#I need to fuck that old man it is IMPERATIVE

[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

[gogodollie]

i know i’m guilty of it too but like ugh nobody talks enough about old sister imperator and papa nihil being horny. like they’re very clearly still sexually active going off of chapter 1 (“not here, not now, not like this”) and chapter 5 (“tell me are you alone….. and what are you wearing?”) amongst the million other sexual jokes they’ve made about each other (“here’s your microphone, look familiar? no no you speak into it.)

anyways let those old people fuck as nasty as they did in their youth. let nihil be his regular sleazy old man self and grope sister’s ass while they’re just around the abbey and try to slip a hand up her skirt. let sister push him back in his office chair so she can slip her head under his chasuble and blow him. let sister keep a hand on nihil’s oxygen mask to keep it in place while she rides him. let nihil flick on the lamp at their bedside because his eyesight isn’t all there but he still wants to see sister as best he can when they’re having sex. let sister and nihil fuck while they’re spooning because they’re old and their bodies hurt and they just want to relax and enjoy each other still.

[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

[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.”

[ficandkaboodle]

Vaginismus: Terzo x Fem!Reader

A/N: Stg if I ever see this purple fucking freak darken the doorway of my mind, I'm going for his kneecaps. He will never be able to slut about on the floor again, and then what will he do? Thanks, y'all, for being so patient as I almost daily had a meltdown over the structure of this. And HUGE thanks once again to @angellayercake for being my ever-patient beta with amazing input and ideas!! I hope I did our bastard boy some kind of service.

Word Count: 8.8K. Sorry, this bad boy is a hydra: For every sentence I deleted, more words would come in its place

CW: Reader has a vagina, hurtful comments from past relationships, reader's mental state is kinda fucked at a few points, hints at extremely uncomfortable interactions to "make the relationship work". Sooo...Vaginismus and its delightful conditions, I suppose. Oh, and a hint of Google Translate Italian. I'm sorry, I tried referencing @/foxybouquet's ever so helpful guide the best I could but alas, I am still a moron. MDNI

Papa III was a notorious flirt, even by the standards of the sexually liberated Church of Satan.

Everybody knew this, from the Clergy to Sister Imperator to the ghouls to his many, many lovers. And yet, when his sights finally fell upon you, everyone knew: Something in him had changed. At the very least, his methods sure had.

Secondo raised a brow when he first saw his brother lightly jogging up to you in the hallways, panting for you to wait up. Primo sported a knowing smirk when he watched the normally suave man sheepishly inquire about the meaning behind certain flower arrangements. Quite the departure from his usual bouquet of red and white roses, the older man couldn't help but note.

A startled Copia quickly became suspicious when the brother that tended to tease him the most came to his office one day, armed with top-shelf juice boxes and nutty chocolate bars – just the starting price for whatever info he was willing to give his dear old fratello about his new favorite Sorella.

The ghouls had a field day whenever they came upon the old man either sulking or even swooning over how a recent interaction had gone. One even swore they had scrounged through his wastepaper basket (don't ask, it’s not worth it) and found crumpled up drafts of sonnets. Sonnets!

It was the Siblings, however, who seemed to take the most notice of his antics. And, unfortunately, the most offense.

Certainly, plenty of the congregation had received a bouquet or two from their beloved Papa Terzo. Many had been wined and dined, and some were even whisked away for a night of passion and excitement in a glamorous metropolitan hub. Terzo had gotten around, and he would probably continue to get around until he either died mid-orgy or until his dick fell off. (And even if the latter did happen, it probably wouldn’t slow him down. Not until his fingers and tongue followed suit, anyway.)

It was cyclical: You would be an interest for a week or two before your time would be up, and you would part ways as he turned his attention to another, leaving you with memories of a whirlwind dalliance to reminisce about for years to come.

This was simply something that was understood and accepted without much of any animosity amongst Siblings. This was just how things were. Or at least up until now.

They must have noticed there was something about the way Terzo pursued you. For starters, nobody could ever recall a time when the man actually needed to really pursue anyone, let alone to the extent and care he currently displayed.

They could tell when a peer was actively trying to heighten the tension, turning their back to him but still glancing over their shoulder to shoot a heated stare. An invitation for him to keep it coming. Really putting the “play” in “playing hard to get”. But generally speaking, most of what Terzo needed to do was snap his fingers and whichever Sibling or ghoul he had his eye on would eagerly crawl into his lap and then into his bed.

Maybe they saw a shine in his eyes that wasn't there when they had him. Or maybe they thought he leaned just the slightest fraction of an inch closer to you than he ever did with anyone else. Or maybe they swore his voice sounded different when he spoke with you. Lighter, but not out of an upturn in pitch to sound friendlier. It was more like it carried less weight. Almost as though he felt less burdened by some unspoken thing. Some thing he never cared to share with them.

Granted, you didn't help matters by actually enjoying the odd conversation or two (or over a dozen) with Terzo. (And by "odd", this meant the animated discussions that borderlined two-person seminars on subjects like the Hays Code, or how viewing certain films through a gendered or queer lens could enhance the suggestion of the story.)

And anyone who spotted you alone on the quad sharing a snack would've been convinced you were on an impromptu picnic, rather than the fact Terzo had found you and offered you pickings from his secret snack pocket.

Sure, it was just a sandwich baggy of cheese doodles, but the point still stood: You had Terzo's full attention, his intrigue, his consideration, his snacks, and you hadn't done a damn thing to deserve them! Any interaction between the both of you, every awkward joke, every instance of eye contact, every exchange of a genuine honest to Satan smile, had the Siblings of the abbey biting and clawing at the walls in envy.

You did your best to appear unaffected by it, preferring to keep your head down and say as little as possible when around them. Nothing to suggest you felt superior to them (not that you did anyhow). Regardless, you were fairly certain that, if it were up to them, they would bring back human sacrifice for the sole purpose of getting you out of the picture.

Thank Satanas, then, that none were present to witness the latest event.

There Terzo stood, his normally focused and powerful gaze fighting hard to be maintained. It was abundantly clear that he wanted to look anywhere but at you. Still, he resolved to keep that nervous on his face. His gorgeous, paintless face.

It was startling to say the least. Actually, no, scratch that: To truly say the least would be to just stand there, gaping like a goldfish as you failed to find the right words – any words – that truly encapsulated even a fraction of what you felt. Which, for better or for worse, was exactly what you found yourself doing.

After all, almost nobody outside of his own family had seen Terzo without his papal paints. They may as well have been tattooed on him the moment he’d perfected the design all those years ago! Not even the paramours he’d collected since then had gotten a glimpse of his bare face, despite the many opportunities they’d had from the nights spent in his quarters. The mystery as to why this was left plenty of room for speculation and imagination, creating a juicy mystique that Siblings and ghouls loved to salivate and chew on.

Admittedly, you yourself occasionally wondered what his deal was, but you ultimately chose not to ponder on it. If Terzo liked how he looked in makeup more than he did without, then that was his business. Honestly, it never even really occurred to you to ask him about it even as the two of you grew closer.

But as you took in the visage before you, you felt you had a good theory going: If Terzo went about the Ministry like this, he’d never know a moment’s peace again!

"Is . . . Is it . . . okay?" he asked quietly. Okay? Okay!? Satan’s taint, if it weren’t for the very apparent tension, you might’ve thought the man was teasing you! The man looked like an old movie star, all debonair and dashing!

The fight to respond in a timely (and coherent) manner was difficult, but you managed to stammer out, “More than okay.” You gulped down some shakiness. “Y-you’re very . . .handsome.”

Internally, you cringed at how wobbly you’d come across but thankfully that seemed to be enough. The warmth in your cheeks intensified as the nerves in his smile carefully evaporated, along with a slight tension in his shoulders.

Unfortunately, the consciousness did not remain, and almost immediately you found yourself delegating focus to other things. Like the beauty mark that lay just beneath the right corner of his pleasantly pink lips. Lips that were saying, “— if you would be interested, of course.”

You blinked. Were you interested? Wait . . . Interested in what, exactly?!

“Y-yeah, sure. I’m down,” you chirped before you could stop yourself.

While you tried your damndest not to look mortified or embarrassed, Terzo looked delighted. Possibly even elated.

