only fair. mdni.

thanks to @copia for showing me how to put images in a grid-- top right image by instagram user susitse.art. @enjoy-my-swearing and @photiniainsummer, this one's for you. <3

when the red comes over you - ao3

rhrn spoilers. blowjobs, masturbation, dirty talk, light degradation, a small piece of light cum kink, a touch of hanky-panky in public, some thigh riding, face-fucking, fluff, tw: references to past sexual assault/dubious consent/sexual trauma

You’re holding the same pole on the subway car as Copia, his gloved hand over yours, swaying with him, forced into his space by the crowd. It gives you an excuse to stand close to him, in the circle of his scent like cold smoke. You're not complaining– well, not much. Keeping your balance is a bit of a challenge– you aren't used to doing this in heels, even these modest Cuban heels. Riding the subway truly is riding, the rhythmic thrum of the rails swaying up your body, through the balls of your feet. Riding the train feels like riding a living thing.

“I like this,” you say, as if coming to a decision.

“Hnn?” Copia replies, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at you.

“Riding the train. I like it.” You lean in to murmur in his ear, not that you have far to go. It’s a matter of tilting your head until you can feel the warmth of his skin against your cheek. “But I’d like riding you even more.” It’s just the kind of cheesy nonsense that you’re both into.

Your body keeps brushing against his– a particularly hard bump has your belly pressed against his erection, and his choked-off gasp scores a direct hit to your brain stem, bypassing your ears, cinching something tight around your diaphragm. His hand tightens on your hip, possessive. Holding you up, keeping your balance.

“You little minx,” he hisses, frustrated--with a ragged edge of delight. “You wait till I get you home.”

“You caint blame that on me, now, that was the train,” you say, but you're close to laughing, yourself. You can hear your accent getting thicker, but damned if you can stop it. Besides, Copia loves it, loves ruffling your feathers enough that he can get you to slide back into that slurring hillfolk drawl. Someday he might even make you less self-conscious about it. 

Truth be told, you’ve been practically vibrating since before you left the apartment, restless and swollen between the legs, a low-grade ache that Copia has not been helpful with.

(The apartment. Your apartment. Yours, plural, now, you think. You’d never been a co-religionist of his, and he’d had a toothbrush at your place for a long time. Then a drawer in your dresser. Then he’d brought over his best frying pan, his best chef knife– simply because he couldn’t stand it, gattina, you cook with that? And now there’s as many of his books as yours on the shelves– shelves you put up with your own hands while he did ‘the heavy lookin’ on.’ His name isn’t on the lease, but he paid the rent for the next two months anyway. In full.

When you tried to fight him on it, he’d just shrugged. “Babydoll, I’ve been here more nights than I haven’t for the last four months, this is just… ehh, consider it backdated, yeah?” He’d kissed your forehead. “We can do half each after that. If you haven’t gotten sick of your dirty old man by then.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Copia kept his room at the Ministry, even after his… promotion. His term as Imperator, he’d decided, would be more hands off. You’d talked about it a little. Mostly in bed, sweaty and spent and a little sticky. “Mister Psaltarian is more than capable of running most of it. The administrative things. I’m better with the ghouls, I think, but there’s Kevin, and Ashley, they have it well in hand. I want the new guy to– to be able to be his own man, yeah? I’ll show him the ropes, of course, answer any questions he has, but he doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder all the damn time.”

The new guy. Hell of a way to refer to his long-lost brother. “And you ain’t ready to be around him twenty-four seven just yet.”

“...And that. Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re too perceptive, gattina. Keep it up and I’ll have to fuck you again, till you don’t think so good.”

“So… you sayin’ you gone fuck my brains out? Say, you ever notice that your man Psaltarian loses his train of thought whenever Kevin comes into the room?”

“That’s it, back in the handcuffs with you. And remember, you brought this on yourself.”)

As ever, he’d insisted on doing your makeup. (It should have been your first clue that you were in for it.) It only makes sense-- he’s better at it than you’ve ever been, and he loves doing it. You love it, too, if you’re honest. He had to take his gloves off for it, to hold your chin firmly and keep you in place. It was terribly intimate, his breath ghosting over your lips, the skin of his hand against your cheek. His quiet, gentle command held something still in the center of you, made it sing like a struck tuning fork– a calm vibration that sank into your bones. The cool brush of the eyeliner on the delicate skin of your eyelids. How meticulous he’d been, how precise. That calm focus he brings to everything that he cares about. How his whole being focused on that point, painting cat eyes sharp enough to kill a man.

Your lipstick had been worse, barely holding your mouth open, the brush sliding over the curve of your cupid’s bow, stretching out your lower lip ever so slightly. You hadn’t even known they’d made brushes for lipstick. Copia has taught you so many things.

Copia knows just what shades of red match your skin tone, knows just how to bring out the color of your eyes. He knows, too, the best cut of a dress to accentuate your figure, to flatter your curves. This one was lovely, shaping your breasts, with a little bit of flare to the skirt. He bought you this dress, these heels. This lingerie. He’s taught you how to fasten a silk stocking to a garter belt, that the underwear goes on over the garters, not underneath.

He’d taken the liberty of fastening your stockings tonight. “So the back seam is straight, gattina. I know it’s tricky to get right on your own, yes? Let me help.” His hands, his clever fingers, so high up on your thighs, his face level with your pussy.

“Oh yeah, sweetness, you're helping something, alright,” you choked out, a little strangled. 

He must have seen how wet you were already, if the self-satisfied hum he made behind you was any indication. He bit the crease of your ass, just lightly, making a goofy little rawr noise that made you actually giggle.

Embarrassing, the noises he gets out of you.

“You shaved,” he said, and it was supremely gratifying to hear him a little hoarse, himself. 

“Did you wanna do that, too?”

“Hnn. We’d miss our reservation.” He wasn't moving from his place on his knees behind you. “Miss the show.”

“Sound like you're enjoying this show purt’ well,” you said, but you thought it best to step into your underwear, anyway. 

Pain shared is pain lessened, isn't it?

…He didn't need to know that you only kept them on for a couple of minutes, just until you used the bathroom one last time on the way out the door.

You almost never know in advance where exactly Copia will take you when it's his turn to plan date night- generally your only clue is what clothing he picks out for you, how he does your makeup, if makeup is required. You've ranged over the city hitting up obscure museums before, taken tours in the underbelly of the public transportation system, gone to aviaries and magic shops and tiny greenhouses.

(You like to think you hold your own. Dive bars and twenty four hour diners, sidewalk art festivals and night markets, one memorable instance of a graffiti lesson– that had been an unexpected delight. 

Your man can be blisteringly uncool sometimes– most of the time, even– but there's no snobbery in him. No fear, either, not in the way most people are afraid: of embarrassing themselves, saying the wrong thing, of looking like a jackass. He hadn't been good at it, but he threw himself into the attempt wholeheartedly, listened to the man in the baggy jeans with the paint-stained fingers explain technique and theory and the history of the medium with total attention and enthusiasm. 

Never will you reach the bottom of him. His openness and his generosity and his good, good heart.)

Dinner and a show is almost a little pedestrian, for him, but there's comfort in the classics. A bar paneled in blond wood and washed in warm light, specializing in rare vinyls piped in on a very serious sound system as much as the cocktails. 

He’d been very good, kept his knee between yours, but otherwise, hadn’t even tried to put a hand up your skirt– a rarity, with him.  His eyes told a different story, watching you with obvious, predatory hunger. The second time you caught him ogling your cleavage he leaned into it, dragging his eyes salaciously down your body with enough force that you nearly felt his gloves snagging on your skin.

The cheeky motherfucker actually licked his lips at you.

You barked out your unlovely laugh, and the way he grinned took the sting out of the sharp glances cast your way– the aim was to listen to the obscure bossa nova, not to your fellow patrons. Your face was hot. “Ah, gattina, you cannot blame a man for looking. Not when you are as ravishing as that.” It wasn’t helping the heat in your face.

A glance at the mirror over the bar, old and pitted and a little smoky, the perfect self-aware touch of authenticity. You’d never have recognized the woman looking back, not when you first met Copia, this exquisite creature with perfect makeup. Sharp. Sexy. 

You don’t hate it.

“...Y’outdid yourself,” you said, slow. You didn’t look real to yourself, this absolute pinnacle of femininity. Copia’s gaze softened, warmed, less the slavering predator and more– a naked adoration that was hard to look at.

(Of course, neither expression was comparable to the first time he’d put you in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit. You’d thought the man was going to pass out from how quickly his blood rushed south– but that’s a story for another day.)

He crowded your space, just this side of indecent, his knee halfway between your thighs. Copia fed you little morsels from his own fork of– whatever this was. A vaguely mediterranean inspired amuse-bouche. He took his time with it, making you duck your head while the cool tines slid against your lower lip. You kept his eyes for it, moving slow, relishing the way his mouth hung open. 

It’s a little much, in public, truly.

You weren’t even sure what you were eating, something perfectly balanced with rich cream, phyllo dough, an acidic tang. Spanakopita when it’s got a Michelin star or two, you thought. Copia’s little shudder at your groan of appreciation didn’t escape your notice, but you managed to keep the smugness out of your expression with truly heroic effort. 

From there, it was a short taxi ride with his gloved hand heavy on your knee, Copia keeping up a stream of polite chatter that you barely heard a word of. He’d gotten box seats in a lovely little jewel box of a theatre, for a revival of a classic two-man existential tragicomedy starring a couple of aging comedic actors known for their roles in a cultural zeitgeist film from around the turn of the last century.

It was a good effort, all told, and the actors weren’t bad– they had a chemistry borne out of twenty years of friendship that’s impossible to replicate. But Copia proved that he’s a true and faithful servant of the Devil somewhere around the start of the second act, when he peeled a glove off with his teeth.

Your chest went tight.

No wonder he wanted box seats, you thought, as he settled his hand back on your knee. Like it belonged there, like he had perfect possession of it, every right to edge just under the hem of your skirt. 

(His hands-- you love his hands. He’s self-conscious about the hair on the back of them, the dusting of freckles. Large and well-made and skilled, seeing them is like sharing a secret. A gift. He’s squeamish about textures, too sensitive, the slightest scrape will make him shudder-- and not in a fun way. Sandpaper would be torture. Anything gelatinous is right out. You get used to the constant grime and the vague awareness of filth you get on your hands, living in a city. It’s not so bad, for you, you invest in hand sanitizer and don’t touch your face. It’s the price you pay for living in a place with something like a subway, where things pulse and hum and never truly sleep, to be a microbe in the gut of this beast of a city, to be a tiny cog in the great machine.

You love it here. You didn’t think you would. Hell, you didn’t think you could. “It’s growing on me,” you told Copia one day, cool as you like, as if you weren’t giving anything away. “A little.”

“You have no talent for bullshit, babydoll,” he said, both dry and terribly fond.)

All of your awareness focused on the soft warmth of him enveloping your knee, the rough scrape of his calluses on the inside of your thigh– a new sensation, he’s taken the acoustic guitar back up recently. Not moving, just–holding. 

You kept your eyes forward, and your breathing even.

His thumb slid over your kneecap, absentmindedly tracing little circles. Your legs fell open a little wider, just so your thighs weren’t touching. You were terribly, achingly aware of the air on your cunt.

A soft stroke back and forth, a gesture that could have been reflexive, thoughtless– if it wasn’t for the beatific expression on his face, his eyes forward and too-innocent. It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been inching his slow way upwards, featherlight touches, tracing up and back down, up and back down. Just a millimeter higher each time. An agonizingly slow drag, a glacial pace.

Your grip tightened on the armrest. 

Copia leaned forward, his breath in your ear. “Why, gattina,” he purred. “I do not think you are even paying attention to the play.”

“You are,” you managed, “a real sunnavbitch, you know it?”

He only chuckled low, and ran his touch to the top of your thigh. The side of his hand brushed up against your wet cunt and you both gasped.

“You little slut,” he hissed, with obvious pride. “So eager for me already.”

He dragged the very tip of one finger up between your lips, so slick it was almost frictionless, pulling away just before he could touch your clit. You took a ragged breath that was nearly a whine, bereft at the loss of his touch. You felt your cunt clench over nothing, an involuntary contraction. 

Copia hummed in mock-sympathy, and took mercy on you, cupping your whole cunt with his broad hand, steady and even pressure that was nowhere near enough, but at least took a little of the edge off. 

His middle finger slid naturally between your labia majora, and settled there, his fingertip crooked so he could just barely feel the inside of you.

The bastard stayed that way for the rest of the performance, sometimes giving you a gentle squeeze, sometimes pulling away to slide his fingertip back up to circle your clit. Just often enough to keep your attention focused where he wanted.

Evil, evil man.

Copia retracted his hand before the lights went up, giving you one final squeeze. He kept your eyes as he brought his hand up to his face, inhaled deeply, and surreptitiously licked his palm before fitting his hand back into his glove for the applause.

“Play weren’t that bad,” you said, weakly. “No call to do- alla that.”

“Oh? Didn’t you tell me you had a crush on the– which was it, the one with the dark hair– as a little girl? You want to wait around, go to the stage door, get an autograph?” All innocence, all the accommodating boyfriend.

“I revise my previous opinion. You are the Lebron James of being a sunnavabitch.” Despite your discomfort in heels, you couldn’t drag him to the train home fast enough.

So now, here you are. You shiver a little, in this hot and humid subway car, remembering. You bite your lip and can taste the wax of your lipstick.

Copia sees it, of course he does, how your eyes go just a little glazed. He smirks a terribly self-satisfied smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, this’d cost you at least a dollar. Maybe five nintey-nine.”

“Inflation is just outrageous these days. Highway robbery. I’m shocked.”

“Not yet, you aren’t.”

“You are talking a big game, babydoll. Be careful, I think, ehh-- your mouth is writing checks your ass can’t cash.” His hand heavy on your hip, almost indecent. His boot between your shoes, the sweet curve of his thigh displacing your skirt. He’s so close, so warm and solid. The train is packed, but he’s all you can see, all you can feel. His breath in your ear, pitched low. “Your pussy can’t cash.”

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from grinding on his thigh in the middle of the train. “Sweetness,” you croak out. “We’re in public.”

He leans back, conciliatory. Terribly smug. The world fades back in. You catch a teenager in a hoodie smirking at the two of you, a direct and uncomfortable gaze that feels more taboo in this city than even the way your hips keep shifting, restless. You feel almost drunk, stepping into the warmth of his body and his hard cock between your hip and your belly, a little vindictive, relishing his frustrated little grunt in your ear. 