“Oh, eccellente!” he clapped his palms together before offering you a mix of a nod and bow. That sharp characteristic of his eyes returned once more, pinning your form as he purred, “I look forward to it.”

Oh, fuck. “Can’t wait!” you replied. Of course, now the concept of urgency settled in.

As you walked back to your room for the night, you knew three things to be certain: The first was that that face of Terzo’s would likely be making many appearances in your dreams tonight. The second thing, branching off this, him showing you his face was a sign you’d let things get far too far.

And the third thing? You had to put an end to your exchanges ASAP.

Sure, you’d peppered this into your thoughts many times before, but after this? This moment of extreme vulnerability on Terzo’s part? No more peppering: It was time to actually pile in everything you had and outright reject Terzo’s advances. No room for stuttering or bending or swaying or swooning and second-guessing!

You repeated this like a mantra over and over, praying that the resolution would still be there in the morning. And it was – but only after you took an icy shower. You’d been spot on when you anticipated that gorgeous, gorgeous face invading your dreams. What you hadn’t counted on, though, was the nature of what all went on:

Snowflakes catching on his lashes as you ice skated on a pond (the power of dreams erasing his waking world clumsiness); his lips smiling around a forkful of the pasta you’d just cooked together; his broad nose nuzzling lovingly into your hair during a quiet night in; those entrancing eyes focused on the movie playing before you as his arm settled warmly around you. It gave you further comfort as you pressed into his side, so perfectly slotted that it was as though you only ever belonged there, right next to him.

You regretted disregarding the alarm bells that blared at the start of this whole nonsense, and now look where that got you: You needed a cold cleanse just because you saw a man’s unpainted face! You were worse than a pent-up Victorian! Did you really want to prolong things until you’d start to "feel" those smirking lips pressed against the column of your neck, or “feel” those large hands skirt along your form, leaving a deliciously pleasant fire in their wake?

Certainly, that might’ve made for a good night’s sleep in theory. But in reality? It was a nightmare in the making!

It was bad enough just wanting to do all those dreamy things and more with the equally dreamy Papa. But that, of course, meant the "more" part would eventually come around. After all, your waking life already wasn't too terribly far off from the things that went on in the dream.

Your days weren't filled with skating on the pond or chatting over romantic dinners but at this rate, they very well could be a possibility. In an ideal world, the wait for these things to happen would be filled with anticipation. But the sad, shower-cold reality was that this wait was weighed down by dread and predictions of what was to come. After all, for all Terzo's patience and kindness, even he had limits. Sometime soon, his patience with your inexactness would run out and he would come to collect. Experience told you that was just how it was.

You may not have had a pursuer as passionate as Terzo, but you’d had enough instances that ran about the same: There was that high, that thrill in an almost honeymoon period-like chase. Then there came the actual vulnerability where you’d tell them of the conditions that came with a relationship – the conditions that came with you. And yeah, they’d start off insisting that nothing about that changed how they felt about you . . .  But then they’d realize your condition would outlast their gimmick.

You felt your face twist with displeasure as sentences of the past began slipping through the cracks and into the forefront of your mind.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Calm down already.”

“Just relax already.”

Then came the pain (both kinds); the giving up; and then you were right back where you started: Alone together, with a body that hated you that you hated right back. The only real difference would be how much your weariness increased, making you more and more reluctant to play along with the idea of any potential romance. Meanwhile, to them, it was a game: You were just playing hard to get, that was all. But you’d surely stop when they and they alone were able to conquer you, to cure you.

Did you really want to wait around and see Terzo become like that?

Your stomach twisted at the thought.

No. Absolutely not. You weren’t sure your heart could bear it, much less your body. Besides, if word got out that he’d shown you his face, then it’d be all over for you. You’d rather incur the wrath of rejecting what many would kill for than face what might happen if they learned how far you’d gotten by doing nothing at all. At least with the former, there was a chance the Siblings let you keep your bones intact.

You had a plan as you prepared yourself to step out and face the day: Keep calm and function as normal until the chance to say those simple words hit you: “Terzo, I am not interested in you in any way, shape, or form. While you are attractive, I am not attracted to you. Please leave me alone from now on.”

A devastating lie, perhaps, but a necessary one. One you would need to deliver by tonight.

But hey, the day was still quite young. There was plenty of time for you to find the courage, right?

. . . Well, you didn’t find it in the hallway when you heard that oh-so familiar, cheerful call of, "Buongiorno, Mia Sorellina !", prompting you to pick up speed and disappear down a different corridor. Nor was it there when you caught sight of a black flutter of robe. It could’ve been a wandering Cardinal’s cassock but you weren’t prepared to stick around and find out.

And even though you spent nearly the entirety of afternoon mass, head bowed, praying for the Dark One to simply grab the strength and shove it into you, you didn’t feel any more emboldened. Apparently, your body meant it when it didn’t allow for anything to enter it – intangible things included, it seemed.

You groaned inwardly from both disappointment and discomfort as you lifted yourself off the kneeler and back into the pew. There was also the added stressor of feeling sets of multiple eyes on you: From Siblings stewing in envy; from ghouls who wanted to take a gander at the Sister who had flirty Papa III wrapped around her finger; and, worst of all, from Terzo himself.

The one time you dared to look up at his seated form on the altar, you caught a hint of a small smile directed at you.

You tried to return it, at least enough to suggest to him you were fine and happy to see him despite your earlier actions, but the sorry attempt lost any pretense of pleasantness when your eyes got caught on something: Even in the sea of his dark robes, you could make out the dull shine of leather gloves poised in his lap. Helping them to stand out more, however, was how each fingertip was adorned with a golden nail.

Correction: A golden claw. The fine barbs would fit right in on the hand of a ghoul or perhaps some other dæmonic creature.

Normally you were fascinated by the accessories but in your increasingly unwell state, these gloves intimidated you. It was like you had been reduced to a fearful prey animal and all you saw was a threat.

A thought, sharp as those gilded talons, slashed beyond your imagination and into the walls of your most sensitive place. They pierced and drilled into the intimate area just long enough for you to know they were there – both in your mind and your body – shanking their way into a place nothing was meant to enter, let alone something so dangerous.

Although a primal need to defend yourself shot through your nervous system, you were too incapacitated to do much more than body-jolting inhale. Your only defense, you had long-since learned, was to freeze. Your brain buzzed in an unpleasant manner as you started to come down from the imaginary fingering.

“You’re overreacting,” scoffed the voice of a past partner. “It’s just a finger.” You hadn’t spoken to them in years, but the disregard in their voice remained fresh, further embittering you to the fact that that was what managed to creep into you rather than the bravery you so desperately needed.

You had to pray once more that Terzo hadn’t noticed anything. A change in your already shifty demeanor, the way your legs twitched inward but not out of lust (not when Primo’s sermon was focused more on wrath today), or how your body’s momentary lurch. Much like your prayer for strength, though, you suspected this plea went ignored. You didn’t need to look up and see Terzo’s smile falter to think that.

The moment Papa Primo dismissed the congregation, you made quick work of the camouflage offered by the uniforms of habits and lace.

When a quick glance back allowed you to catch sight of a confused-looking Papa Terzo, you forced yourself to swallow the pathetic truth: You were never going to find the courage to even say sorry, let alone that you no longer wanted to see him.

What you did find – or rather, what found you – was an overwhelming torrent of grief and frustration as you flung yourself into your room and back into the bed where your day had started with a massive hitch. You shoved your face into your flattening pillow and hoped there was just enough down still left in it to muffle up your screams. And tears. Belial, you told yourself you wouldn’t cry over this sort of thing anymore. Over anyone. You should’ve been used to this type of thing by now, so what was the use in wasting energy like this?

What was the point in dwelling on how nice it all was, how nice Terzo made you feel, or how you secretly looked forward to your conversations, no matter how bizarre or intellectual? You gained nothing but the label of immature whenever you indulged in the schoolgirlish feeling of letting Terzo accompany you in the halls. Indulgence might have been encouraged by the Church, but not when it hurt or disrupted the paths of others’ own pursuits.

There was absolutely no way what you had done wasn’t going to inevitably end in pain of some kind, be it physical on your part or mental and emotional on Terzo’s.

But then again, maybe . . . Maybe you didn’t have to do this after all? Maybe you could make peace with where things were headed. You wouldn’t be able to let him inside of you in the traditional sense, no, but surely that just meant that you would just have to . . . adjust things? Yeah . . . Yeah, maybe that could work . . .

Maybe I could earn his love in other ways? Prove that I’m not ungrateful and won’t waste his feelings? Intrusive visions of you “earning” that love projected onto the walls of your mind. Under more pleasant, more normal circumstances, some of the ideas would’ve been a delight for you in some way. Par for the course of a healthy relationship.

But the possibility that these might be the only ways to grant you worthiness, to allow you to deserve Terzo’s attention and love, to deserve Terzo . . . It felt tainted. It felt like an even worse lie to perform. It burned like a poison through your mind and heart before becoming incorporated with all the other pains rising to the surface.

The knock at your door was a welcome distraction, but only long enough for you to forget the possibility of it being Terzo on the other side.

You contemplated pretending that nobody was home before a muffled voice said, “I can smell you through the door, y’know.” Ah. A ghoul. Better in that it wasn’t Terzo, but worse in that you couldn’t avoid them. To your chagrin, the trek from your bed to the door wasn’t nearly long enough to look presentable or like you hadn’t been crying.

You could practically feel their eyes through the mask, studying your tear-stained ones as they smelled the salt that had settled on your cheeks. Nonetheless, they continued ever professionally with, “Papa III has sent me to come retrieve you.” From the way they barely contained their tail’s amused wagging, it was clear that they were getting a rise out of the insinuations of the invitation.

You may as well have been off to the gallows (or worse, Sister’s office) with how dour your disposition was. Being a part of the Emeritus line, Terzo’s chambers were further away from your humble digs in the Siblings’ quarters. Still, it felt as though there wasn’t nearly enough time from your door to his for you to concoct whatever it was you could say or do. Which, to be fair, wasn’t really much to begin with anyway. You were screwed, your fate sealed the moment the ghoul knocked on one of a pair of the large, wooden doors.

“Entrare,” the room’s occupant answered. Your heart beat icy pumps as you and your escort obliged.

You’d never been inside Terzo’s quarters before, not that you hadn’t been invited. Granted, the first few times had been in the very beginning, before he’d realized that his usual tricks weren’t going to work on an unusual suspect. He never brought it back up again, even as the two of you appeared to grow more comfortable with one another.

It was a shame, then, that you were too possessed with anxiety to properly take it all in: In another, more pleasant mental space, you would have adored the large, framed vintage posters that decorated the rich purple walls, or giggled at just how much purple and gold this guy actually used in one admittedly spacious but still single space.

You couldn’t properly see it, being in what appeared to be more of a lounging area (really, how big was the average Emeritus’s room compared to the lowly Siblings’ quarters?), but you could just make out what appeared to be a bedroom down a small coridor. From what little you could see, there was a bed made of rich, dark wood with a velvety canopy.

Dramatic, but fitting for someone like Terzo, you mused in a split second of clarity before the gravity of the situation returned with ten times the weight as before. After all, here you were, standing in the boudoir of the man whom you’d been avoiding all day. Avoiding because you’d failed to do your due diligence and warn him against pursuing you. And there was his damn bed right freaking there – !!!

That prey animal instinct from mass began to skitter back as you instinctively began to look for ways out of this. Maybe you could leap out that Satanic Tiffany glass window? You’d be killing two birds with one stone if you did: You could get out of a confrontation, and the action would surely unnerve Terzo enough for him to draw back, right?

However, the make-believe agility and will to do so quickly dissolved out of you the moment you heard the voice you’d been avoiding all day once more. “Grazie, Wisp,” he addressed the ghoul. From the sounds of it, he must’ve been in a room off to the side, away from view. Despite Terzo not being visible to them, the ghoul still offered a bow in respect before taking their leave (though not without their nosiness prompting them to sneak one last look into the room).

You winced in sync with the door clicking shut, the soft padding of footsteps on the plush carpeting thundered in your ears as Terzo made his appearance. Even though he made sure to keep some space between the both of you, you still felt increasingly like a trapped animal.

As much as you wanted to cast your eyes down and pretend to be intrigued by the fact that the flooring was black instead of some shade of purple, acting as though nothing was amiss was your best course of action. Even if you felt your breathing hitch both with uneasiness and infatuation over the fact that, yet again, the man’s face was bare of his usual paints. It did, however, carry a small look of concern. While you felt guilty, perhaps him being worried would be easier to work with than him being outright upset?

You tried to predict the sort of things a concerned Terzo might say and what responses would be appropriate when you noticed something else about him: His clothing. You didn’t expect Terzo to be lounging in his own living space in his robes but even then, he tended to favor going about in his suit. This was the first time you’d seen him in anything that could be considered casual and not relating to his position as a Papa. The first time you’d seen him in pants that were actually tailored, actually! It was questionable if a men’s blouse made from what might’ve been silk could qualify as “informal”, but your brain was currently unable to drum up that inquiry.

Instead, it was too busy focusing on how the top was being worn: With only the top two buttons undone, the edge of what was more likely than not an absolute thicket of black chest hairs was visible. (If you were a stronger person – a better, more functioning one – you would’ve absolutely braved that thicket like a safari explorer.)

You gulped, realizing that maintaining eye contact was going to be harder than usual. If you were quicker about keeping your wits, you might’ve tried to speak up first. Maybe with a “Hi, Papa. How ‘bout that afternoon mass, amirite?” But Terzo beat you to it.

“. . . How are you?” he inquired. Surprisingly, there wasn’t even a hint of accusation in his tone. “Are you doing alright today?”

I’m anxious to the point of sickness and contemplating vandalism with your window, you wanted to say.

“’M alright. Just tired, I guess,” you shrugged. Judging by the way Terzo’s lips pressed into a thin line, he probably didn’t believe you. However, if there was anything you’d learned in your time together, it was that Terzo wasn’t exactly the type to prod. It was easy to assume from the flamboyant persona that he was far nosier than he really was. But the unfortunate and lovely reality was that Terzo trusted you. Worse was that he trusted you enough to both see his true face, and to tell him how you felt when you were comfortable. Your stomach dropped when you remembered the fact you’d been crying before this. Were your eyes still reddened and puffy? Did he notice?

“Vedo,” he replied before slowly crossing his arms. "Well, if that is the case, then perhaps we must do a bit of a raincheck for the evening, yes?”

Your brows lightly twitched in a nonplussed fashion. It was then that you finally noticed the full scope of the room you were in. It was more like a den than an actual lounging area, complete with a TV on a DVD loading screen and a couch sat before it.

You forgot to blink as it hit you. This was what Terzo had been referring to during his face reveal yesterday: He was asking you to watch a movie with him! And you, in your lovesick stupor, had agreed wholeheartedly to it!

Logic (and a sense of cowardice self-preservation) would have dictated that you leap at the opportunity to leave. You needed time to regroup. Maybe make a sacrifice to Satanas in the hopes that that might win you some courage to do what needed to be done.

But before you could commit to it, you reminded yourself: You needed to act unbothered. You’d already aroused suspicion in Terzo as it was. If Terzo thought you really wanted to watch a movie with him, as you had outright stated, then you needed to watch a movie with him. All you had to do was sit down at a reasonable distance and appear completely invested. Too invested to possibly think about how you wanted to tangle your fingers into his chest hair. Or how you absolutely shouldn’t want to do that at all.

“N-no, I’m good!” you insisted a little too eagerly. “I can stay up, I’m not that tired.”

He quirked a brow but questioned no further. “If you insist. Come: I have a small setup.”

The setup being an oddly-shaped popcorn bucket (why . . . did it look kind of like a pope hat?) filled with cheese doodles and a bottle of red wine to be shared between two glasses. You took only the smallest handful of doodles to be courteous but turned down the wine under the claim that you were trying to cut back. The reality was you couldn’t risk letting alcohol lubricate you into either melting down or melting into his lap as you both settled in.