“Two more stops, gattina,” he murmurs, as much for his benefit as yours. You see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “We can make it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you manage. 

He drags you roughly by your elbow off the train, in a way that has your fellow passengers actually making a faint murmur of disapproval at the way he growls. He might be leaving a bruise on your arm. Can’t be helped. You’re laughing up the stairs, your heels loud on the concrete and metal, giddy, just this side of hysterical. 

He’s clumsy with the keys when you get to your apartment building, following you up the stairs so he can look up your skirt. “Can’t believe– I watched you put those on.” 

“You just mad you didn’t get to watch me take ‘em off.”

He’s on your neck like a lamprey when you get to your door, and now it’s your turn to be clumsy while you paw through your purse, his hot wet mouth insistent, just under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. His hands firm on your breasts, pushing the neckline of your dress down so he can fill his hands with them, gripping almost hard enough to hurt. He’s trapping you against the door, grinding into your ass while you fumble with the lock.

“What’re you– you tryna fuck me in the hallway?” you gasp. He’s reaching up your skirt now, his bare palm at the top of your stocking. When did he take his gloves off?

“I will,” he growls, “if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

You somehow make it in the door without breaking the key off in the lock, and you give him just enough time to slide the bolt home before you’re shoving him onto the couch. You’re in his lap just as quick, your mouth on his, nearly biting him as he laughs into your mouth. Christ, you didn’t even get out of your heels. 

He’s warm under you, solid muscle under a sweet softness around the middle, and you can’t unbutton his shirt fast enough. His tongue in your mouth is making you clumsy, making it hard to keep track of how buttons work, shorting out basic motor functions. When you make it, you groan at his fur under your palms, and then he shoves his thigh between your legs and you whine when you grind your wet cunt against it. You have to break off from his mouth for it, clinging to his shoulders.

Your lipstick is all over Copia’s face. He’s grinning, rapt, delighted, impossibly fond. The man’s face is so pink it looks like he’s been slapped around. “Good, eh?” He pushes his thigh forward again, his hand up your dress and on your ass. “You like that?” He’s pulling you into it, making you drag your cunt over his tight jeans. The seam running down the front of his thigh hits your clit and you gasp. “So fucking desperate you need to hump my leg, filthy little thing.”

You roll against him once or twice more, because he’s right, it feels so good, those long runner’s thighs, the coiled power of him. That hard muscle and rough fabric against you, his body between your knees, so warm and familiar and beloved.

But his smirk is just a little too smug for your taste, so you have to make yourself stop before you fall too deep into a rhythm. Even if you actually hurt with being so turned on for so long. You get his shirt the rest of the way open, have to bend your head to suck a nipple into your mouth– the terrible brand over his heart level with your eyes– and bite. It’s not hard, but it does raise his back off the couch, and distract him from you eeling down between his legs to kneel on the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at you, knowing (some of) what you have in mind.

Your hand is on his belt buckle, and the sheer Pavlovian reaction you have to the sound of undoing it with one hand forces you to press your cheek to his thigh and focus on your breathing for a moment.

You laugh, shaky. You left an actual wet spot on his jeans.

Copia’s hand is in your hair, fingernails running along your scalp, soothing, grounding you. “Baby?” he asks. “Babydoll, are you alright? We don’t have to–”

“No.” You catch your breath, look back up at him, and his mismatched eyes go from soft and sweet to almost afraid, when he sees your expression. The hunger there– you could eat him alive. “No, I was just– too turned on, for a second.”

“Oh.” He pets at you again, then his smile turns predatory as he sweeps your hair up in one hand and pulls tight. “Then why don’t you get to sucking my cock, puttana?” 

Just for that, you lean up and bite at his belly, the sweet furry softness just below his navel. You laugh with a mouthful of his flesh at his yelp, how it turns into a groan as you unzip his jeans and take him in hand. 

It isn’t as if you aren’t intimately (haha) familiar with his dick, but it’s always nice to see. You’d called it pretty, the first time you’d slept with him, and it really is an accurate description. (It had been emotional for a great many reasons, but that had touched him in ways he still couldn’t articulate.) Silky soft skin over the hard length of him, his head already shiny with precum. It’s the same color as his lips, under the paint.

“You see what you do to me, gattina?” he murmurs above you. “You wreck me. You’ve ruined me– or at least these pants.”

“It’ll come out in the wash,” you say, and take him into your mouth, slow suction, tasting salt. He fills your mouth, fills your hand, blood-warm and firm in your grip. You watch his eyes when you start to suck him down, loving, as you always do, how in that first moment he looks at you, whimpers at you, like you're breaking his heart. 

You hear the dry click of him swallowing as you pull the soft skin of his cock further towards your mouth, your grip twisting, the slow churn of it. How his veins give under your lips, under your hand. It doesn’t take long to get him slick, the thick ridge of the underside of him heavy on your tongue. The musk of him fills your whole senses, thick and animal and a little gross.

His hips shift, and before you have to pull yourself off of him to tell him to talk, he’s doing what you want. “Look at you,” he breathes, reverent. “You’re so good at this, fucking made for this,” a twitch upwards, a movement too small to be called a thrust, “aren’t you? Born for this, your god made you to suck my cock. My perfect– ohh– perfect little cocksucker. Want it so bad, don’t you?”

His hand is heavy on the back of your skull, pushing you down with that even, steady pressure just how he likes. How you both like. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to you, give you what you want.” He’s not choking you with it, you have plenty of room to work with your hand. Still, as you take him down further, swallowing around the thick length of him, you feel hot tears running down your cheeks, sheer dumb animal reaction. You slip your other hand to cradle his slick balls, rolling them gently, the weight of them a little cooler than the rest of his body. He makes a strangled noise, an “Ohh fuck, baby, babydoll, so good for me, so good to me, fuck, fuck–!” 

His stutter and his loss of control are just too much, finally, you feel the air of the apartment cool at the top of your slick thighs, your swollen cunt, and you have to do something about it. You take your hand from his balls and slide it up your skirt, slowly enough to feel your silk stockings under your fingertips, slow enough that Copia catches it.

Just as you register how fucking wet you are, his eyes go wide and his hips shudder, the smooth hot head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. 

Your grip tightens on the base of his cock, a warning. You freeze, staring blank and unseeing at his soft belly, before looking up at him imploringly. “Okay,” he says, gentling you like a frightened horse. His big hand moving in your hair. “Okay. But baby,” he's nearly whining as you slowly suckle on the head of him, faint living salt in your mouth, “I know you want it, you’re too fucking good at that to not want it, I. Ohhh.” His hand grips tight in your hair as you swallow around him, thick and hot on your tongue. “Oh, fuck.”

You’re finding your pace on his cock again, a little faster, your hands working in time on his cock, on your clit. Freshly shaved like this, you’re fantastically, impossibly slippery. “Ohh, fuck. Oh, sweet Satan. Oh my dear Lord Below.” Copia absolutely doesn’t know what he’s saying, he so rarely gets outright religious on you. It’s an unspoken courtesy you’ve extended to each other, so to hear him break it sends a smug little charge through you. You whimper a little around his cock, give yourself a little more pressure on your clit. He can’t keep still, not all the way, even though you know he’s trying, making little aborted movements of his hips.

Copia swallows. It’s remarkable how you can see him trying to pull himself together. “Knew you loved this,” he says, his voice creaking. “Can’t be that good at something if you don’t love it. Didn’t know you loved it this much, gattina.” A little more pressure on the back of your skull, his nails scraping your scalp. He isn’t exactly holding you down, but he isn’t letting you pull off, either. “Never had my cock sucked this good, never even had a man suck my cock this good, thought I liked that better, before you came along. Had so many people suck this cock–” and that hurts, a hot bolt of pain and arousal that hits your heart and your clit at the same time. Your pace falters, and it must show, because Copia slows as well.

It’s a sore spot. You know that his own inverted form of celibacy in the Ministry included a certain implied… availability that could be, charitably, unpleasant for him at times. Clergy take no wives, no husbands, but give themselves freely to their congregation. You haven’t pushed him on the things that happened to him, he usually insists it was fine, expected, normal– but you generally have to go for a long walk and break something after you talk about it. You know, too, that he had positive experiences there, genuinely caring relationships. It doesn’t exactly help matters that your own knowledge of partnered sex, before Copia, falls radically short of the mean for someone in your age group.

All of that goes through your head in a flash, and he knows it, he can read you so well, even between one stroke of his cock and the next. “Only– didn’t know you’d have a natural talent at this.” Petting at you, soothing, his thumb moving tender on your cheekbone. “Remember, how I had to teach you how to kiss, those hours in the park.” You make a noise on him, not sure if this is helping. “Loved that, babydoll, loved doing that with you, teaching you, drove me wild.” He’s murmuring low to you, his voice a little rough, a little too exposed. “But I– I was ready for you to bite it off, the first time you went down.” 

Awkward thing, laughing with a mouth full of dick. But he keeps going. “I didn’t know, my baby. I didn’t know how it could feel. Didn’t know how good it could be.” He twitches in your mouth, in time with a tiny movement of his hips, so warm and alive in you. “Taught you how to kiss, but babylove, I swear I felt like a virgin when you took me to bed.” His voice is low and wrecked for different reasons than it was before, and oh no, his eyes are wet.

You let go of him, turn your head to wipe your mouth on your shoulder, quick and perfunctory. You can't take your eyes from him. "Sug," you say, unsure how to continue, the twisting in your chest too much for words, beyond anything you could articulate with language. Your knees creak a little as you start to get up, to do what you don't know. Kiss him or touch him or say something, anything, to the way he's looking at you. 

Copia pushes you back down, his hand heavy at the back of your neck. His thumb slots right at the base of your skull, right where he likes to keep it when he kisses you. “No, no, you’re too good at this, I wouldn’t interrupt an artist.” Back in some semblance of control. “You’re too good, you make me feel too good, show me. Will you--? Please, baby, will you show me how it can be good--?"

"Well," you say, pumping slow at his cock. "I can try." You press a tiny kiss to the head of him, too sweet for the situation, relishing the way he shivers. You take him in, how his hair is a disaster, sticking up in the back, his shirt open, your makeup smeared all over his face, his body, the parts of his thighs that you can reach. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes a little glazed, his lips swollen from the way you kissed them and the way he's bitten them. He's wrecked, and he's yours. 

You love him. With all your heart, all your mind, and, you're afraid, all your soul. It hurts to look at him, you think he might sear your eyes right out of your skull. 

You close your eyes against it, at how it stings, and nuzzle into the silky skin of his cock. Copia's belly is soft, warm, furred, delightfully sticky under your touch, as you run your hand up the front of him, up until you're cupping the sweet curve of his pectoral, until you can feel the cruel scar of his branding under the pads of your fingers. You trace over it, mapping the vector of those interlocking sixes. You feel his pulse under your palm, under your lips. You drag your mouth back and forth, just to feel the soft, delicately crenelated skin, the coolness of his flesh here soothing your feverishness. 

Copia makes a tiny wounded noise as his hand presses over yours. As if he could press his heart into your hand. He’s better at language than you’ve ever been, but you can see it falter and fail for him. All you know how to do is– action. It feels inadequate, somehow.

Your dear man. He sees you, and raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles in a courtly gesture. It should be absurd, with you on your knees for him, with the delicate skin of his cock against your mouth. Somehow, it isn’t, the alchemy of his tenderness conveying exactly what he means. What you mean, with the most vulnerable part of him between your teeth. “D’you want me to take you to bed, babydoll?”

“No,” you say, pulling off of him long enough to murmur it against his slick head. “Later, maybe. If you’re up to it. Right now, I want–” It’s easier to wrap your lips around him again, to tell him that way. You’re more eloquent with your mouth this way than you ever were with language.

“Alright,” he says, almost a gasp, as he returns your hand to you. “Touch yourself for me?” Almost pleading. As if your pleasure were a favor to bestow on him. “I want– wanna see you get off, my baby, wanna see how much you love doing this. So fucking hot–” His voice breaks off into a whine as you pull him further into your mouth. 

His big hand on your head, stroking your hair back, so sweetly. “Do you want me to be a little mean? I know you like that.” 

You moan around his cock in an unmistakable affirmative, rut a little harder into your hand, plead with your eyes. 

Copia’s smile turns sharp, wicked. “My perfect little cocksucker.” The deep affection in his voice belies the words. “Perfect little cumslut.” Your hand is already back between your legs, and you might– might– be moving your hips a little more theatrically than strictly necessary. 

He holds the back of your neck, the base of your skull, his grip tight. Just this side of painful. “You know how to tap out. How to get me to stop.” He pushes you down on him as he tilts his hips up to you, not quite cutting off your air. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” 

Copia licks his lips. He looks feverish, making shallow little thrusts into your mouth. “No, you. Ohh, you like this too much.” He’s so careful, even like this, testing just how hard he can thrust, finding your limit and pushing just past it before backing down. It makes you moan, makes you shiver, makes your hand speed up on your cunt in time with the way he’s pushing into your throat.

“Cruel to me,” he croons, as he uses your mouth. “Keeping that sweet little pussy from me.” He’s panting. “I can hear it, hear how wet you are.” As he says it, you realize you can, too, the wet noise in counterpoint to the sound of you working his cock. “M’gonna make you pay for it. Hope you’re ready, gonna eat you out till m’hard again.” He’s got both hands on your head now, and he’s too far into you for you to use your hand on him.

“You’ll. Hnn. You’ll need me to, to eat you out. Make you cum on my face.” If it weren’t for the sheer adoration in his eyes, this would be brutal, the way he’s pushing into your throat. The speed of your hand on your clit. Moving with him, point and counterpoint. “Fuck, I’m gonna wreck it, gonna split your pretty little cunt open– I’ll last longer, after I cum down your throat.” You whine around his cock, your cunt clenching on nothing, shivering against your hand.

Copia sounds like he’s in pain. It feels like he can’t stop himself, the way his hips are working. “Gattina,” he whines, helplessly. “Can’t– can’t last much longer, you looking at me like that.” You can feel him trembling under your touch. “D’you. You want it?” Movements a little more shallow, holding himself in check. “You want this cum in your mouth?” A rough, jagged thrust. “Little slut–!” he hisses, and he’s not quite too far gone to grin in smug delight at the way you moan in reaction. 

“Gonna cum like this?” he croons, taunting. His white eye bores into you, too bright, and he looks crazed. Deranged. It’s almost frightening, the way you can’t look away from it. Your eyes burn, hot tears on your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop rubbing your cunt if you tried. The way he’s watching you, the way he sees just how turned on you are by him using you like this. Like it’s shameful. “From me fucking your slut mouth like a little cocksleeve.” His voice is creaking, nearly out of control. “You want this cum? You want it? Hmm?”