The Man Who Laughs, read the title card. A name just vague enough to sound familiar though you didn’t really know a thing about it. When Terzo briefly explained that its main character, Gwynplaine, had been the visual inspiration for The Joker from Batman, you expected some early horror flick. Perhaps being treated to an hour or two’s worth of a spiteful man seeking revenge and wreaking havoc on the innocent. Odd choice in what you could only describe as a movie date, but you were already in too deep and far too high-strung to comment.

But as the film progressed, you found yourself surprised. Not only because the plot was far from what you’d predicted, but also because you also hadn’t been expecting a sense of solidarity. Sure, you’d never been a stage performer whose disfigurement made him a laughingstock to the pauper and nobleman alike. But nonetheless, Gwynplaine’s plight resonated with you. Something about being an introverted, soft-hearted person who feared their worthiness of love was thwarted by something they had no control over.

When you’d settled on the couch that evening, your goal had been to merely pretend to take the movie in. But the tenderness exhibited by the film’s two main love interests made that all but impossible for you. You now existed in a strange and uncomfortable middle ground: Too invested to keep your wits, but too aware of how uncomfortable the relation was. If this were some vintage horror flick, there might’ve arguably been a chance to hide any visible anxieties as suspense-born fear.

But between the “smiling” man swooning into the beautiful Dea’s touch, to him hiding into himself when his insecurities got the better of him, you just kept being reminded of your own circumstances, and how Terzo had given you his full face when you couldn’t even give him the truth.

A wave of self-directed disgust began to boil in you, causing you to briefly tic. Otherwise, though, you remained stiff. It was a fair film, after all, and it was a shame that you were corrupting yet one more thing that was dear to Terzo by equating it with your own problems.

But inside you were the beginnings of a nor’easter of biblical proportions: Deluges depicted you forcing yourself through your fears in a pathetic effort to prove to him he could still love you; the voices of failed relationships past split through your mind like thunderclaps; even the howling winds sounded like your whimpers whenever you trapped yourself in the bathroom, determined but failing to conquer Q-tips and dilators and even your own pinky finger. The flood they all created sloshed and battered about your insides and squeezed at your lungs, brutalizing your mind.

Just relax already, they said.

You’re just being difficult! they had accused.

Quit holding out! they demanded.

The film became less and less visible to you as you tried to steady your breathing and cling to something inside. Please, Dark Lord, great Old One, you prayed once more. Did you want silence? Freedom? For the moment to end, or for everything to pause? You couldn’t tell with all this noise. Please –

Forget it.

Despite being born from the storm, it hung over it, breaking through everything and silencing all. Even your prayer felt muted compared to how deafening the command sounded in your head. The voice did not belong to the Dark One, however. It didn’t even belong to the other Big Guy. You knew this voice, actually. It had been years since you’d last seen or heard from its owner, but you still heard it nearly every day since. And they always said the same thing every time:

No one is going to put up with this if you can't fix it!

You fought to contain any reaction from reaching the surface, but you failed: You shuddered. Violently so. You had to quickly cover it up with an overcorrection of tensing, but you thought you’d managed.

You didn’t even have time to make up an excuse when you caught Terzo moving from the corner of your eye. He was getting closer – no: His arm was getting closer. Angling to wrap around you.

There shouldn’t have been anything intimidating about the idea of Terzo, coming at you with 30% of his hairy chest out, possibly aiming to get some over-the-shoulder action. Unfortunately for you, at this point, you were beyond intimidated. This was made clear with your reaction of jerking away, emitting a gaspy, yelpy whimper you never knew you could even make.

And for a moment, everything but the film froze.

It was an odd juxtaposition, the swelling orchestral music playing as you both just stared at one another without a single hint of romance. You truly were like Gwynplaine now, hands covering your mouth as your eyes stared wide. Terzo’s own eyes being wide was rather commonplace, but the way he stared at you now made you feel uneasy. It was almost as though those big eyes of his were suddenly seeing everything in high definition, able to see now see every crack in the structure that was you.

The soundtrack could’ve played on for an eternity before his low voice quietly spoke above it.

“Mia cara. . .? Are you okay?” He sounded even more uncertain than he did yesterday when he asked you about his face. When you failed to respond, he tried much softer: “(Y/N).”

Your breath hitched, icy and cold in your burning throat. You could count the times he’d used your actual name on one hand. Nearly all of them had been during the very beginning of your interactions. Back when he was trying to prove the extent of his interest. Otherwise, it was always a term of endearment: “Mia sorellina” or “Tesoro mio” or “Piccina mia” and so on.

Always “mio/a”. Always his, even when you had no right to be. But now, as he stared at you, having to resort to using your actual name, he must’ve been starting to realize that . . .

Even though it had done you no favors this entire evening, you let panic guide you to spring into action. You stammered and struggled for words as you tried to make yourself untense.

“I-I’m – I’m sorry, I was just so enthralled –” Did that word even fit here? “I was really into the movie, the sudden movement startled me and –” But it wasn’t so sudden, was it? “I’m really sorry, I just –”

But you just what? You did not know, and it was extremely apparent the more you talked.

“I thought you were cold,” Terzo gently reasoned once your words tapered off. At this, the arm you’d feared was coming to corner you shook gently. In his hand was the edge of a throw blanket you’d been leaning against. “I was going to offer you some cover. I thought you’d been stiff this entire while, and then you shuddered, so I . . .”

His movements were notably slower now. Felt the need to be more careful, even if all he was doing was reaching for the remote to finally pause the ongoing show.

His eyes were less wide as well, but what they left in their wake was a firm yet troubled stare. It wasn’t meant to make you feel so afraid, but the feeling was there regardless.

“(Y/N),” he stated carefully. “If you are not comfortable, then I need you to tell me. I am a big boy, I can understand boundaries. If I’ve been moving too fast or made you uncomfortable in any way, I –”

“The problem isn’t you, it’s me,” you interrupted. God. Satan. Whomever had stuck around to witness this travesty. Being the truth didn’t make it seem any less lame. And judging by how Terzo’s demeanor shifted into being unimpressed, he clearly thought so as well.

“To be brutally frank, Sorella, I was hoping for a bit more . . . honesty.” The delivery of that last word faltered somewhat, but it was more than enough to provide a healthy punch to your gut. Actually hearing Terzo express disappointment towards you was far more devastating than anything your mind could have concocted. He’d already implied on multiple occasions how he’d often found himself on the shorter end of a seemingly mutual trust. Now you were just another person who’d failed to uphold their end.

While true, something in you felt the need to still fight back.

“No, you don’t get it,” you hoarsely insisted against the tightening of your throat. Your fingers immediately set to biting into your arms as they crossed.

“Then help me to!” he finally demanded. “You’ve been acting strange ever since yesterday, so what? Is it me after all? My face? What?!” The frenzy, while warranted, made everything inside you curl inward. Everything suddenly felt too big, too loud for the decreasing space inside you. Your lungs couldn’t expand enough, and you could practically feel the hurricane inside you banging at your eyes to be let out. Your teeth sank into your lips just as your nails sank even more into your arms. Anything to bite back and fight back what was quickly becoming inevitable.

He must have realized what he’d done, or perhaps he just used his eyes to see you practically shrinking. His expression uncrumpled into something more tender and apologetic, but creases of quiet frustration remained.

“Cara. (Y/N),” he corrected, his more patient voice from before returning. “I apologize for my outburst. Really. I do. But . . . Please: What is going on?”

If you opened your mouth, you were fucked.

“I cannot fix things if you don’t tell me what needs to be fixed.”

Soft like dynamite. The dam splintered, it cracked, and then it collapsed entirely. Your body was never one to take things in or hold them, after all.

“You can’t fix me . . .” It was quiet and light and it weighed down on your insides like no other.

Terzo’s brows gathered. “. . . Perdono?”

“I said you can’t fix me, okay?!” you repeated, your sentence made jagged and uneven by its sobbing delivery. The sudden explosion left the normally calm Papa taken aback. His lips parted, surely about to question what you could possibly mean, but the flood was unrelenting as it poured from your eyes and lips.