You’re hanging on by a thread, your nerves strung out like piano wire, helpless before him. Your jaw hurts, his hand so tight in your hair. “Then take it.” He’s beckoning you over the edge, chanting, rapt. “Take it, take my cum, take my fucking cum–” he rasps, knowing exactly what will set you off, will snap the bright line of you.

You see his smile as you break, whining around his cock. How he lights up at it, overjoyed, crooked and tender. You hold his eyes the whole time, giving him as much of it as you can, letting him see all of it, the shining abyssal affection that crashes through your body for him, catching your nerve endings like fire through tinfoil. 

“Ohh–! Precious,” he says, almost crying, “my precious girl, my baby, my–” his voice breaks on your name, the syllables like a song, like a prayer, like something more than holy, like the shahada, like the shema, like it's the last thing that he knows. You never knew your name until he held it in his mouth like this, at the uttermost end of himself. He’s flooding over your tongue, slick and bitter. Like the first jet from the fountain in school, sun-warmed metal, iron from the earth, living water. 

His cock jumps in your mouth, and you’re shaking, trembling through your aftershocks and his as you swallow all of him, pull all of him into you, watching his eyes and his blissed out expression until his voice does– something wrecked. “You–!” he gasps, delighted. “C’mere, come up here, you’re too– too far away–” he’s pulling at you, babbling, delirious, so soft now. 

Copia’s pulling you up, into his arms, his lap, too quick for you to wipe his cum and your spit from your mouth. “Dunno if I like it, you that far away, wanna feel your pretty little body when you cum, you–” And then he’s kissing on you, shivering, laughing, little pecks along your jawline till he reaches your mouth. He makes a deep, appreciative groan when he tastes himself on your lips. He pulls back to look at you, almost scandalized in delight. 

You have to laugh at him. For once you can’t be bothered to be self-conscious about it. “Oh, I do like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before he dives back in, like he has to get all of it. You’re still shaky, a fine shiver all down your spine. He’s almost clumsy, licking into your mouth, a real rarity for him. You try not to feel too smug about it.

You can’t stop smiling, when you finally get your mouth back. “Acceptable, then?”

“So good. Every time, I can’t believe–” he’s nuzzling at you, his nose against yours, totally uninhibited in his affection. “So perfect, so sweet, love you so much, thank you, thank you, baby–” Nonsense babble. Incoherently effusive. He scoops your legs across his lap and runs his hands over all of your skin that he can reach. “Perfetta…sei perfetta. Angioletto,” he murmurs, and you shiver. You haven’t heard that one in a while. “Angioletto mio,” he’s saying, into your hair, your skin, and it’s rare that you blow him all the way back to Italian. “Sei tutto ciò che voglio del Paradiso.” You’re a little too fucked-out to parse that all the way, but it still snags in your heart a little.

(He knows, usually, how you still aren’t used to being loved on this much. You know he restrains himself, tries not to overwhelm you. It breaks your heart, sometimes, when you see him hold himself back, even as his consideration makes you warm.) 

Now, though, it’s good. It’s perfect. His pants are half off, his dick out, ridiculous. You think you might have snapped a garter, and you definitely put ladders in these stockings. You couldn’t give less of a shit. You loop your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck, letting out a deep, contented sigh.

Copia’s still petting you– appropriate enough. You feel like a cat in a sunbeam, even supremely disheveled like this.

He squeezes you lightly, again, and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “The, enh– the talking. It wasn’t too much?” Like he’s shy, all of a sudden.

“Noo!” You have to pull back to look up at him. “No, holy shit, sweetness, it was inspired. Even for you! Hot damn, baby. ‘Cocksleeve,’ where did that come from?” 

“Ehh– a couple of times, there, I’m, ah. Not even sure I remember what I was saying.” Is he blushing? It’s adorable.

“No, it was great. I’d tell you if it weren’t, honeybunch.” You lean your head back against him, boneless and warm all the way through. “Naw, this was awesome. Ten outta ten, go Team Us.” You hold up your hand for a high-five, and your sweet man, he’ll never leave you hanging– the slap rings loud through your living room. 

He tilts his head back onto the couch, looking up at the Devil’s Ivy crawling over your bookshelves. “Although,” he says, slow, considering. “I do seem to recall that I promised you I was gonna make you cum on my face.”

“And split my pussy open,” you remind him. “Or was you writing checks your dick can’t cash?”

“Babydoll, don’t you know by now?” He’s turning back to look at you, his mismatched eyes full of predatory adulation. “The Devil always keeps his promises.”

[gravehags]

hold me now

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x f!Reader (Curator!Reader)

Rating: Teen

Tags: couple fight, well less a fight than copia fucking up supremely, hurt/comfort, self esteem issues, anxiety, secondo once again being a real one

Words: 2,587

Summary: You've never heard that tone from Copia before period let alone directed at you.