“I’m sorry! I lied! I lied, I lied, I lied, okay!? My body doesn’t work, okay, it’s fucking broken, and I knew it all along but I couldn’t tell you because I’m a f-fucking coward a-and I’m s-s-elfish – And – !” But this point, though, your throat far too tight and painful to even try continuing. Besides, you’d said all of what mattered, right? That you’d lied to him by omission, that you were broken, and that you were a goddamn selfish coward for pretending otherwise.

The truth hurt but you deserved this pain, having only yourself to blame that you were experiencing this on this man’s couch instead of in the privacy of your room. Everything in you screamed to get up and run back there, in fact, but you lacked the will to do anything other than stay put in a near-blinding fit of crying, probably fucking up the sofa with all the tears you were leaking onto it. You might’ve stayed that way even longer if it weren’t for a sudden nudging at your knee.

Apparently at some point during your pity party, Terzo had taken the opportunity to get up and . . . retrieve a box of tissues? Not leave? Or call for a ghoul to come and get you? Actually, that made a bit of sense: He was too much of a gentleman to kick somebody out while they were crying, no matter how awkward the circumstances.

As much as the punishing part of you wanted to reject it, the suffocation of your snotty nose was intolerable. You accepted the tissue box and dug in until your face stung with how much you had to wipe at it.

Terzo meanwhile resumed his seat, making sure to allow you space as you let out whatever nonverbal emotion you needed to let out. He didn’t force you to talk – not that you could, remaining a coughing, hiccupping mess even as the emotional tempest began to recede.

In fact, he himself didn’t say a word until you’d managed to work yourself down to pathetic, wet sniffles and tremors.

“. . . You know you’re not broken, right?” he asked. You almost didn’t hear it about you

You sniffled, perplexed. Terzo watched patiently as he continued, “Look: I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But what I do know is that you make me laugh. I like talking to you. I like talking with you. I just. Like you. So clearly, something about you must work, si?”

You shook your head. No. No, that’s what they all said. Maybe not like that, but they all said one of two things:

Either they claimed this didn’t bother them and that they could work with your condition, only to later realize they couldn’t keep up the lie; or they would ask to go your separate ways. He hadn’t done the latter yet, but after everything you’d put him through, he at least deserved specification to make that decision.

“No, I mean,” you took in a deep, shaky inhale. Mostly to calm the discomfort. “I mean. My body – It literally doesn’t – I have a condition, Terzo.” You paused just enough to let the words sink in – for the both of you. It never got easier to say no matter how many times you said it. “I can’t have sex. Not in a normal way, anyway. So, like. No penetrating or whatever. Not even, like, a tongue. Shit hurts so I don’t – I can’t bother with it. And like.” You twisted your fingers. “That feels kind of antithetical to the whole ‘living deliciously’ vibe or whatever you’re supposed to be promoting. So . . .”

So there. That was it. In a sick sort of way, you did feel somewhat of a weight lifted. The heavy, gross feeling of rejection still sat within you, but you had a familiarity with it. In time, it, too, would fizzle back into the recesses of your mind. You could . . . live with it there . . .

“. . . So what?” Terzo practically huffed, barely fighting back a smirk, one you couldn’t tell if it was from his own words, or in response to the stunned expression you now wore. “First off – and forgive me for missing any point – but you do realize that the whole of that whole ‘living deliciously’ shit comes from making choices, right? If sex is what you’re talking about, I don’t necessarily need sex. Is nice, yes, but. It’s not my whole fucking life, you know.”

. . . Well, no, but . . . To be fair, that rockstar persona certainly made that easy to not consider. Before you could argue this, he continued.

“Second off,” Terzo held up two fingers. “You do realize sex is more than just insert-dick-in-pussy, yes? Your Papa is . . . Well, he knows he is no blushing virgin, we shall say. No offense.” (At this, your expression blanked. Bemusement was superior to distress, though, you supposed.) “But do you really think that I think there is only one way to make sex count? Cara, per favore: Sex is sex! So long as everyone is having fun – and consenting! – then what is there to worry about?”

“E in terzo luogo,” he added a third finger before giving all three a wiggle, “do you really think that I would do all this if all I wanted was a quick fuck? I mean, think about it, piccina. Give me more credit.”

Well, when he put it like that . . . Your cheeks and ears burned less from humiliation, but from a much softer breed of embarrassment.

“Well . . . no . . .” you admitted. “B-but going back to the choice thing – I thought the idea was to make choices that don’t hurt anybody.”

He nodded with agreement. “Questo è vero. But here we are. And no one got hurt, si?”

You bit your lip, “But . . . I lied to you. I wasted your time, and – ” At this, Terzo’s hand rose, signaling for you to shut your yap.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, dolcezza,” he spoke, his features tame but stern. “You did not waste my time. Okay? I gave you my time. And I wouldn’t ask for a moment of it back. And do you know why?” He didn’t even allow you enough time to make a snarky response: “Because I chose to spend it with you. Even if I’d known, I’d choose you. And why would I not? Sei una bellisima compagnia, and I already love what we do together, even if it’s not fucking. Now, have I thought about us fucking? Yes! Often!” (You felt your blush deepening at his rather blunt confession.)

“But I have also thought about things we have talked about; things I would like for us to talk about; things I would like for us to do – besides each other, I mean. But it here’s a fourth thing.”

No fourth finger this time. Just him offering you his hand. You felt every particle in your abdomen squish and flip over the simple gesture, but curiosity made you pushed through to accept it. Even as his other hand came over on top of yours, any trapped feeling you might’ve had mere moments before never came forward. If anything, you felt . . . here? And for as buzzy as “here” felt, you didn’t want to run from it.

Terzo gave your hand a grounding squeeze as his eyes remained locked with your own. “I’m never gonna do something that hurts you. Alright?” he swore. “And if I do? Then I need you, I beg of you to tell me. Because if you don’t want to do anything, then we don’t do anything. We do nothing but enjoy one another’s company. That is plenty enough for me, dolcezza, I can promise you this. Do you understand?”

You gulped. You didn’t even realize your eyes had widened until you found yourself needing to blink back a fresh, much smaller batch of warm tears. You could practically feel your mind scrambling, trying to reference past experiences that could help you work off of this. Maybe proof he was lying, an argument you could present – something to make this all make sense!

But it found nothing of the sort. No one, in all those times, had ever offered a third thing, let alone one where you felt like you had an actual say in how things went.

Should . . . Should you nod? Could you be trusted to make the right decision here? You nodded. It was uneasy and uncertain, but the smile it gave Terzo seemed to be the proper answer.

“Good girl,” he affirmed. Oh. Yep. That was the right answer, you decided with a jittery exhale.

“Now!” Terzo exclaimed before giving the back of your hand a gentle pat and releasing it. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to finish our movie. Call me a firm nerd but I’ve waited all night to hear your thoughts on this, no joking.”

The change in atmosphere was dizzying as Terzo readjusted himself into a more comfortable position, as though you hadn’t just bared your soul and literal intimacies to him and had him respond in the most genuine and affirming way possible. Not as though it were nothing, but more like it was just not nearly as distressing as what you’d prepared yourself to face. With the storm settling and the fog of anxiety clearing, it became increasingly apparent just how discolored your thoughts had become by your past experiences. Of course Terzo wouldn’t be so rigid about sex: It went against everything he stood for, everything he was!

Of course, complete acceptance on your end wouldn’t be immediate. But you could work with this. Though, there was admittedly one last concern you had before movie night resumed.

“B-but.” You stopped short as Terzo turned his attention back to you. You had to remind yourself that the nerves you felt now were nothing compared to before. You could do this. “But . . . What if I . . . do want to do something?”

A bushy brow at the insinuation.

“N-not now! Not immediately,” you clarified. Suddenly the fringe of the throw blanket required your attention as you began fidgeting with it. “I just . . . You know.” You gave an awkward shrug and glanced up at him, a look of pleading twinkling in your eyes as you hoped he understood what you meant. Not any time soon, perhaps, but . . . Some day? You watched as the right corner of his mouth, the one where that darling beauty mark lay, rose up into a smile.

“Then, cuore mio, we talk about it,” he answered simply. “And, if you still want to ‘do something’ after?” He leaned in, the warmth of his smile heating into a devilish smirk.

“We do it. Whatever that may look like for us.”

You nearly blacked out when the bastard had the audacity to wink at you.