a/n: copia baby your anxiety and freeze response...

~~~

He can feel the headache coming on, throbbing right behind his eyes and the base of his skull from staring too long at spreadsheets and numbers and stupid fucking emails from his fellow clergy members. 

Sister Imperator on his ass, like always. Nihil on his ass, like always. You’re pacing back and forth in front of his desk, chattering animatedly about…he’s not even sure, all he can focus on is the static in his brain and the blood rushing in his ears and the noise of your voice and–

He barks your name once. That’s all it takes to have you stopped in your tracks, slowly turning to face him. When the next words out of his mouth come sharp like a whip crack, he sees you physically recoil.

Enough. Quiet.

Immediately he’s filled with regret as he watches you back away towards the door, fidgeting with your fingers. He knows what he needs to do - what he needs to say - but he’s paralyzed with fear and exhaustion. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.

“S-sorry,” you say, your voice uncharacteristically small and high, the way it gets when you’re holding back tears, “sorry I’ll just–”

By the time he reaches out to you, still unable to speak, you’ve already got your back turned to him and he watches you leave and shut his door with a gentle snap. In an instant he forgets about his headache, about the stressors, about everything that isn’t the horror that settles in his belly like lead. He wants to get up, go after you, apologize on bended knee but he just…sits. 

Sathanas, what have I done?

—

You’re proud of yourself, you don’t cry until after you return to your office. As soon as the door shuts though, an ugly sob is wrenched from your throat and you collapse into the empty chair opposite your desk. You can’t form a coherent thought, all you can do is bawl into your hands and shake.

He’s done with you, that familiar, horrid little voice says. He’s finally had enough of your verbal diarrhea, of the silly inconsequential things that come out of you. He realized your mouth is only good for one thing and nattering isn’t it.

You know the wail that comes out of you is pathetic as snot and tears pour down your face and you slide out of the chair and onto the floor. Pressing your back against the desk, you draw your legs up as tight as you can, rocking gently back and forth. The look on his face - the anger, the annoyance - is burned into your memory. It’s wholly unlike your love but the fact that he hasn’t come after you…well. Clearly he meant what he said. You heave a shaky sigh and lean forward to fumble behind you for the box of tissues on your desk. It was a good run, you suppose. You always thought you were unlovable and here’s the proof. To think that he would tolerate you and your annoying habits for the rest of your lives was simply naive. 

You’re just a naive, stupid, annoying little girl.

Your tears slowly cease and you diligently wipe up the streaks of mascara on your cheeks.

You won’t bother him anymore.

—

Two days. Almost three. That’s how long has passed since his horrific outburst in his office and he still hasn’t apologized to you. The guilt gnaws at him, tearing him up, but in all truth he’s not sure how to make the situation right. And he’s embarrassed, Sathanas, looking and sounding like an irritable old man. It’s the longest he’s gone without seeing you in ages and fuck, he misses you desperately. Misses your smile, your laugh, how excitable you get when you’re talking about something you care about. Misses the very thing he chastised you and hurt your feelings for, fotutto idiota. He doesn’t blame you for not coming to his quarters or visiting him during work hours. He certainly wouldn’t blame you for being done with him, with this relationship. The lump in his throat gets worse and worse as he hustles down the corridor, tears blurring his vision. He’s nowhere near his office when he slams into something solid.

“Watch where you’re–oh, Cardinal.”

“Mi scusi,” he chokes out, dodging Secondo’s gaze and trying to hurry past him before his brother can see the streaks of black running down his cheeks but judging from the way one large hand wraps around his bicep, it’s too late.

“Copia, what is wrong?” Secondo’s voice is low and concerned as he steers him into an empty seminar room, shutting the door behind them. As soon as the latch clicks Copia lets out a whimper and then a sob.

“I hurt her!” he cries and Secondo starts.

“What do you mean you hurt her? Copia, I know you did not physically harm her because brother or not, if you laid a hand on her you know I’d–”

“No!” Copia gasps, astonished and sickened at the implication. “I would sooner cut off my own hand than raise it to her, you know this. No I-I…I hurt her feelings.”

Secondo seems relieved, but only slightly.

“What did you do?”

His lip trembles as he recalls the events of the other day to his brother. When he’s finished, Secondo crosses his arms.

“And you did not go after her? Che cazzo, stronzo?” he growls, shoving Copia into a chair. “What must she think now that her beloved was cruel to her and did not offer an apology? Copia you’ve always been self-sabotaging but this is a new low.”

Ouch.

“I…I don’t know what came over me after she left my office. My heart told me to chase after her, to make it right but I just…couldn’t move. It was like…like my brain was telling me that I didn’t deserve her in the first place so I shouldn’t push my luck. That she deserves someone…better.”

“What utter bullshit,” Secondo scoffs, and Copia can feel his face go red in shame, “You don’t deserve her? Well maybe you don’t after this but Copia she chose to be with you. To love you and care for you. And you insult her and her choice by trying to make the choice for her with your wretched behavior? Vergognatevi, Copia Emeritus.”

Copia knows Secondo is right but it doesn’t make the dull ache in his chest any better.

“How do I fix this?” he asks quietly.

“Go to her, firstly, you fucking idiot. Bring her something nice, that will make her smile. But wait until she’s back in her rooms tonight, I’m sure she’s had enough of crying in her office. And tell her how you truly feel and how sorry you are. And if she forgives you then don’t be this stupid again. If she doesn’t forgive you, well…perhaps I’ll treat her better.”

Copia’s head jerks up and Secondo looks down at him with a smirk.

“So you better work hard to make her forgive you, huh? Otherwise she’s getting a ride on the Italian Stallion, capisci?”

“Ugh disgusting,” Copia grunts, standing up, “I don’t know why I was always worried about Terzo stealing her when you’re even worse. Stay away from my amore.”

“Then you better work damn hard to make sure she remains your amore.”

“Any eh, tips?”

“I don’t know, flagellate yourself in front of her,” Secondo says, turning to leave, “She looks like she’s into that.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Copia grumbles as they exit the classroom. A passing elderly sister looks at him and jumps with her hand over her heart.

“Clean yourself up first, huh?” Secondo says, straightening Copia’s cassock, “You look like the nun from The Nun.”

“Grazie mille, shithead. I think I know exactly what to do.”

“Bene. Now get to work.” With a clap on his shoulder and a wink, Secondo strides away. 

Right, Copia thinks, first the bathroom, then Primo’s greenhouse.

He only hopes it’s not too late.

—

Two days. Two fucking days and he hasn’t said shit to you. Hasn’t even attempted to say shit to you. Your pain and embarrassment morphs into anger on the dawn of the second day when you check your phone and see no texts, no missed calls. The hurt is still there, that ache in your chest that doesn’t really go away, but you’re truly floored that he could be so casually cruel to you then act like you simply don’t exist. Maybe it’s over (and the notion makes tears well in your eyes and makes you choke on each breath) but don’t you deserve to hear it from his lips? That’s all it takes to have you sobbing again as you attempt to brush your teeth, dejectedly spitting out toothpaste into the sink. It’s early, ridiculously early to be in your nightgown getting ready for bed but every night without Copia has been agony and all you want is to no longer be conscious. You pad over to your nightstand and are about to check your phone simply out of habit when there’s a loud knock at the door and you freeze. Part of you - the petty, horrible part - considers ignoring it the way he’s ignored you. Letting him stew. But your heart is ultimately what pulls you towards the door and has you opening it. Your lip wobbles when you see him before you - in his clean red cassock, no biretta  - but you pride yourself on remaining tearless. He looks incredibly nervous and nauseated as he beholds you.

“Eh…may I come in?”

You say nothing but stand aside and gesture for him to enter. It’s not until he’s fully inside your apartment you see the healthy bouquet of lily of the valley behind his back and your icy demeanor melts a little. He hands them to you, eyes dodging yours like a fifth grader with a crush. It’s charming, you can’t lie. You take the flowers from him and he watches you carefully as you fill up a vase and place them in it.

“Kinda…kinda gives you déjà vu, no?” he laughs nervously, “Except–”

“Except you brought me orange roses the first time.”

His cheeks go red.

“Right, right,” another half a minute passes of you resting your weight on your hip with your arms crossed and him fidgeting with his cuffs. You’re about to ask him to get it over with if he’s breaking up with you when–

“Amore, I do not have sufficient words to describe how incredibly sorry I am for my behavior the other day. And then for abandoning you in the days since…not only have I insulted you but I have insulted this relationship. Our relationship. Something horrid came over me that day and you did not deserve to bear the brunt of my foul mood. I know it must mean little now but as soon as I said it I-I felt sick to my stomach.”

“You didn’t come after me,” you say, sniffling and staring ahead at the bejeweled grucifix on his chest, “I knew I really fucked up when you didn’t come after me–”

“Amore you…you think what I did was a reflection on you? That you…don’t tell me you believe you deserved this?”

Your vision is going blurry and you swear internally.

“I thought you were, y’know, done with me. Done with my chatter a-and annoying habits and–”

Copia crosses the floor and takes your hands in his.

“How could I be ‘done’ with everything that makes you…you? Dolcezza, I love all of your facets, even the ones you believe to be ‘annoying’. How could I deny anything that is a part of you?”

“Then why did you tell me to be quiet? Why didn’t you come after me? Why did you just let me sit all these days assuming the worst?”

Silence rings out in the small apartment after your last loud statement and Copia looks as if he wants nothing more than to tear his heart out of his chest and present it to you, still beating in his palm.

“Oh cara,” he whispers, “I was having such a-a difficult day. Everything had gone wrong and I could feel a migraine starting and…none of it matters. I should never have lashed out at you and I curse my brain and body for not allowing me to chase after you. There’s no excuse for what I did…for how I abandoned you these past few days and…I understand if you would like to end our relationship.”

Your heart plummets.

“Is that what you want?” you ask softly, voice cracking pathetically, “I just…I assumed the worst after you didn’t try to see me–”

A noise halfway between a sob and a sigh is wrenched from Copia as he falls to his knees before you.

“Amata mia, all I want in this world is you. Your love. Nothing else matters. Only death can rid you of me, I swear to Sathanas. Do…do you feel the same?”

Tears are freely pouring down your cheeks as you look upon the man you love and the way his eyes are upturned to you seeking repentance.

“You know I love you more than anything,” you whisper, “God, we really fucked this one up, huh?”

“Not you, amore mio, me. From start to finish this was my fault and for that I am so, so sorry. I hope you will somehow forgive me–”

You scoff wetly, looking down at him with a smile.

“Is this just what two people with anxiety in love are like?”

He lets out a small laugh.

“Heh…maybe. Surely we’re not the first. Or the last.”

“We should start a support group,” you say, letting go of his hands and gripping his shoulders, “and as pretty as you look in your vestments on your knees, you can get up, my love.”

“I would stay here forever should you command it.”

Hmm. That sounds nice.

“Come to bed with me, Cardinal,” you say softly and obediently he rises to his feet. “I’ve slept like shit without you.”

“And I you,” Copia says, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Abruptly, you wrap your arms around him and hold him tight.

“I love you,” you murmur into the red wool covering his chest.

“Love you too, anima mia,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head, “and I am sorry for everything.”

The two of you embrace one another in the quiet for a moment before you speak.

“Hmm did we just have our first fight?”

“Eh, I don’t know if it was as much a fight as it was me being a fucking idiot and you having the infinite grace to forgive me.”

“Oh, okay. I guess that rules out make-up sex, then?”

You hide your grin in his pellegrina as he makes a noise of outrage.

“Amore, anything can be make-up sex if you try hard enough. Shall I eh, call you some filthy names and get the ball rolling?”

You giggle as you tug him towards the bedroom.

“Oh, I insist, Your Eminence.”

He growls, trying his best to undo the buttons of his cassock with one hand after you lift your nightgown over your head and let it fall to the floor.

“Think I’m getting eh, a Pavlovian reaction to you using my title, dolcezza.”

You look down at the bulge in the red fabric and smile.

“I’ll be sure to remember that on really inconvenient occasions.”

He sighs.

“I know you will.”

[ghulehcirice]

Lavender Fog Part 2

[Phantom Ghoul X Reader]

[A/N]; Hey Babes! Thank you for all the love on part one I really wasn’t expecting it all I want this to be as amazing as good as I can make it but let’s go over a few reminders!

TW/CW list; the ghouls are described more in-depth as pack like creatures and are displayed as doing things such as nesting and scenting, as well as purring, there will be talk of harassment and bullying not done by any of our main characters, foul language such as whore, slut and other unsavoury words will be used for reader! Please remember you are none of those things! This fic will incorporate the Possessive!Phantom elements I was aiming for last chapter! Some siblings of sin shit talking the ghouls and calling them inhuman, demons etc.

THIS IS NOT ABOUT THE PEOPLE BEHIND THE MASKS AND I DO NOT WANT THEN TO BE DRAGGED INTO THIS.

I am all for respecting people and ideas. My philosophy with this is that the band was originally established to be completely anonymous I will keep that with everyone. Which does include the ghouls and papas.

On a more silly note I want to include Copia more and I am an autistic and trans Copia truther and he will probably resemble my own expirences!

With that being said I will add any tws that are needed so let’s get started.

Apparently this connection you both shared was a rarity between humans and ghouls, you knew ghouls often get attached to people, thinking back to all the videos you have seen of Omega and Papa Terzo. But it’s not often that that bond happens between a newly summoned ghoul and a regular sibling of sin.

The past few days had been a whirlwind of organizing with you, Copia and Sister Imperator. Quickly you’ve come to learn you can’t spend a whole lot of time away from phantom, Lest you want a ghoul fussing over wheter you’ve eaten, if you’ve been hurt, etc. you had to move into the ghouls den with him, not that you really cared, they have their own kitchens and everything. That’s not even starting on just how comfortable ghoul nests are. That reminds you to swap some of the clothes you had given him to build his nest with so you had clean clothes.

Your past few days had consisted of alot of this, swapping clothes from the nest, getting moved into the den, figuring out what you’re going to do in the clergy now because you can’t do a whole lot with your puppy of a boyfriend (is that what you two are? Cirrus called it being mates but also said it’s not a title to be taken lightly.) It has also been a lot of getting to know Papa on a more personal level as he helped you learn about ghouls. Quickly you’ve come to learn Papas not very different from anyone else in this Abbey. He had a very big love of his rats VERY BIG. This man really loves rats, outside of his papal makeup he struggles with things anyone else does, eye contact, talking, confidence. Can I just emphasize how much this man loves rats and rodent like animals? Same with those old really shity 8 but games. If you asked me last week how big a rodents test were I WOULD NOT have guessed that they do not stop growing. The fact Copia had stuttered out when you first met was going straight into your little box of horrors. Right next to the fucking talking plant from that show.

On days you spend in the papal library, you would often be coddled near to loving suffocation from Phantom. Smell is a large thing for ghouls, so you usually have to spend anywhere between an hour and a half all the way through 4 hours cuddling with a ghoul so you’re properly scented. And no, you can’t move unless it’s absolutely necessary even then you get trailed to and from whatever the important thing was. Once you both are settled further, you need to have a talk about space and boundaries. You know he’s been trying his best to learn between everything. On the nights you spend in eachothers arms he tells you about some ghoul customs, although you can’t hear a whole lot over the… purring? Apparently ghouls do in fact purr when they’re happy and you were not hearing things. Had to have Copia help you realize that one. But he told you about something, the name was in infernal tounge, which is apparently the native tounge in the pit. But it seemed similar to promise rings.

From your understanding, ghouls who were mating would forge a ring of this extremely tough material that’s found in the pit, it’s hard to find and even harder to meld into shape. He told you that if you could find that material and mold it perfectly to fit the chosen partner and return it then you were fated to be together. In turn you told phantom about your newly acquired fact and in turn would tell him about human courting and dating culture, like how in most cultures people also exchange rings, and get their love officiated in often times extravagant ceremonies. And you promised him one day you’d take him on a human date, once he properly learned how to glamour.

It was hard at first, learning how to balance phantom with your learning and the tasks you had quickly picked up around the den. It would turn out most siblings of sin arent brave enough to come down here to do their chores. So you were the go to for any task that had to be done by a human granted you could be pulled from phantoms death grasp long enough to accomplish anything of course leading to more phantom cuddles and scenting. The more you let it happen the nicer it became you had to admit it was pretty nice to have someone caring about you so much that they wanted to coddle you.

But on your next escapade from the ghouls den you quickly learned that ghouls can also have a protective streak. This was abit of a later trip then you would usually be on, if you had to take a guess Terzo might’ve gotten his dick stuck in the eyehole of a ghouls mask… again. Wasn’t your job to question though. On your route to Copias quarters you were cornered by some siblings of sin. They caught you in the old corridors, which was very strange because no one was supposed to have access to this place.

“Can I help you folks?” You muttered out with the confusion clearly lacing your words. The siblings snickered at you cruelly jeering like hyenas when you tried to duck around them only to be stepped infront of by one of them.

“Arent you the ghoul fucker?” The tallest of the flock sneers, confused you step back only to hit the wall “I’m sorry the what?” The siblings just laugh at your confusion, looking to and from one another and oogling you like a circus freak.

“You’re fucking that new ghoul aren’t you? The one that’s replacing the Aether ghoul?” They repeat, watching you with the eyes of a hawk. The two on either side of her chuckle and close in on you, forcing you to curl closer into yourself. Out of the corner of your eye you could’ve sworn you could see a flash of weirdly coloured fog, though it’s probably nothing.

“Im not ‘fucking’ anyone. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Everyone always knew you were a whore, are you trying to get into papas pants through his ghouls? Or are you just a slut like that? You know none of the ghouls would even care about you right? They’re monsters! They can’t feel any real human emotions, you’re delusional if you think any of them care about you. It will dump you out once it finds something better to have at.”

You flinched away at the siblings cruel words. They didn’t know anything about your bond with phantom and the others. You knew they were nothing like these siblings of sin said. Taking a deep breath, you recentred yourself and just stare at the group. Using all the i don’t give a shit energy you’ve picked up from Mountain to deter them.

They didn’t seem to like this very much because they started stepping closer and closer, if you’re being honest you felt like the nerd kid in any 90s high school setting getting their lunch money taken by the bully jocks. Before they could pick you up by your feet and shake all the coins from your pocket like a rag doll and give you a swirlie in the school toilet, the smallest of the group was shot to the floor in a heap of black, white, and.. lavender? Oh shit.

Phantom must have come to find you, or one of the ghouls seen the sibling bothering you and went to tell your mate. Before you could wrack your brain you were torn away by the scream of the other two siblings who were backing away from the scene. Within an instant papa was out of his quarters, clearly having just woken up given the disheveled look he was in, only having on his Mickey Mouse pyjama pants and being bare chested on top. Wait, does papa have top surgery scars? Oh cool. You could tell papa was a little fruity, now you knew why. Quickly you and Copia worked together to get phantom away from the sibling who didn’t seem to be hurt, looked to be a few cuts from phantoms claws.. he has claws?? The sibling probably had a few bumps and bruises from the fall too.

Papa took the three siblings after you abashedly gave him the file you were supposed to, leaving you to calm down Phantom, Now that everything was calmed down, you quickly realized Phantom didn’t have his mask on which was a surprise because on one hand, the ghouls aren’t supposed to have their masks off anywhere average siblings could see them and two, Phantom hasn’t taken off his mask around you yet, when you two first met he had an old Era 3 mask on. He told you he wasn’t the most comfortable with his face, telling you that he had gotten pretty beaten up during his summoning, and that he had birthmarks he didn’t like. You couldn’t see why, he has Lichtenberg scar righ down his left eye and moving down and across the bridge of his nose the eye it when through was a lighter shade of purple then his right, you found him beautiful but he really didn’t like it, you’re probably gonna have to give him a lot of cuddles tonight.

Once everyone was away from the scene, Phantom stared into your face, breathing heavy. It felt as though everything fell silent and still. Until Phantom ran at you, and picked you up into a bridal carry, without speaking her took you back to the den. When you arrived in the lounge the other ghouls all watched you, with Cirrus and Aurora coming up to check on you. Phantom held you away possessively from the woman, He ignored everyone and took you to your shared room.

You were definitely right about having to give him extra cuddles that night. When he laid you down and got into bed, before dragging you onto his chest and taking your face in his hands.

“Are you okay?” He asks, gently handling your face as he looked it over for scars, in turn you grab his face and kiss his own scars, using your spare hand to guide his hand to feel your heart beat.

“I should be asking you that, bug. You didn’t have to fight them for me. They’re just jealous.” He growls at the mention of the incident, gently nibbling at your hand that held his face. He doesn’t reply but gently shifts you from his chest and goes to his chest of draws, he rustles around and grabs an short for you and puts it on the bed for you before grabbing his own clothes

“I’d be a bad mate if I didn’t.” He leaves to get changed and you get into the shirt, and gently re arrange the nest to be comfortable for a good nap. You can hear Cirrus checking up on phantom and the muttering of Their conversation. Once phantom is back, you curl into his side as phantom purrs and hums the tune of Little Sunshine.

Deep down you think you’ll be just fine with your mate.

—————————————————————————

[A/N; WE DID IT! I hit major writers block with this, I wanna thank you all for the love on Part one, and especially @pinklunarprincess for supporting my posts thus far, you were the first person (from my memory) to encourage me with part one and I thank you! I hope you guys enjoy, I’m too exhausted to beta read right now so if I missed anything PLEASE let me know, I’m working on another little fic idea I’ve had so hopefully something will be out soon<3 love you all and thank you

[maxwell-grant]

Thoughts on Reeves changing The Penguin's name to Ozz Cobb? Personally, I never thought of Oswald Cobblepot as a silly name and I think that Ozz Cobb sounds way sillier.

The fact that Oz Cobb is just as silly is to me part of what makes it still work as a name for him, because this was not at all about making The Penguin less silly. The change is kinda dumb, yes, and ideally to me Cobblepot would very much still be his birth/family name, with Oz Cobb being the dorky gangster moniker he uses to look cooler / hide his mother under their real name, but it’s far from a dealbreaker. Their reasoning is that Cobblepot is just not a real person name and doesn't vibe with what the show's going for, and for the most part I'm inclined to agree. Cobblepot is old-fashioned and cartoonish and kind of British/wealthy-sounding in a way that works for regular Oswald, but wouldn't work against this Oswald and his specific family background (it's not even the first time they fudged the name for that purpose, Gotham changed his family name to Kabelput and made Cobblepot the American pronunciation, and that show was going for a way different vibe).

It's not at all about whether Oz Cobb is any more or less silly or whatever it is that's fueling the latest type of terminally insufferable Grounded Batman Discourse, they didn’t change it to make him cooler or less weird or whatever (it is painfully evident how much stock they put into Oswald Cobb being a very silly, eccentric man, they can't get enough of him as a weirdo cornball), they did it because Oswald "Oz" Cobb is the name of a gangster you'd find in the papers in a way that Oswald Cobblepot simply isn't. Everything in The Batman has had that ripped from the headlines vibe, Reeves' project has been about pitting Batman fantasy against crime reality and seeing how the two crash and break and fuse in new wild and cool and fucked up ways. Oswald "Oz" Cobb is in-line with mobster naming conventions, especially for the guys that do dirty street work and need snappy nicknames more so than respectable lengthy legal last names. Oswald Cobblepot is a rich man in a top hat, Oz Cobb is a disheveled sleazeball hustling in the gutters. Oswald Cobblepot has history, it indicates an Old Money kind of name, and Oz Cobb is a nobody, and it is imperative to the whole show that he is a nobody trying to be somebody. It makes everything he goes on to do and be stand out more than if his name already made him seem fated to be a supervillain. There is nothing inherently wrong with Oswald Cobblepot, it's just not the vibe they're going for! It's so far from the biggest thing they've changed and people are being way too obnoxious about it.

That's my reasoning why I'm cool with it. Not exactly how I'd have done it, but in conclusion:

[dr0wnmyselfinwhiskey]

No one asked for this, but I need to get it out of my system, so here are my thoughts on Rite Here Rite Now (mostly in regard to the lore and what I noticed during the movie, as far as I can remember). This turned out way too long, you’ve been warned.

Seestor must have known for quite a while that she’s gonna die, and prepared for Copia to take over her position

Maybe she invited Mr. Psaltarian to overlook the orderly transition and keep an eye on C when she’s gone. That might also explain his grumpy attitude towards him, I bet playing nanny to a 50+ year old autistic man isn't exactly Psalty's idea of a dream job

Would also make sense if the additional coffin in “Tax Season” was meant for her

Speaking of “Tax Season”, where Copia plays ‘Driving Miss Daisy’. Could that be another hint that Psaltarian is supposed to be the calm and wise character guiding the now ‘widowed’ Copia? Interesting parallel

Another thing about Psaltarian (now that we know his name is written like that): most of the Psalms stem from King David, who, among a lot of other things, is considered the patron of the Meistersinger (master singers) and in the Dies Irae announces the approach of the Final Judgement 👀

Anyway, Sister’s illness was kept hidden from Copia, or maybe he knew but deliberately ignored the signs, and I loved how this was solved visually by having Sister sitting in a baroque chair in all shots from Copia's perspective, but in the counter shots from her perspective you can see the back and the backrest of the wheelchair 💔

During the father-son-conversation between Nihil and Copia (I didn’t cry, you cried), Nihil tells him how he always wanted to entertain people, and he can even do that after he died and then says something like "Do you think I imagined it like this?". Perhaps this indicates that Nihil, now that he's reunited with Sister in the afterlife, is ending his stage career for good and Miasma will be retired from the set list? I hope not, but to me, it sounded a bit like that. Overall, the movie felt to me like a farewell to many characters, especially Sister and Nihil, whose story is concluded by the scooby-doo-esque part during MOAC

Would also fit the overarching theme of the film: letting go, not clinging too much to the ephemeral, coming to terms with the fact that everything in this world is subject to change (a beautiful message, tbh, I totally wasn’t crying about that 🥺)

Speaking of change, I guess by now everyone and their aunt got the hint that Copia is apparently a fucking twin?!?

With this new information, can we just talk about how cruel Copia's naming is? It literally means "copy"? Hello?? Seestor, wtaf?!

Anyway, going by the visuals provided, I’m leaning towards fraternal twins (one blonde, one dark-haired) and there are a lot of theories about who the twin could be

I’m not a fan of the Defroque theory, because I just don’t see how he would be the frontman of the band, as he has an assigned actor with his own face and voice. But on the other hand, I was certain he would play a bigger part in the Ghovie, since he was featured in the JHKM Video and in the teaser-thing they did for Download. But he wasn’t even mentioned?

I love the Terzo theory, although I don’t think that one very likely, given TFs reluctance to repeat things. BUT, I always thought Terzo and Copia looked quite alike, and they are around the same age. And we’re talking about a fictional satanic cult here, there would certainly be ways to bring him back from the dead, so why not?

However, I think this twin storyline is the perfect opportunity to introduce a completely new character, like they did with Copia back in the day. Imagine the door opening and a man standing there with Copia's old face. And Frater Imperator is like ????? (But that might also be just my love and nostalgia for his old look speaking, OG Copia is my babygirl, I don’t think TF will pull that off, again because he doesn’t like to repeat things and C’s old mask was changed for a reason, so why go back?)

TF also said in an interview that he doesn’t want to just have Papa after Papa after Papa. What if the new guy is something else? A bishop? They also wear mitres. Or the whole shadow in the door thing is just TF trolling us again? Or the Romulus & Remus reference was meant literally and Copia and the new guy will try to kill each other? Damn, I’m so excited for whatever that silly swedish man has cooked up in that silly head of his! 🫶

Just one last thing I noticed because on my second viewing I paid close attention to the backstage set and all the trinkets and knick-knacks. Whenever Sister, Copia or Kevin looked at one of those control monitors or TVs, there were VHS boxes in frame. Most of them were titled after the chapters, I saw a “Meanwhile in Dublin” one, and “Tax Season”. But there was also one titled “Ghost in the Trees”. My research only brought up a song from the band “Thee Oh Sees” from 2008, but I couldn’t really make any connection to something Ghost related. Maybe it’s just a song that TF likes that has “Ghost” in the title?

Okay, I think that's it for now. Maybe I'll do an update when RHRN is available digitally, maybe not. This has already taken way too long for nobody to read it anyway.

[emeritus-fuckers]

papa's with S/O who has DID?(dissociative identity disorder)

Please note that this is written by a person who does not have DID. I might be wrong about things. Feel free to correct me in the comments if I got something terribly wrong, I only have basic knowledge on the subject. - Nosferatu

Papas and Sister Imperator with a darling who has DID

Primo (he/him)

Very much not bothered.

He asks you which flowers each alter likes and makes them all a nice bouquets as he introduces himself to each of them.

He's very kind to them. And very cruel to anyone who makes you feel threatened. Let's not forget this man used to piss on his ghouls. (I am never letting that go)

He gifts you and your alters books on subjects they enjoy.

He doesn't push to become their friend, he lets it happen gradually.

He makes you feel very safe about everything. He's especially good to the Little Ones in your system. They call him grandpa. He teases you about it.

Secondo (he/him)

He's had a chance to read about it some time ago, so he has an idea of what he's dealing with here.

He asks you a few questions to understand better and that's roughly it.

He'll try to get to know all of your alters at least to the point of being civil and relatively friendly with them.

Obviously, he loves you the most, but he also arranges to hang out with your other alters, doing things they enjoy.

Very chill about the whole thing. He will, however, change up his entire schedule depending on which alter is fronting. It can be a bit intense, but it doesn't matter, he wants you and your alters happy.

Terzo (he/they)

He makes you a set of pins for each alter, including their name, age (if it's known) and pronouns.

They also play a game of Guess Who? whenever they notice you switching.

Basically, Terzo asks you questions to figure out who's fronting at the moment. It's weirdly adorable.

He's equally excited to see each of your alters, although obviously you are, and forever will be, his favorite.

Tries to get into the hobbies of each alter so they can have fun with them all.

He's very sweet about it all!

Copia (he/him)

A bit awkward at first. He's not sure what to do or how to approach you sometimes, he doesn't want to greet you in a way that another fronting alter might consider offensive.

He's walking on eggshells around you for a while, until he gets to know your alters a bit better. Well enough not to freak out when he meets a new one.

He's still cautious, of course. He tries to win their sympathy with gifts.

He's very respectful, but for the love of Satan, he's stupid and he freaks out way too easily. You need to reassure him a lot, though, even if it's over something trivial he did that he thinks might offend one of your alters. He cares about you so much and he ends up stressing the fuck out.

Papa Nihil (he/him; applies to both young and old)

Don't take this in the wrong way, but he is very confused and weirded out when you first bring it up.

It's just the initial "I don't understand it, I don't like it" reaction that he has to many things, give him a few minutes to organize things in his head.

Once he sorta does, he will ask a lot of questions. Some of them stupid, some slightly insensitive, but that's purely because he wants to understands as best as possible, since he's rather clueless about DID. Just explain to him how some of the things he said aren't really all that good and he'll never mention those again.

It takes some explaining and patience, but he does his best to be as understanding and nice to your alters as possible.

He'll eventually become good friends with them all, but he'll always like you the most.

Sister Imperator (she/her; applies to both young and old)

The amount of reasearch that this woman does is scary.

She needs to know everything. She will know everything.

By the end of her research, she will know better than many specialists, honestly.

She won't ask about the root of your trauma and will remain extremely respectful, conversing politely with each of your alters, trying to have a positive relationship with them all.

~

Written by Nosferatu.

[tehriel]

Commissioned (Terzo x Reader x Sodo)

It is completely finished!

Blurb

Reader is afab nonbinary.

Against your better judgment, you take on a portrait commission with suspicious beginnings. You are an atheist thrust into the world of Satanism as you meet and paint for the earth's most charming antipope. Will you walk away with your worldview untainted? Or will your little chats with Papa Emeritus the Third leave you changed forever? And what of his ghouls~? —Who is that in your motel window your first night in town?

This fic likes cheeky banter, discourse and character driven plot. It's an extremely slow burn featuring Terzo, Sodo—and a little Swiss. It’s about 110k words to get lost in~

You can find the piece here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44321002/chapters/111461152

Below is the first chapter! I hope you like it :3

Chapter 1 - A message from the clergy

[Message from the clergy]

Dear ______

I am writing regarding a one-on-one portrait our clergy would like to commission. I am attaching a calendar. Would these dates suit you?

In his name,

Sister Imperator

Ahoy!

Sister Imperator, thank you for your interest in my work. I have attached a pricing sheet. If pricing is okay with you, then we talk about dates.

-_______

[Message from the clergy]

Dear ______

We have seen your work, and we want you regardless of cost. Do any of these dates suffice?

In his name,

Sister Imperator

Thank you for getting back to me so promptly, Sister.