He then clicked play, shifting back into place as Gwynplaine and Dea came back to life. By the time you’d managed to regain your composure and refocus on the movie, Dea was cradling Gwynplaine’s tearful face in her hands. Assuming you hadn’t missed anything, this was the first time the poor soul had actually ever let her touch his face in all its deformed glory. And judging by her jubilant reaction, Dea couldn’t have been happier.

Good for him, you quietly delighted. It was absolutely what he deserved after all that time spent torturing himself over nothing. As you resituated yourself back into the cushions, you briefly noted how the voices from before, while still there, were much quieter. They lacked the power provided by the storm, and any time one of them seemed to try and get louder, you’d hear Terzo’s voice smother it out.

I’d choose you, he affirmed.

Good girl, he praised.

You know you’re not broken, right? he reminded.

It gave you goosebumps, though not the kind that the throw blanket could pat out. But you had a theory.

It seemed that the Old One had finally chosen now to put some courage in you. Better late than never, you supposed as you began to inch closer and closer along the couch until you could feel the heat radiating off Terzo’s body. The proximity in itself was thrilling enough, but the boldness didn’t stop there.

You tested the waters, leaning a little further into him, only for his arm to calmly come around you. Whatever space that remained was quickly closed as you felt yourself being tugged and cushioned into his side. You had only a nanosecond to catch the barely-contained smile on his face before you practically melted into place. Terzo’s touch, his scent, his warmth, his everything flooded into you, filling you with a simultaneous calmness and a vigor you hadn’t felt in years.

Your dream from before had been right after all: You belonged here, right next to your Papa.

[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:

[cowboyemeritus]

Could I pretty please request something?

I was thinking maybe a bit of reader or OC being totally head over heels for Secondo. But despite their deep affection for Papa II they feel like their love is unrequited. But maybe it’s not! Maybe just maybe Secondo sucks at showing his true feelings and he’s just as lost to love as reader/OC!

Btw I think your writing is fucking awesome!

Hi! Thanks so much! Sorry this took so long, I wasn’t writing over the holidays (I’m also a slow writer to begin with lmao).

Small cw for a mention of depression. It’ll make sense I promise.

Hope you enjoy!

Papa Emeritus the Second is, as the song goes, a man of wealth and taste. He has a keen eye for the finer things in life — expensive wine, designer clothes, priceless antiques, you name it. As is his right as Lucifer’s chosen (and much to the chagrin of Imperator), the man surrounds himself with opulence. He’s like a crow, collecting pretty, shiny things. People are no exception; only the most beautiful members of the Congregation make up his retinue. Those blessed by Lilith can expect a life of luxury at Papa’s side, following him from city to city, show to show, reveling in excess and vanity.

The crow and his doves. And you’re the little finch, watching from the next branch over.

You don’t mind, though. You’re comfortable in your plainness. Extravagance attracts too much attention; that kind of lifestyle, eyes constantly trained on you, would be mortifying. Certainly that’s a product of your upbringing, but try as you might, you’ve never been able to shake it. Fancy things just aren’t your style.

Does it hurt your heart, watching him shower others with attention, with gifts you know you could never accept? Of course it does. But you’ve made peace with it. You have something they’ll never have. What the beautiful ones, the chosen few, will never get to see is the other side of Secondo, the man who values a quiet morning in his library just as much as a night out in the city.

As his personal assistant, you have had the privilege of observing this version of him over the years. Though he leans into the playboy persona in public, he’s uniquely genuine with you in private. From experience you know he’s just as concerned with the spiritual wellbeing of the Congregation as he is with the tailoring of his suits. He is a work hard, play hard kind of man, and though he’s never said it, you know he values your particular brand of efficiency, color-coding and all. He enjoys dialogue, little debates over pieces of theology, and is delighted when you manage to challenge his perspective. Secondo likes his coffee with just cream, though if he’s in the mood for a treat, he’ll do just about anything for a vanilla latte.

And slowly, you’ve been teasing out the deepest parts of his being, the things that should probably stay between him and the Old One. He loves being Papa, loves leading the Congregation, but borders on stage fright when he performs with the band. He compares himself to his brothers, and though he’s loathe to admit it, his father as well. He’s always wanted children, but believes he’s too old now. All the drinking and partying and sex is just compensation, a distraction from his inner demons. It didn’t take long at all for you to see that.

And you love him anyway. Not in an “I can fix him” kind of way, but in an arms wide, eyes open kind of way. You see him for who he truly is and love him, flaws and all, in spite of that. Is it a little self-destructive? Probably. You know you could never stand as his equal, as his lover, but a scrap of his affection, even the most simple nod of approval, is worth more than all the riches in the world.

That being said, it’s unlike him to spend so much time in his office. He’s been like this all week, and now you’re starting to worry.

You need to make a move. Secondo has been watching you this whole time, his mysterious left eye seeming to glow in the dark. The scrutiny only makes it harder to concentrate, but it’s not like you were going to win anyway. You reach for your remaining knight, intending to make some desperate maneuver, but stop yourself before your fingers make contact with the piece. You sigh, hand flopping down into your lap.

“Is something the matter?” Though he speaks softly, Secondo’s voice cuts like a knife through the silence. Your face, one half already toasted by the roaring fire, flushes.

“I- No.” You’re grasping for words like they’re leaves on the wind. How can you possibly speak your mind without overstepping? “I just-“

“When you took this job,” he interjects, “we promised to never conceal or withhold information from one another.” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, recalling that fateful morning. There was something so spellbinding about him back then, a look in his eyes that made you want to follow him anywhere, even into the lion’s den of Ministry politics. Times have changed. You can see through the miter and robes, past the allure of Papa Emeritus. He’s a whole person now, with thoughts, and feelings, and flaws, but his eyes burn with that same fire. If you could, you’d fling yourself into the blaze.

“Now, tell me, what is the matter?” You sigh, resigning yourself to whatever is about to transpire.

“I could ask you the same thing, Papa.” Secondo raises an eyebrow, bidding you continue. “It’s just-“ Suddenly you can’t meet his gaze, turning instead to the fire, mesmerized by the little swirls of flame. “You haven’t gone out at all this week. I was worried you might be…” How do you tailor this to his Boomer sensitivities? “Feeling out of sorts.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You think that I am depressed?” Ah, so he is with it. Daring a glance over at him, you find his expression is neutral, seemingly indifferent to the accusation.

“I guess so.” You scratch the back of your head. In truth, you didn’t think you would make it this far. “But obviously I can’t- I don’t- I’m not a doctor, you know?” Heaving out a sigh, you take a moment to compose yourself. “Are you alright, Papa? It’s okay if you’re not.” You’re about to launch into a prepared speech about how he’s not alone and how help exists, but then he huffs out a short laugh. Eyeing you contemplatively, you watch as he picks up his wine glass and takes a slow, calculated sip. Your own glass has barely been touched, and for a moment, you consider pounding it.

“You are thoughtful,” he says, placing the delicate crystal back down. “That is why I wanted you to be my assistant in the first place.” You hope to Lucifer Himself that the darkness is enough to hide the color blooming on your cheeks. The corners of his mouth turn upwards into the slightest smirk. “But sometimes, you think a bit too much, my dear.” Gut twisting with anxiety, you look down at your lap.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.” You sigh. Fuck it. “I just wanted you to know that I care about you. That’s all.” It’s about as close as you’ll ever get to telling him how you really feel. There’s a long pause and you spend it wallowing in embarrassment, knowing you’ve made a fool of yourself.

“Well, thank you,” he finally says. “I will make a note of that.”

Secondo waits until the sound of your footsteps fades away to sink down into his chair. He lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Idiot,” he mutters, staring at the vacant spot across from him, as if that could summon you back to his side.

Come back. I swear this time I will tell you.

His prayers go unanswered. Glancing over at the ornate grandfather clock by his desk, he notes that it’s not even past ten yet. There’s still time to make plans, to muster his clique for a night out. He knows more than a few members of the Congregation who would drop just about anything for booze and a seat on Papa’s lap. It’s a small price to pay for a little fun and the chance to get his dick wet if he’s so inclined. Eyes wandering back to the empty chair, he comes to the realization that he’s really and truly not.