I recently had my schedule cleared, actually. Any of those dates should suffice. Depending on size, I will need two to four separate sessions with the model, rounding up to about 10 hours for a small piece going upwards of 18 hours in person for bigger. It's all in my pricing guide.

If it is interstate, I will need lodging. It is my personal preference that I do not stay with you in your home, of course. And finally, I would like half up front and half once the painting is completed.

If these conditions meet your expectations, I have attached my contract.

-_______

[Message from the clergy]

Dear _____

We look forward to meeting you at the Mountview Cathedral next week.

In his name,

Sister Imperator

***

Fuck. It was a drive. It was a whole long ass drive with hours to contemplate just how many red flags you ignored in taking the job. It’s not like you had a choice; you needed the pay. You didn't want to admit it, but you also needed to get out of state.

‘Sister Imperator’ had been weirdly pushy and lightning quick to respond—you had to hard ignore the alarm bells ringing. It was difficult, almost as if your right ear had developed tinnitus as some physical manifestation of alarm. There was a low tuning-fork hum reading over each email.

You thought you might scare the sister off with your prices; most people saw your work online and how effortless it seems in your time-lapse videos and happily told you to go to hell after seeing your prices. Making those videos look effortless took a lot of time, practice, student loans and editing. Then there were the travel expenses. People just don't do sit-in portraiture anymore. And for a good reason, you would have to be a little insane to pick it up.

Most people had you paint from photos, which was fine and a staple for your income. But meeting a person and painting them, knowing a facade of them, and there are many facades to a person—just hit differently. And the job came with such an eccentric clientele; you'd painted a man who wanted to pose in a suit made of squirrels, a woman and her five Pekingese all in matching attire. Once, your commission was gifted to an old person to be painted amongst the forest they had saved. They had wanted to be seen as a fairy. It was beautiful. That all seemed so far away now.

You glanced at a sticker pasted in the window of the gas station. It was going to be one of those kinds of towns. It read, ‘they will rise again.’ Crucifix and all. You adjusted the enamel pronouns pin on your lapel. Both the sticker and your pin said ‘they’; maybe these people would be open-minded kind of rise again.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I use the key to your bathroom? The door said to ask,” your voice came out shitty and meek. You were just tired.

“Rightio,” the gas attendant was an older man. He was chewing something—surely not tobacco. He passed over the key; it had a hefty wooden tag to save anyone from making off with it. “You got gas?”

“Uh yeah, number 3, thanks.” You put the key in your pocket and felt his eyes dip to your chest.

“Oh.” He said, as in, ‘oh, you’re one of those’. So it would be like that. “Here you are. Gas is on me, kid.”

Or maybe it wouldn’t be like that? Nope, he handed you a pamphlet that said ‘Mountview holy trinity’. “Oh.” You said, as in, ‘oh, you’re giving me a pamphlet on a religion that could probably hate me.’ “Thank you very much—I am actually painting for a church in town, so that’s..” you didn’t need to tell him your whole thing, but you had, and you were.

“Not that damned cathedral,” he eyed you warily.

“No, I don’t think so, no….” you waved off. Yes, that one, whatever that meant. You knew Catholics and Christians were not really into each other, but you’d thought most of the vitriol had been lost to history. Then again, you were beginning to think this town might have been stuck in history, like a mosquito in amber. You watched him chew. “Cool, I’ll, uh, see about this.” You pointed to the key. “Thank you again for the gas.”

The worst part of the entire interaction was coming back to him after your stop to the bathroom. You had to return the key and inform him that someone had overflowed the toilet.

***

You had to tilt your head to take in all of the cathedral. Something was off about it; maybe it was darker than you were used to, most cathedrals were gothic, but this was gothic in italics. It was jagged and waiting.. for something. Or maybe there was something off about all churches with inflated infrastructure. Maybe you should have 'inflated’ your prices. You binned the thought as soon as you had it; money and asking for it… made your skin crawl sometimes. The pricing sheet asked for the money for you, so you did not have to.

You rubbed your right ear as it had decided to start ringing again.

“You must be ______,” came a call from the entrance while you were wrapped in the tallness of it all. She was an older woman, her hair greying and pulled back. She had the shape of a kindly woman but with something cold creeping into her smile.

You felt your car keys in your hand. You could still deny your name and drive as many hours as it took to return home. You could shake a pride flag at the church’s face and run for the hills. You squeezed the keys for grounding before slowly delivering them to your pocket. “I am,” you heard yourself say. It'd been a while since you used your voice; why did you think it would be deeper? Commanding? Noticeable. You cleared your throat. “Yes, are you Sister…” fuck, you had forgotten her name from the emails. Super professional of you.

“Sister Imperator, yes, it's a pleasure to meet you. Come, follow me; I'll take you to Papa.”

You were about to thumb over to your shitty van where all your supplies were hiding, 'I need to set up, where can I…’ and/or 'I've been driving for hours and would like to know where I'm staying so that I can freshen up,’ all died in your throat as the woman turned around. You had no choice but to follow her into the building.

“Is ‘Papa’ the person whom I will be painting?” You asked, catching up, absently shining the ‘they/them’ pin on your overalls. Saying ‘Papa’ as a full-grown human being clenched something within you—and not in a super good way.

“Yes, Papa Emeritus the third, he ascended to the ranks of Papa as of last year and has not yet had a portrait painted for the hall.”

You heard most of what she had said, only then noting the Italian accent. You admittedly spent more of your time openly gawking at the ceiling, then gawking at the stained glass windows and the paintings. Did they have the right painter? You had confidence in your work, but these were named artists, named. Masterworks. You made a ‘ffff’ fizzling sound as you held back swearing in a holy place.

Holy place. The iconography only then caught up with you. That was a lot of cloven hooves for a holy place. “That's nice,” is all you thought to say faintly. ‘That's nice he ascended to the highest of high unholy ranks, good for that guy.’ A kind of peace came with the satanic-ness of it all. At least you could flap all your favourite pride flags, and no one would bat an eye. Would they?

“Yes, I understand our ways might not be for everyone, but I hope you will give him your utmost respect, regardless.”

Your head snapped back from scrutinising passing satanic depictions for signs of gayness. “I am always professional regarding belief systems; it will not affect the outcome of my work.” ‘Unless you somehow turn out to be a nazi,’ You added silently.

“Good, good.” She seemed to smile genuinely before the cold crept back into her face, sending a chill to your spine, “This is his office here. He knows to expect you. I hope together you'll make something beautiful for our church.”

Why did everything she had to say creep you out like that? “I will do my best to do that,” you nodded and held yourself back from using a thumbs-up to secure the awkwardness.

“I will find you before our mass to give you the directions to your motel,” she nodded and began walking away. “Again, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

You could read people well; maybe she couldn't. You were shitting yourself, being left in the dead centre of an unknown church, about to bother the head of the said church, without backup. “Pleasure meeting you right back,” you grinned nonetheless with your super normal situation. It's called masking, baby~

Her clipped footsteps began disappearing down the stone-tiled hallway. When silence fell, you could really take in the surrounding church ambience. Yep, it was a church. The incense smelt of something in your childhood. The eyes of statues and portraits looked down on you as if they knew you were not supposed to be there.

You blinked at the aged wooden door; it was detailed with a plaque that read ‘Papa Emeritus III’. This was the most uncomfortable opening commission you've ever been through, and one guy wanted to show off his dead arachnid collection to you. Maybe it was more of a tie then? You swore quietly to yourself before you knocked on the door. The hollow knuckle-on-wood sound gave you flashbacks of a principal's office.

“Not on a mass night,” came a slow answer and a slight groan.

You folded your arms and frowned at what that could mean. Outwardly you looked like a person annoyed by the woodgrain of a door.

“I feel you judging me, Sister,” his voice was an ashy sound. “My days before mass are my own, si?”

What does an unholy minister do a day before mass? Some search answers in your mind come up lewd, and others come up sadistic. You look up and down the hallway for Sister Imperator. Then and there, you were a child lost in a supermarket. You sighed softly and remembered you were an adult in an adult situation. “Sorry, I'm an artist—your, uh, Sister said you were expecting me.”

“You’re sorry you’re an artist?” Came the voice on the other side of the door.

“Eh, I have my days,” you shrug.

The ashy voice on the over side of the wood seemed to enjoy that, with a huff of laughter.

He had a nice laugh, smoky. Maybe painting this ‘Papa’ guy wouldn’t be so bad.

“Give me but a moment, artist. I have to make myself, eh, decent.”

Lewd. Definitely lewd; that's what satanic priests do before mass. “Oh, sure, good. Yep.” You stepped far away from the door to give him privacy. “Take uh, your time.” You did not feel like painting someone half way through the job. Standing so long for a painting while being irritable and unsatisfied does not a good portrait make.

You turned on your heel. You went for your AirPods, played something thrashy to mimic the surroundings, and began treating the area as you would a gallery. Ahead you saw the dancing sunshine of windswept branches through stained glass. You stepped into the light and let the colours paint you in rainbows. The lead lighting portrayed an angelic person with arms around a small boy. It could have passed for any religion—save for the smeared Latin and small horns on the child’s forehead.

“Are you supposed to be here?”

“Cheezus, chrimany!” You flinched, pulling a bud from your ear. A shorter masculine figure had suddenly appeared in your peripherals. His voice was marred by the fabric and metallic devil’s mask he wore. The mask must have been a church thing—were you supposed to be masked?

The green eyes behind the mask squinted in amusement.

“Were you just waiting to do that or..?”

He shook his head innocently, “are you supposed to be here?” He asked again.

“I really don’t know at this stage, is anyone supposed to be anywhere?” You pulled a straight face, and he tilted his head slightly, “I’m painting a ‘Papa’(?) or supposed to be. You're not him, right?”

The figure dressed formally in all black and suspenders shook his head slowly. He had a lean figure, kind of like a short, straight stick. It was a nice stick.

You appreciated him for a moment, figuring out his shapes and lines before you realised what you were doing and grimaced to yourself. You did that often. Intimidated by the shiny mask, you hid in humour, “And you,” you gesture around, “you supposed to be here? If not, I could keep a secret,” you winked and tried to be playful.

“I am supposed to be here,” he answered, not entirely playing into your shenanigans.

“Ah,” you nod sagely. You looked around, realising your new companion wanted to stay and watch you. “So this you then?” You point at the horned baby in the led lighting and back to his horned mask.

He smiled then, not that you could see his lips, only hear it in his, “no.”

“Oh?” You arch a brow and point to the blackened scripture, “says right here, this be the baby who would sneak up on people admiring its own depiction.” You tapped the glass like you knew what you were talking about. As if you were not just wasting time. As if you weren’t waiting for your satanic portrait model to finish fucking maybe nine people in the room down the hall.

The devil saddled closer to you with a sly look, “So you read the dead language?”

“It's not dead; it's right there.”

He huffed slightly. “What is your name? For the registry.”

“I was supposed to sign in?” You frowned.

“You were signed in, whether you know it or not, which means you're protected while you're here.”

Protected from…? You bit your lips together; why did he seem more sinister than before? “_____ ______,” you replied, trying to read what lay beyond the mask. “And yours? Something in the old language? Something with no vowels and a couple hissing noises?”

“Sodomiser,” there was a slight growl in his throat.

You nodded profoundly, “Oh, like, you just put that right out there, huh?” That was like calling yourself by your kinks, ‘hey, I'm buttstuff’ or ‘hey, I'm one of those pink flamingos you find on front lawns.’ Could happen. “Did I pass your registration, uh, Mr Sodomiser?”

The red light of the window glinted in the mask as he nodded, and you were suddenly captivated by the reflection. It would be interesting to paint, but the lighting was fleeting. Taking that moment in paint would be impossible. And you were then aware of how close he lingered; if he wasn't wearing a mask, would you have let him so close? He seemed to want to scare you, and you weren't impenetrable, but masks didn't scare you. It was what lay underneath that was genuinely terrifying. Wait, was he sniffing you? “Call me Sodo.”

“Can do,” you rapidly turned back to the window and shoved your hands back into your overalls, suddenly self-conscious about how a drive like that would leave you smelling. “Uh, am I supposed to be wearing one of those?” You figured to ask while watching the leaves shift in the wind before gesturing to where his mask had been moments ago but was then missing. You looked around curiously; the guy had just… vanished.

“Ah, you must be my eh, little painter,” came a voice through a mist of incense from down the hall. “Sorry about that… uhh…” he ended up shrugging.

“Oh.” Was all you had to say. As in, ‘‘oh’, that's what a Papa of a satanic clergy looks like.’ He was not much taller than the masked man that had just left you, but the popey hat did lend to height. He was dressed rather popey all over, with a long, dark cloak patterned religiously. He had a simplistic skull face paint; it was fresh, and you could only imagine how it looked moments ago. “Yes, I'm ______.” You offered a professional handshake—people liked those.

“I'm Papa Emeritus, the congregation calls me Papa, so please, call me Papa.” He took your hand in his in a way you weren't expecting, lifting it to his lips. You only then noticed his heterochromia as he captured your eyes in his, one eye stark white and the other shifted green to hazel in the rainbow bath of the window.

“Oh, okay,” not missing a beat, you took his leather-clad hand and bowed to kiss the back of it.

He lightly cocked his head as you returned his hand back to him.

“Thought we were just…people don’t return the kiss?”

“No, not usually.”

You nod slowly, “it doesn't seem fair though. Was it… nice anyway? Or are you more give than take? I'm sorry, I'm not sure how to act. I've done religious portraiture, sure, but….”

“Does our church scare you?” He raised his chin and bored into you with his white iris. “It’s not often Sister looks outside the congregation for hire.” His Italian accent brought a musicality to his words.

“Scared? Not really, but you seem….” You gestured around, “like a Pope? Like a lot bigger of a deal than I am qualified for. That’s a big deal,” you point to the elaborate painting your painting would supposedly share a wall with, “that looks like a huge deal,” you address the window. “Just look how I talk, that’s not really.. this..” you floundered with your hands again.

“Big deal, eh?” He relaxed and shrugged a little, “Sister usually knows what she likes, and she likes you, but you are correct; this is a huge deal,” some of his words sounded like growls. It wasn’t temperament, it was animal. His robes billowed as he stepped to take in the stained glass beside you, “do you know the story of Archon the fallen?”

You shook your head and looked up into the eyes of the angel. You couldn't place gender upon them, which was comforting somehow.

“It is said that after the bible age, prophets became obsolete. Who would believe them after all, hum?” He raised a brow at you, his hands clasped behind his back.

You looked away shyly; you didn't mean to oppose his belief system, but you don't get to choose what you believe in, and for you, it was nothing.

“We have newer stories from a war waged between heaven and hell in the after. In this one, the archangel Archon fell to protect what hell believed would be their next weapon. A prince of hell. Atmos.”

“Weapon… That’s a kid.”

Papa Emeritus smiled slightly, “Archon felt the same; as a testament to free will above all else, Archon saw the child their people were fighting to kill and found him blameless. The child was yet to be any kind of weapon. Archon believed no one decides our future so they saved and hid Atmos. Granted him free will to become a weapon or not, and for it, their wings were stripped. Archon stands for the ultimate rebellion, that fate is a lie.” He growled the word ‘lie’ in a way that ran through your gut.

“Mmm, that doesn't seem so scary,” you said softly, looking into the angel’s face for a new perspective.

Papa turned, and you shared a look. You saw a shimmer of the facade you would paint.

Then you blinked, “but I somehow have to create a painting that can share a wall with that.” you flailed a hand at only the most incredible stained glass window ever.

“I am telling you, if Sister thinks you are able, you are more than able. Come, I know a place where you can set up.”

***

“So how would you like to be seen, P-papa?” you stumbled with his name because, honestly, it didn't want to come out of your lips.

His makeup skewed as he quirked his brow at your slip-up. You’d already had him move through poses and had taken photos for him to see. Your mirror was set up, your canvas… The room you were set into was a study—you think. There was a desk, an eclectic collection of skulls and bones, bookcases and an ornate chair. Taken from behind the desk, the chair was something akin to a throne.

“I am unsure what you mean, caro Pittore.” He leaned against the desk beside you and was peering at your phone. He seemed to know how to pose for a picture, but a painting was different; you had to be comfortable with no intricate hand gestures you could not hold for hours. Definitely no arms out.

“Suppose it's for your clergy. How do you want them to see you, powerful, infallible?” You skip past photos taken early on where it seemed he wanted to claw at you through the camera with the golden-tipped fingernails attached to every finger of his leather gloves.

“A storyteller?” you asked simultaneously as he said, “fuckable.”

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I said storyteller, you told me a story out there, I know it's not your whole being, but it's the facade I have of you, and it was nice… I think I know what you said, but run that by me again.”

“I said, fuckable,” he admitted, “inviting, you know? This is a house of sin, si? I want to invite sin.”

You slowly looked up at him from your phone. And blinked. “You want me to paint you a calling card?”

He smiled slowly. “Non?” He said in a particular way that meant he very much wanted you to paint a calling card.

“I can do it,” you suppose, “now how fuckable are we going? I've painted boudoir before, never a religious figure but, first time for everything.” You sat upon the throne and made a boudoir pose. “oh, or this…” you showed off your buns riding the throne backward and looking back at the mirror in your super attractive stained overalls. “Ooo, ahhh, so fabulous.”

“Okay, okay, I see,” Papa chuckled. “Take a couple steps back, a storyteller, huh? You said it is a facade? I’ve been called alotta things, but not storyteller. Books are more the cardinals thing.”

You stop posing, “Yeah, it comes with the job, right? You stand up before mass and tell a proverb, tell what you see in it, add a dash of charisma, and make it alluring; I can’t paint all of you; of course, I can only paint what I see. People are diamonds, multifaceted; this will be one facet or façade—of you.” And you had just gone on a passion rant in front of a new client. You internally grimaced.

He looked into the middle distance in ponder before responding, “I like alluring,” he admitted.

You realised you were just putting on your usual act for your client to make them feel at ease in the space, but he was really looking at you. You realised how you were sitting, realised the silence and moved more meekly away from the throne. “Then take a seat, Papa; make sure you're comfortable.” His eyes were on yours as he passed. His warm shoulder slightly brushed yours as he took his throne. At first, he was just sitting, then looking in the mirror, he arranged his robes, shifting his legs apart to rest a hand on his thigh and lean back in his chair.

“What do you think, caro pittore? Does it say, eh, let Papa tell you a story? Is it alluring? Hmm?”

You felt your ears go pink, “Yes, all of those, but this hand,” the one not welcoming the viewer to his thigh, “it's not really—” He touched it to his chin, and you shook your head, then he touched a finger to his mouth, “still… oooo, skull.” You hurried over and picked up a very human skull. “Something with this.” You passed it over, and he held it in one palm. “Oh, I saw this piece on Pinterest where there was a rosary coming out of it, not that we have to physically do that; I can add that later. But it means I can draw attention to your… ‘not-crucifix’(?)”

“Grucifix,” he quietly corrected, eyes following you around the room as you inspected for props.

“Oh, you learn something new every day… uh, is this important?” Sat on a tall bookshelf was a helmet like the one the man in the hallway had been wearing. You shifted a wall-riding ladder to get a better look.

“It's one of the masks our ghouls wear.”

“Does it seem like something you want to be portrayed with?” You moved your head to watch the sheen before taking it down towards Papa. You wanted to paint the colours of the stained glass window in it.

“I know what to do with it,” You were hyper-aware of his movements as he took his hand away from his thigh and received the mask from you to put it beneath his boot before replacing his hand.

“Uh, not a fan of ‘ghouls’? What are they about anyway? I met…..” you then pulled a straight face knowing what you had to say, “I met ‘Sodo’ in the hallway earlier.”

“I hope he, eh, played nice? I love my ghouls, and sometimes, they love being stepped on. They’re something like the church’s protectors; some help lead our rituals.”

Your brain was left behind when he admitted to stepping on ghouls. “Oh, good. Good, good, good, good, good. Yeah, he played.” You supposed.

“Sodo is… how to put.. eh uno stronzo corto--small and fucking angry,” he laughed sympathetically.

You hadn’t quite got angry from Sodo, maybe a bit cold. You snapped more photos on your phone and were reviewing them when you felt Papa come in close behind to look. He was quite a curious man. For some reason, the incense peeling off his body didn't seem stuffy when it often did for you. You could also smell the leather of his gloves.

“You, uh, like this pose?” He asked about the one your brain decided to stutter on, his voice lower with proximity.

“Yeah,” your voice was faint before returning to yourself, “yes, the background and the lighting just need some adjustment. In the afternoons, we should get some nice lighting through that window; I'll bring some diffusers.. maybe something coloured to mimic the stained glass outside.” You looked up and found him staring at you with his mismatched eyes.

You paused.

He paused.

“I should…”

“You should…”

You weren't about to be caught in another spider’s web. “I should grab my equipment. You’re going to be stuck in that chair for a while… go, you know,” you gestured about, “whatever you need to do, give me an hour or so,” you nodded and gave Papa a sparkly thumbs up.

“hmm, I wasn’t wholly thrilled about Sister making this appointment, but uh, it seems I am changing my mind.”

“Good, we like a willing participant,” you said with all your sparkly masking ignoring the mood he was trying to set. Keep up the energy, keep up the image, keep up the unthreatening. Hide your teeth. Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it :3

[uchihaharlot]

I have a question, what do you think of Obito/Tobi?

Hello nonny 😌🥹

You are my first ask on this blog 🥳🎉 And it’s of my beloved Obito/Tobi. 😍 Obito forever will be a gentle giant in my eyes with a side of fucking you stupid. Save that for another day. I will distinguish between the two personalities best I can. I feel like, aside from the mask hiding his identity, it was easier for him to be who he wanted to be in Tobi without the pressure.

Some sfw with mild suggestive themes Obito/Tobi headcanons:

Obito:

• Despite his role in bringing near world domination, he’s a lover not a fighter. After all the whole reason he went awol was because of Rin and Madara’s influence.

• Very easily manipulated. ☺️😅 Sorry Obito, he just is so gullible half majority the time. He doesn’t know any better, Madara completely lobotomized him from a young age to be his pawn after he died. A patsy for his own gain for Madara’s return from death.

• Definitely died virginal. Unless he fucked a white Zetsu, and as a teen he wasn’t very explorative given the seclusion and watchful eye of old man Madara. Plus he was focused on healing and growing half his damn body back. Plus, he didn’t look like himself anymore which probably gave him a bit of body dysmorphia and fed his insecurities.

• Genuinely believed he was being led the correct path in life. That he didn’t need anyone or the village — just Madara (especially didn’t need that Bakashi!!).

• Like majority of the men who are traumatized in this series, Obito can’t sleep at night. Late at night the inner confines of his mind play psychological warfare and close in on himself. ‘Am I doing the right thing?’ ‘Will this really make me feel better?’ ‘Will peace come once the dust settles?’

• Holds in his emotions until they crush him, figuratively and literally. Then he really carries the mantra of ‘burdened with glorious purpose.’ It replaces the heart on his sleeve and that’s when he hardens — or he thinks.

• Seeing Rin die definitely was that final straw and at the hands of Kakashi without any preemptive warning on the situation at hand. This is where Obito does a 180 and harnesses that resolve to carryon Madara’s will. Which is where Tobi comes out.

Tobi:

• Let’s see. I think when Obito designed became prisoner to this persona, it was a coping mechanism. Tobi was one way to get around his turmoil and needing a disguise was the perfect way to avoid dealing with deep seated issues. Win/win/???.

• It makes keeping a distance from the other Akatsuki members easier. Tobi doesn’t want to talk about his trauma or about his family’s history. When Itachi joins it’s imperative that the rest don’t know his secret. What trauma? He’s a new man in this new little world he’s made.

• Which is why in the beginning he’s such a butterball of feigned ignorant bliss. Obito never had the chance at a real childhood so what better way than to live that vicariously through his second ego?

• It also boosted his confidence, tremendously. Being an authoritative figure hiding within the ranks of a hand basket of deplorables made him deliciously confident. He can’t pinpoint why exactly, but having the Akatsuki on the string of his tennis shoe like puppets is an ego boost. It’s an added bonus that most are unsuspecting.

• I think Tobi sleeps most nights peacefully, not always though. Still has these moments of uncertainty, like that meme of your brain before going to bed and it spouts off some shit you’d rather not spend the night debating with yourself about. That still happens to Tobi but not as frequently as when it was Obito in the cockpit of his psyche.

• At the end of the day; we all have a face that we would hide. The face of a stranger, and when it comes to Tobi, Obito is his dead name — he doesn’t recognize much beyond the hurt that got him to where he was today. Letting it fester and further infect his brain. What did they call it? The curse of hatred: Obito is the poster child for this. Sure Sasuke would be a runner up but Sasuke literally chose the path of vengeance, Obito was molded by it. Tobi is the darkness and Obito became a prior life.

[demonicdames]

A little writing project of mine that I have on A03 that I'm going to throw here to. Rated: E F/M Papa Emeritus II x F!Reader Cardinal Copia x F!Reader Part 1 Part 2

Chapter 3: F, is for friends who-

The weekend was finally here and you had planned to relax and stay in binge-watch your favorite shows and eat junk food, okay well maybe not too much junk food but a fair amount! and better yet you were gonna spend it with your bestie Copia it had felt like forever since you last spent time with him, not since he gave you that folder- when you had taken a quick peek into it there was nothing but invoices and receipts you partly started to think Imperator was fucking with you.

The folder was put away when you heard a knock at your door the being on the other side was of course Copia, who greeted you with a hug he'd brought so many tasty treats. Both of you flopped down onto your couch snuggling up together and settling on some old cheesy rom-com that the both of you could laugh and poke fun at.  None of you accounted for there to be an exceptionally steamy part of the movie in which you two could barely make eye contact while the characters on the television screen went at it. It took you a full two minutes until you remembered that your remote had a mute button. 

"Well that was-." You turned your attention to Copia your next words died in your throat seeing the tent the Cardinal was now sporting, only when he noticed that you were looking did he grab one of the pillows that you kept on your couch to cover his lap with. A laugh exited your mouth and you immediately felt bad considering the gooey mess that was currently between your legs.  "I... I.. I.. I-." He paused to swallow hard, hard enough for you to hear and see his Adam's apple bounce. " I better uh..uh... I better go and take care of this b-before we continue the movie, sì? yes?."  Without letting you answer Copia went to get up the pillow still held over his lap. "I could help you." You suddenly heard your voice say it was like it acted on its own, Copia paused and turned like he usually did on stage you swore he was going to take a tumble, his face flush jaw moving as he attempted to find his own words the poor man looked like a horny fish standing there. 

You giggled rolling your eyes and reaching out taking the pillow from his gloved hands your finger hooked into the waistband of his red lounge pants tugging him closer, his lips parted just slightly mismatched eyes wide, you had this poor man in a trance.  part of you didn't know where this bold bravery came from as you tugged his pants and boxers down just enough for his erection to pop free. "Sor-Sor-Sorella.. you know you don-don't have-."  His words were cut off by a shaky gasp, your tongue slowly running over his cock head Copias hands grabbed at your shoulders to steady himself his face twisted in pleasure, he was sensitive, oh so sensitive and it was a well-known fact that he didn't have a special someone, always buried in paperwork or getting hounded on by Sister Imperator or Nihil, he never had time it seemed. oh, your poor dear friend. 

Copia gave another shuttering breath as you sucked him into your mouth swallowing him down halfway. "C-Cazzo-."  He cursed his legs moving to gain some more stability as you swallowed him completely down your nose pressed against his body, Copia whimpered as your hands reached up to cup and massage his ass squeezing each cheek.  "Your-your mouth feels so good mio caro." The cardinal moaned eyes closed, at that moment you felt your phone buzz in your pocket having silenced it for the movie, while sucking your friend off your eyes glanced at the screen after fishing it out. 

One new message from: Secondo

Txt: Sorella, I know it is your day off but I will be needing your assistance in the office.  Taking Copia deep into your throat you texted back quickly.  Txt: Can't sorry spending day with friend already planned sorry

your phone was placed back into your pocket your attention now fully on Copia, you'd be lying if you said his moans didn't turn you on more or the whimpery Italian babble falling past his lips. You pulled back panting his cock falling free from your mouth the cardinal grunting at the loss, "You know Copia." You started as your fingers ran along his throbbing need.  "Y-Yes sorella?." He asked his chest still heaving. "I do have condoms in my room." The next moment you both were kissing feverishly down the hall toward your room articles of clothing marking the path from couch to room, you pushed Copia down onto your bed watching both him and his cock bounce on impact before going through your nightstand finding one of the foil wrapped contraceptives, you could feel Copias hand rub over the swell of your ass as you tore it open.

Straddling his hips you worked the slick rubber over the Cardinal's cock, sweet Lucifer you needed him inside of you, you could feel your slick walls throb in excitement lifting your hips you sank onto him slowly feeling his cock stretch you have to pause a moment before settling on him. "Oh fuck." Your voice was breathless 'Having a big dick had to be a dominant fucking gene' crossed your mind feeling hands slide up to rest on your hips.  "T-Tesoro are you- okay?." You have no idea why that made your chest throb at the concern in his mismatched eyes 'it's was just sex, just sex, friendly sex' you thought to yourself as you nodded. "I am I am." You breathed hands resting on him as you moved your hips gasping his name, okay perhaps you could just pretend at least for a little while. Your moans grew louder as Copia's hips arched to meet each of your thrusts your bed below creaking and groaning. 

Copia pulled you down into a kiss, one that grew even more feverish than before as he rolled you both over settling you under him. You were about to see a side of this man that you didn't know existed as he grabbed your hips his thrusts growing faster and harder hitting at your core, abusing your poor cervix with each slam. 

 "Cazzo...cazzo- cara mia you take my dick so well." Copia panted hooking his hands behind your knees and bringing your knees up, the new position seeming to allow him to get deeper cursing your hands moved to grab at the sheets of your bed, you could feel that pressure winding up. "I-I'm cl- cloooossee!." You moaned voice bouncing each time Copias hips collided with yours.   "Yes yes, Tesoro cum with me!." Copia gasped out his thrusts becoming erratic until you both met your ends your back arching off the bed crying the cardinal's name out into the night. He had to catch his breath before pulling out of you and disposing of the filled condom, rolling to the side you expected him to get dressed and leave like Secondo but you were shocked into silence as he climbed back into bed with you his bare chest pressed against your back an arm laid over you, wrapped around you a lazy kiss being pressed against your neck making you giggle and twitch at the tickle of his mustache. 

This was something... entirely new being enveloped in his warmth, held close and not falling asleep in a cold bed, blinking your eyes slowly closed as sleep took hold of you, out in the living room an unread text read. 'Very well then, I expect to see you tomorrow Sorella.'

--- To be Continued--

[angellayercake]

Last Bow

NSFW

Sister Imperator x Reader

AO3

Some Sister Angst/Smut for you @onedaughterofman​

She was still covered in traces of blood when she exited the room, closing the door softly behind her before leaning against it and meeting your eyes where you stood waiting. Like a fool. Probably. You had lost track of time a while ago, it could have been five minutes or five hours since you had discreetly followed her as she dragged him off. To seal the deal as she had been instructed. He was needed, valuable to the cause, Lucifer’s chosen and she was to do whatever it took to secure his loyalty, including fucking him senseless apparently. 

A smirk pulled at her lips but the expression didn’t meet her eyes. She played her part well, you thought. Too well sometimes. She swore to you that you were the only one who knew her, truly knew her but you weren’t sure. Since you were young she had had a lust for power, an often underestimated willpower and an unwavering loyalty to the Old One.

It didn’t stop you from loving her though. You would question her sometimes even disapprove but if she asked then you would do anything for her in spite of your reservations. Which was how you ended up here you supposed, watching her seduce that idiot man across the party and lurking in corridors as she cried out in performed pleasure. 

‘Good was he?’ You had aimed for a joke but the bitterness inside you sours it, makes it fall flat and her eyes go blank even as the smirk stays fixed on her lips.

‘Why are you jealous?’ It digs in under your ribs like a knife and suddenly you are pressing her against the door aggressively kissing the look off of her face as her nails dig into the skin of your shoulders. 

‘I should make you come right here. So he knows what you sound like when some one fucks you properly.’ You are gripping her waist too hard as you trail your lips down her neck determined to leave your own mark over the top of the one he had left. She just laughs weaving her fingers through your hair keeping you in place.

‘Come on,’ she whispers as her grip tightens, pulling you up to meet her eyes. There is still a hard edge, there always is, but some of her spark has started to return. The spark that makes you incapable of denying her anything. ‘Make me forget about him?’ You can only nod in response as she slides her fingers out of your hair and takes your hand leading you away from that room to the only place the two of you are free to be your true selves. 