Maybe you were right. This isn’t like him at all.

One by one, he puts the chess pieces back in the velvet-lined case. The set, carved from green and black stone, is practically an antique, the first impulse purchase he can remember. Certainly it would be magnitudes more expensive today than when he acquired it as a young man. He takes a moment to examine one of the pawns, turning it over between his fingers and admiring the bands in the green agate. So few of his darlings have the patience for chess, but he doesn’t really mind; it means that when he plays, it’s almost exclusively with you. Unlike the others, you can appreciate the delayed gratification of the game, of planning each of your moves while anticipating those of your opponent. With them, there’s no waiting, no anticipation, just a mad-dash to find the next dopamine hit.

It’s getting old. And in truth, he knows it’s not him they’re really after. He’s just an accessory, a means to an end. They can play pretend, humor him all night long, but he knows. The money, the drugs, the sex, the prestige of being one of the Chosen — it preoccupies their every waking hour.

“I just wanted you to know that I care about you.”

When you smile at him, he knows you mean it. He would give all of it up, every cent, to be yours for just a day.

And yet the thought of telling you as much petrifies him. Secondo is a man of action, preferring to speak through tokens and gestures. This was an effective strategy with the others, but he knows your tastes (or lack thereof). If he’s going to do this, he needs to do right by you. He had hoped that forgoing his usual nighttime activities to be with you would be a clear enough message, but it seems he miscalculated. Until he can muster up the courage to actually say how he feels, he’ll have to find another way to get his point across.

Back to the drawing board.

It’s the sound of paper crinkling that finally pulls your attention away from your paperwork. You look and wind up nearly burying your face in an explosion of tulips, a soft, pleasant aroma flooding your senses. Muted red petals with white around the edges, you recognize them immediately from Primo’s garden. Attached to the bouquet is Secondo, standing before you with a furrowed brow. He looks… nervous?

“I demand you accept this,” he says, once more thrusting the flowers in your direction. “Papal order.” You’re instantly confused. He has your birthday marked in his calendar, and it’s nowhere near close to today. Unable to stop yourself, you let out a little laugh.

“What for? It’s not a festival day today, is it?” For a moment, Secondo looks like he’s about to drop dead.

“No,” he says. “It is not.” He swallows hard, looking anywhere but at you. “I just thought you should know that I care about you as well.” He sighs. “I am not so good with words.”

Things start to make a little more sense.

You smile, taking the bouquet in your arms. Your cheeks flush a delicate pink. If Secondo died right now, he’d die a happy man.

“Thank you, Papa. They’re lovely.”

It’s a start.

[nerdfarm]

Futile Devices | Chapter One

CW: Terrorism, fairly graphic depictions of violence, blood, grief, lowkey boring but oh well. Gotta start somewhere (15+)

AN: This is my first fic ever, so be willing to give me some grace lol. For this fic, the years established are based on the timeline that Arkham Asylum took place in July 2017, Arkham City in January 2018, and Arkham Knight in October 2018. I’d also like to establish that Edward in this universe escaped Arkham before the Asylum incident, rather than during it. Lastly, I don’t include KTJL in this storyline. 

Word count: 3,535

Chapter 1

The rain falls heavily outside her apartment as she types everything out. The screen lights up her face, her hazel eyes scanning over every meticulously worded sentence. It’s imperative that this all makes sense, that there is something within these words that could intrigue him. Perhaps a puzzle of some kind. Morgan groans as she ponders on the idea, frustrated by the effort it took to find the right email address in the first place. Edward Nigma is not a man you can contact on a whim, she quickly discovered. Fuck it, maybe just an oddly vague email will be good enough. Feed his ego, he’ll likely be intrigued.

Mr. Riddler,

I have a proposition for you, as I require your genius and expertise. I cannot divulge the information in detail here, but I believe you may find my plan to be intriguing. I will offer more than just money: I intend to give you something you’ve always wanted. Please meet me at Aparo Park tonight, July 10th, at 10 pm. I’ll be waiting by the pond.

~Ruby

It doesn’t feel good enough. Hell, she’d been sitting staring at this email for the last 20 minutes and none of it ever felt good enough. She had to answer a riddle to even be able to email him in the first place, which she still isn’t sure how he managed to do. Regardless of the effort put in, being short, concise, and intriguing is all the message needs. After tossing it back and forth in her mind for a while, she hits “send”. Now, to wait. 

Morgan has never been a particularly patient person. She has always needed something to occupy herself, particularly her mind, and this was arguably the most important email she has ever sent. It’s not every day you email a man like The Riddler to ask him to take part in a large and dangerous scheme. She takes her right hand to her mouth, biting the skin around her thumb as she scrolls mindlessly on her computer. She takes random BuzzFeed quizzes, to keep her mind busy. And BuzzFeed says she is meeting her soulmate this year, she IS that poor-taste It movie (an evil clown… really?), and it can still never manage to get her zodiac sign right. Still, the quizzes have done nothing to keep her from checking her email every few seconds. She supposes it is nearly 1:30 in the morning, but Eddie seems like the kind of guy to stay up all hours. After questioning herself for calling him a nickname in her head, she jumps up and goes to take a shower.

Morgan enters her bedroom, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and an old Gotham Jets T-shirt, the band she used to play in. She steps into her bathroom, turning on the shower to warm it up as she selects some songs to play. Once she queues up a decent shower playlist, she sheds her clothes and steps in. The water’s hot, almost too hot, just how she likes it. She sings along to Everlong as she massages her scalp, bending her knees to get under the shower head properly. Being 5’11” (and ½, but who’s counting?) has its pros and cons, and a significant con is struggling to fit under her shitty apartment’s shower head. She supposes she is tall, but not enough to inhibit her usually. She feels like Buddy the Elf, just to a lesser extent. 

After a quick rinse and shave, Morgan steps out, wrapping a towel around herself. She flings her chocolate-brown hair upside down towards the ground before twirling it up into a towel. She debates cutting her hair again since it could make wearing her helmet and beating up assholes easier, but she decides to ignore the impulse for now. It’s towards her mid-back, but she simply hasn’t had the energy or care to do anything about it as of late. Perhaps some framing pieces could be nice, or maybe even dye them a cool color for a change. Red, to watch the whole “Ruby” thing? Mark would’ve thought it was cool. 

She throws on her PJs quickly, slapping on some lotion before running back into her office. 1:54 am. She expects no response, so her jaw falls open as she reads it:

>Neither friend nor foe, I am simply just so. Potential danger or potential friend, when you find the answer, I come to an end. What am I?

Hm. A simple riddle. How kind of him. She replies quickly.

>A stranger.

She is started by an urgent response.

>Well done. That riddle could have been solved by an infant, but I will congratulate you nonetheless. Why would I, The Riddler, meet with a stranger in the park?

>You and I share similar goals. We could help one another. 

>Help? I’ve never needed help with anything.

Nervously, Morgan adjusts.

>Of course not. What I truly mean is that I need your help. That being said, I have much to offer in exchange.

>I’m in a good mood tonight, so I will choose to placate your request and consider it. If you don’t see me at 10 pm, then it’s a no. I will take no further questions. 

>Understood. Thank you for your time, Mr. Riddler.

He doesn’t respond, though she assumes he read the message. Sighing nervously, she leans back in her chair, slightly slumped over. Shit. Well, she’ll have to resort to accepting the possibility that she might be sitting on a park bench like an idiot while no one shows up. She turns off her computer and gets ready for bed as usual. After tossing and turning for an hour or so, she finally manages to drift off to sleep.

—

Walking down the streets of Gotham at a reasonable hour of the morning is not normal for Morgan. Well, it used to be, back when she worked at the GCPD. Her older brother, Mark, is speaking at a huge neuroscience conference and has invited his loved ones to attend. It’s a big deal, and he’s worked hard for a long time to get to this point. It will be a chance for Morgan and her dad to get close to Mark’s new boyfriend, Noah, which is a plus. She supposes “new” is not the best word, they’ve been together almost a year now. They just haven’t had the chance to get to know him. Especially her dad, who took some time to wrap his head around Mark’s sexuality in the first place. If he only knew.