As soon as the door closes you are back on her but your intention now is to worship rather than mark her as your own. You kiss her like you are trying to communicate all those things you can never quite bring yourself to say. The sweet things, the sad things, the desperate things, the angry things. Anything that could disrupt the tightrope of feelings the two of you have been walking for as long as you can remember. She sighs into your mouth as you work to free her from the tight dress she had been wearing and in turn freeing her from the last sign of her obligations for the night. She had done her duty, this was your time now. 

You peel the dress down her body following your progress as her marked skin is revealed to you. You can’t suppress the possessive growl that escapes when you see the black marks he had left across her breasts. You rub your thumb over them smudging until they lose the distinct shape of his mouth. You sense her watching you but you can’t face her so you pinch her nipples between your fingers instead and listen for her tell-tale gasp before soothing them with your tongue, first one then the other until they are pebbled and over sensitive. 

You finally meet her wide dark eyes as you sink down to your knees in front of her. You work the dress down her legs and she rests her hand on your shoulder as she steps out of it leaving her bare but for her shoes and stockings and a pulse of heat burns through you as you trail your fingers over her. You grasp her hips, your fingertips not quite able to line up with the faint bruises blooming on her skin and ease her to lean against the door behind her. You place a kiss on the jut of her hip bones doing your best to ignore the growing reminder of his touch before smoothing your hands down her thighs and encouraging her legs apart so you can get exactly where you want, no need to be. 

You would usually spend more time on her kissing up her thighs, lavishing her in attention. The ticklish spot inside her knee, the place on her inner thigh that makes her shake and her mound that if you grazed with your teeth made her tighten her thighs, trapping you against her. But not this time. You licked from her entrance to her clit, a hard broad stroke of your tongue and she groans above you. You can taste him on her, it should sicken you, you think. Instead you take a perverse pleasure in it. He may have had her but he would never please her as you do. 

Her fingers weave through your hair guiding your movements as she grinds down against your face. When she directs you to her clit you suck and lap at it dutifully. Perfectly attuned to her sounds and movements you let them guide you to exactly how she needs you to pleasure her until her legs start to give out and you have to press her hips into the door to help her stay upright. You slide two fingers into her and shiver as she clenches around you and hope he didn’t make her do that. Curving your fingers up you hone in on her sensitive spot stimulating her with every thrust as you simultaneously continue sucking and stroking her clit with your tongue. 

She is close you know as her fingers tighten in your hair, preventing you from pulling away, as if you would. Her breathing is quick and shallow, from your position you can see the muscles in her stomach jumping as you bring her closer and closer but the only sounds from her are choked off moans and whimpers. She never begs to come. Never implores you not to stop. Always certain that you will do exactly as she wants. And you do, not stopping until she has finished clenching and grinding against you, until she loosens her death grip on your hair, until her muscles unclench and she is able to stand without you pressing her against the door. 

‘Make yourself come for me.’ It comes out a whisper but you feel the order down to your core. You are so close already as you slide your fingers, still wet from her orgasm into your soaked slit. There is no resistance as you push at your entrance and grind your clit against your palm. Her fingers tighten in your hair once again forcing you to look up at her as you frantically grind against your own hand. ‘Come for me.’ Her voice is stronger now and brokers no argument and with two more rolls of your hips your orgasm crashes over you, leaving you a shuddering panting mess at her feet.   

You rest your head against her thigh as you both fight to catch your breath. As the urgency fades in the afterglow reality sets back in. The floor is hard and unforgiving on your knees but you can’t bring yourself to move just yet. Tonight had just been the start of what the Clergy had planned for their new Papa. And what you knew of what was to come held Sister Imperator at the centre. The whispers of Prime Mover and the intention to summon the Antichrist had even reached your ears. You choke down a sob as the implications begin to crash around you. She slides down the door until she is sat there with you and able to envelope you in her arms. You let the tears fall while accepting the comfort she offers trying not to acknowledge that this may be the last time.

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Belle you keep teasing us with the hell on wheels au and I am here to beg most politely for some tiny crumbs. What is this treat you have cooking up for us in your big big brain????

Well...the explanation is very long but basically Augh Motorcycle Helmets Big Sexy.

So it's just Vibes at this point but grew into something more, especially after @miasmaghoul posted about mechanic Cirrus fucking Swiss. I adopted that immediately into what is now known as the Hell On Wheels Au, the barebones of which have been rattling around in my brain for about a year but exploded with thoughts quite recently.

The Ghouls are a Satanist Biker Gang that fully leans into the aesthetic, party at bars and get into fights but during the daytime? They rev their motorcycles and stand in court rooms as kids testify against their abusers. They work in partnership with local community support groups, have domestic violence flyers up in bathrooms, even have their own local version of an Angel Shot called a Devil Shot where one will pick you up from the bar if you've been roofied and takes you to the hospital while another hunts down the lowlife who did it and gives them a little talking to. Violence isn't usually involved since they have a reputation but they're fond of saying they never forget a face. Interpret that how you will.

This all evolved from a Vibes Based Daydream I had where Dew's bike broke down so he had to be Ifrit's backpack. And when they pull up at a red light, Ifrit's old chapter leader Alpha is there and he tells Dew "Killswitch him, it'll be payback for (something completely fucking made up)" EXCEPT when Dew hops off and turns the key to shut down the bike, the light turns green and Ifrit hollers something at Dew before popping a wheelie and racing away, leaving Dew to sweat nervously in the fish bowl distortion of his own reflection in the helmet glaring down at him.

"Get on." Alpha says gruffly and Dew seriously contemplates running before Alpha revs his bike again and growls "you run and you're fucking out." Because their whole thing is facing consequences, right?? So Dew's his passenger princess and Alpha takes him out of town on a backroad to a tall grassy knoll where Dew thinks he's going to be buried and parks his bike.

He meets the bookkeeper, a hulking retired boxer known in his glory days as Omega and they chat as Alpha looms threateningly in the background.

Notes: Swiss and Ifrit ride 1000cc sports bikes whereas I'm going for a more classical, solid build for Alpha. Or a chopper. Can't decide.

"This is all I have." I said to Miasma, but it proved to be a lie as my brain is forever a hamster running desperately on a wheel.

Swiss harasses the corrupt police force (defroque is the sheriff's son??) with Ifrit and Sunny, they do a lot of night rides with no plates and lead them in goose chases after triggering speed traps. Drop a gear and disappear, baby.

Aether does a lot of charity stuff and mostly works with local food banks to be a one man Meal on Wheels (ok...yup. get it out) for elderly and disabled folks. He dreams of owning a food truck with his buddy Mountain but right now he's happy to show up to court with a saddlebag of whatever he thinks that little tyke might appreciate or need.

Mountain is the son of a local cafe owner Terra, who was quite the hell raiser in her heyday but now is content to enjoy her retirement with her partners, Ivy (agoraphobic landscaper) and Pebble (weed dealer). He has a sidecar he brings Rain and Zephyr to work in. Rain's got a fruity little scarf.

Aeon as the new kid in town working two jobs to afford a bike of his own, Imperator as a lawyer/ex pinup model because learning is expensive. Copia is her assistant/son determined to make his mother proud but also can't help but wonder why exactly she chose to work in this distant town and what her relationship is to that decrepit old man sitting in the park, feeding the birds from his wheelchair and seems to know an odd amount of detail about a certain tricycle, hidden away in the depths of the shed. Copia doesn't like talking to him. Nihil knows too much and yet, can't remember anything at all.

Aurora is someone who prefers to pedal around town on her old mountain bike, vlogging her downright dangerous escapades that make seasoned motorcyclists sweat (motocross? BMX? She just likes her old bike. She does delivery for local restaurants and is a living legend in delivery times. Aeon's also into free running/parkour/skateboarding and they have a friendly...? competition over completion times.

Cirrus restores cars as a hobby and is a mechanic with Cumulus, who specializes in paint jobs on top handling the books and stock. Swiss loves it when she fucks him Amazon style on her prize restoration car (model make and year TBD) and he tells her about this little delivery biker who popped a forward wheelie on the other side of a red light, did something complicated that involved walking on her front wheel and stepping on the pedals before setting the bike frame easily back down and pedalling calmly past Swiss. Cirrus knows her of course, but Swiss hasn't earned that knowledge yet. Or his orgasm.

Sunny works in the shop too as an apprentice.

Cumulus likes to flirt with Mist, who owns the local dirt track. "As much as anyone can own a dirt field." Mist says. She's a water-skier, wheels aren't her preferred mode of speed.

The Emeritus family crossed over from Italy sometime in the last couple centuries. Ask anyone and they'll tell you where the real power in the city lies, with the unholy Trinity of the three offspring. But here, see, that's on the down low, see? One of them has to be Papa Emeritus, that enigmatic and rarely seen figure, who takes care of people who put their faith in him and that's more than the local priest ever does. Funny how that church building gets fancier and fancier every year while Mrs. Abernathy down the street can't even afford her medical bills. You know they're holding a fundraiser to build a heated hallway from the rectory to the church because Defroque slipped and fell on the ice last winter and now he's whining about needing a safe path to the building?

Be a real shame if something happened to all that money. Can you imagine Father Jim slipping every Sunday? Not that he's stable any other day of the week, mind you. I get the feeling, those prayers retreats of his....Mmm. but that's just gossip.

Ah well. You know, this is a quiet little town when all those bikers aren't revving their engines. But there's stories to be found in it, if you're willing to wait and be patient. Good things, and all that.

[ramblingoak]

Time's Up

~ Papa Emeritus I prepares himself for a ritual and ponders his future ~  

Gen, SFW, angst, 650 words

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He was so tired.

Primo gazed at his reflection in the dirty mirror.  His jars of paint rattled slightly from where they sat on top of the make-up table and he could feel the thrumming of music from under his feet.  It felt like the entire club they were performing in tonight seemed to be vibrating.  

He took a deep breath and studied his face a little closer.  It was rare to see himself without his papal paint anymore and he wasn’t sure if he recognized the face he was looking at.  When had he gotten so old?  His skin was far more wrinkled than he remembered.  Sallow and discolored.   

He could hear Secondo’s voice asking him when he was going to retire.  It was a brief conversation they had before Primo and his ghouls had left on this latest tour.  Secondo kept looming over him, a constant presence and reminder that the next Papa was ready and willing to take over.

“You look like shit old man,” Secondo remarked from where he was lurking in Primo’s office, his black Cardinal cassock blending into the shadows making his younger brother look like a wraith. “Maybe you should think about retiring and leaving the rituals to someone that doesn’t creak every time they move?”

Secondo could be such a dickhead. Primo remembered scoffing at him and then pushing him out of his office and locking the door.  Thankfully his little brother didn’t seem to notice Primo wincing after he had gotten up from his chair too fast.  Fucking Secondo, acting like a vulture.  Waiting for his last breath to leave him so he could swoop in.

A loud knock brought him back to the present and he heard Earth’s deep voice telling him he had ten minutes.  Primo grabbed the jar of black paint and his brush and got to work, sliding it across his skin.  He gritted his teeth as his hand shook and the crisp lines he tried for became uneven.  His fist tightened around the brush and he willed his hand to steady but it continued to tremble.  Terzo loved to tease him about how his paint looked, like Secondo he always seemed to be ready with a smart remark.  Always knowing just where to stick the knife and twist it slowly for maximum effect.

Both of them were such dickheads.  

Deep down Primo knew Secondo was right.  Secondo was ready even though it pained Primo to admit it.  There wouldn’t be a vacancy when he stepped down.  Cardinal Secondo was popular amongst the sisters and brothers.  Not only when he held mass but also in his bedroom.  Or in whatever darkened hallway or closet Secondo could lure someone into.

Perhaps his time should be over.  He could step down on his own terms.  Not let the whispers in the abbey increase or Secondo’s ambition grow darker.  He chuckled thinking of Nihil or Imperator just getting fed up and dragging him off the stage.  It wasn’t the wildest notion, Primo knew they were capable of worse.  He sighed, the realization of what he needed to do beginning to settle into his old bones.

Primo completed the final touches and set his brush down, closing up his paint jars.  Papa Emeritus the First looked back at him now in the mirror.  But the paint couldn’t hide how he was feeling.  A bone deep weariness and understanding of his future that weighed his shoulders down.  He didn’t bother trying to straighten up, no one else was here and it would only increase the constant ache he felt.  

He pushed the chair back and stood, grunting and bracing his hands on the table.  The vibrations had gotten stronger and he could hear the crowd roaring.  His time was up and he needed to get out there and lead his ghouls in singing Lucifer’s praises.

His time was up.

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my masterlist

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[ghulehcirice]

Papa Emeritus Headcanons

Primo

- I love the idea of Primo having had a secret prime mover whom he had a child with. Not wanting either of them to be used by the ministry like him and his own mother, he had to say goodbye to the love of his life. He wrote a song for her, he listens to it when he needs that comfort.

- No one really knows why this old man loves gardening so much. If you as him he’ll tell you it must have passed down to him from his mother. But that doesn’t explain the area of his garden that no one is allowed in..

- He doesn’t let many people help with the garden, just one or two ghouls to water the plants, and a few siblings of sun to help transporting the fresh herbs, fruits, and vegetables to the Ministries Kitchen.

- Primo is one of those stubborn old men, he likes having his freedom. Hardly uses the walker which Sister Imperator insists he uses.

- Primo has a bit of a soft spot for the children of the Ministry just like brothers, he designated a little spot in his garden for any children who may need some quiet time.

- Primo has been know to have another soft spot for some of the trans and non binary siblings of sin. He has a calming tea for dysphoria that he doesn’t distribute via the kitchen, rather he keeps in safe in the greenhouse stored in its walls. He only allows those who need it, the location.

Secondo

- No matter how scary this man looks, kids fucking love him. No one’s really sure why but if the Papas are attending an event where there are children, most of them will rush for Papa Emeritus II. Not that he seems to mind that much.

- Secondo has a poodle, fight me.

- I’m sorry but if no one else will say it, I will. This motherfucker drips in that “scary trans man” juice.

- He was the entire reason Primo began keeping the tea blend.

- Secondo has had to surgery but still wears his binder. If you don’t remind him to take it off, he will wear it until his nipples fall off.

- Despite all of that work Secondo has Moobs. The amount of times he has had people accidentally run into them is astounding.

- If you’re dating, He treats you like absolute ROYALTY. We all know what a party animal this guy is, but if you asked him to stop he would. This man is WHIPPED (honestly they all are)

Terzo

- Need I say this again? FRUITY.

- I don’t think anyone will fight me on this one, but there ain’t no way there wasn’t A FEW hookups between him and Omega. Maybe the others if he was feeling extra.

- Many people think Terzo was the first to actually treat the ghouls well but I don’t think that’s true. I like to think they’ve always been treated well but they weren’t really acknowledged by the public until Terzo.

- We all know Terzos rebellious but ive never heard anyone talk about this man probably got so many tattoos !! Secondo has some too, but he likes keeping them a surprise ;)

- Probably has a lot of stupid, small ones. Dates from his many nights drunk and playing truth or dare.

- Can’t tell me this man didn’t try and convince Copia into getting a tattoo when they were younger, eventually he relented and Copia picked. Terzo now has a little rat face on his rib cage.

- Despite how flirty Terzo shows himself to be, he can really be a good shoulder to cry on. Not to mention how good his hugs are.

Copia

- Oh rat man. When he first started being groomed for papacy, he was petrified. Sure he had been Employee of the Month many times, and Papa Nihils right hand many moons ago he was scared.

- He knew how beloved the papas before him were, and he couldn’t help but think little old Cardi C would never live up to them.

- No matter how much ~~His Mother~~ Sister Imperator said he deserved this just like they did.

- And thus Copia had to find his place in the ministry once again.

- It was almost refreshing for him at the same time, once he became papa he could shed from what everyone had known him as ever since he stopped wearing a sisters habit and begun wearing a Cardinals Cassock. He would be that shy little kid anymore. He was Papa Emeritus IV.

- The past papas took to him rather quickly, Terzo almost not recognizing Copia from their younger days.

- Primo gave him access to the tea hidden away in the green house, helping to make him a glass as the poor man scrambled to try and help the old man

- Secondo seemed as stoic as he was, but he seen himself in Copia. He gave him a few nudges and shoves without really letting anyone realize it.