It is such a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining, but there’s a nice breeze that keeps it from being too hot. Morgan arrives at the Gotham Metro, looking around for the others. She spots her dad and Noah across the platform and makes her way over smiling. 

“Hey Dad, hi Noah, nice to see you.”

“Hey, hon. Just waiting on Mark now,” her dad says. Noah stands there smiling nervously. He’s a bit shorter than Morgan and is generally a nervous type. He’s a handsome guy, though, with crystal-blue eyes contrasted by raven-black hair. Morgan assumes it’s dyed.

“I like your outfit, Morgan, it’s very nice” Noah remarks.

Morgan looks down, forgetting what she’s wearing:  A nice olive green jumpsuit with a matching jacket. It is meant to be a nice event, after all.

“Ah, thank you, you both look very lovely yourselves,” Morgan compliments. They all nod and smile awkwardly before Mark arrives.

“Wow, late for your own event,” Morgan remarks, pantomiming looking at a watch on her wrist.

Mark rolls his eyes.

“I am not even close to being late. I’m right on time. Hi, darling,” Mark greets Noah with a swift kiss on the cheek.

The train arrives, and they all step in and stand towards the center. The group chats a bit before the train starts. Noah appears nervous, though that isn’t much different from his usual state. Mark is his usual confident, charismatic self, cracking jokes and bantering with Morgan. In the midst of a conversation about how Morgan accidentally broke Mark’s toe when they were kids, a large explosion is heard, followed by terrified screams. Everyone is pushed back by the blast, and the sounds of alarms begin to ring out over the speaker. Stephen, Morgan’s father, grabs a hold of Mark and Morgan, and Noah hangs onto Mark. After a few moments, the sirens are interrupted by the sound of hysterical laughter. Joker. 

Joker’s gut-wrenching rendition of “London Bridge” begins to play as everyone yells and shoves their way towards the back of the train car. Clearly, there was an explosion, but starting where? The train is slowing down, but not nearly enough to bring about any sort of comfort. Of course, they began to try to travel to train cars behind, but they will have to step across the small space outside the train car, so there is a large group of people all urging each other forward. Some have already fallen off the train in an attempt to cross as people shove them. 

“Okay, relax, I’m sure we’ll be alright,” Stephen says. Though, he certainly doesn’t seem sure. 

“Dad, what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Mark cries.

“I don’t know. I love you guys, I love you so much. More than anything,” Stephen confesses. It’s known he loves his children, though he doesn’t verbally express it too often. “We’ll find a way out of this, somehow.”

“I can change this, Dad. Don’t worry, I’m gonna save us,” Morgan cries out.

Mark turns and looks into her eyes, into her very soul as he speaks.

“Okay Morgan, I trust you.”

The train car splits in half. The other passengers begin to fall into a long, flaming pit, and Noah loses his grip on Mark and falls with them. They all watch in horror as The Joker’s laugh rings in Morgan’s ears. She looks back up towards her family, holding onto them with each hand, her feet firmly placed on the ground.

“I’m sorry Mark, I’m so sorry. But I’m gonna save you. Dad, I’m gonna save you,” Morgan pleads through tears. 

Joker’s laugh only increases in volume as Mark and Stephen scream her name. Their eye sockets and mouths widen to a horrific size and contort themselves as they begin to bleed profusely out of every orifice. 

“You killed us. You did this, this is your fault!” Mark and Stephen scream out synchronized, and their nails begin to dig into Morgan’s arms as she sobs and winces, but she holds on tight.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Please, stop, I can’t let you go!” 

Joker’s laugh echoes as Mark and Stephen scream. Their limbs begin to melt off of their bodies, and they screech in pain as they yell obscenities at Morgan.

“You’re a slut, and a disappointment. No family, no job, nothing to fucking show for yourself. You’re useless!” Stephen yells. With every consonant, his blood flies from his mouth and onto Morgan’s face.

“All my life you held me back with your whining and crying, and for what? Look what you’ve done. You ruined everything!” Mark hissed.

Morgan sobs, and she watches as their fingernails dig into her flesh. They puncture the skin, and crimson explodes from her wrists. It’s as though she can feel which veins are popping. She cries out in pain, but she holds on. She can’t sustain this for long, though, as they continue to melt, screaming and begging for help and mercy. She screeches their names once more as the cuts from the fingernails grow, showing more and more bone with every second as she yells out in agony.

Morgan shoots up in bed, drenched in sweat and tears. She screams and reaches for her forearms. She hyperventilates and cries, for a long time. She never knows how long this stage lasts. 

“It’s not real. You weren’t there. It’s not real. It’s always the same, no matter what you ‘do’. Stop being a fucking baby. It’s not real. They loved you. They loved you, right? It isn’t real. It wasn’t your fault. But you should’ve been there. You could’ve helped them. But it’s not real. You couldn’t have saved them. They probably didn’t suffer. But you’ll never know. The nightmare isn’t real. They’re at rest now. It’s not real.

After enough repetition, she manages to slow her breathing and mind just enough to look at the clock. Fuck. 6:07 am. Better than usual, but not by much. Plus, her throat makes it clear she was screaming again. How exciting it will be when the landlord comes with complaints from the neighbors. People can only be so understanding. Once something affects their sleep, the horrific loss of one’s family doesn’t even matter. Morgan sighs, though, as she understands.

Morgan stands and stretches, not even going to attempt falling back asleep despite exhaustion. She makes her bed as usual before jumping into her morning stretches and light workout. She eats some overnight oats while she works on some “morning journaling”. Mark said that sort of thing is supposed to be beneficial, maybe his stupid ideas can help her handle the immense grief she’s been left with in his absence. 

Monday, July 10, 2017

It’s been 2 months. Almost 4 hours of sleep. I keep having the same dream that I was there, that they hate me, that it’s my fault. Noah always dies in the dream, too. I hope he’s doing okay. 

I know I should get a prescription to sleep better, but insurance has been weird since I left the GCPD. Might have to pay out of pocket. I’ll have to get more work to afford it. Maybe this next thing could help? Maybe I could handle helping out The Riddler for a little extra money, if he’d have me. Surely I’m smarter than those thugs he usually hires. Tonight, I will ask him to help me with my plan. I hope he says yes. Perhaps if I write it down, it will happen? I don’t think that’s how this works, but I’ll say so for some temporary peace of mind. Riddler will say yes. 

Mark, Dad, I love you. I miss you every day. Mark, I didn’t realize you were my best friend before you were gone, and it’s so hard to live without your advice. Nearly impossible. Dad, we’d just started getting closer again like we were when I was little. We could’ve already been close. I’m sorry, it was my fault. I love you.

-Morgan

She throws on black workout leggings, a bra, and a loose black shirt. Brushing her hair and putting it up into a bun, she grabs her gym bag, helmet, and bike jacket before heading to her Muay Thai class.

Morgan is very proud of her motorcycle. A 2015 Honda CB 500X she calls Veronica. When she bought it, her dad was both excited and terrified. Mark was sure she was going to crash it. But she’s a better driver on it than she ever was a car, which instills much confidence within her. 

On the ride, she thinks about the night ahead. Will The Riddler show up? Stand her up? Send in a goon? Hell, a fucking robot even? Who knows with this guy? She’s researched him extensively, of course, digging into GCPD and Arkham records. Daddy issues, extreme OCD, narcissism, megalomania. She could make that work. As she arrives at her class, Morgan rehearses what she’ll say in her head, over and over again.

—

9:00 pm. Of course, she’s been ready since 8:00 pm and has since been anxiously watching a prank show on TV. While she’s had experience with some minor engineering in her past, never with making clothes, and certainly not a suit. But with a lot of effort these past couple of months, she managed to piece one together. She hasn’t worn it since the last time she got one of those bastards, but now was the time to use it. Maybe if she’s in a suit, it will make Riddler feel more at ease somehow. Morgan has forgotten the discomfort of the domino mask, but it’s needed. She’ll throw the white contacts on when it’s closer to time to leave.

How should she word this? “Hey, I have a diabolical plan that is likely to fail but could positively impact you! Please?” God, she’s going to look like such an idiot. But it’s worth a shot. Besides, chances are, he won’t even show. 

As the clock strikes 9:25 pm, Morgan puts on her white contacts and makes her way out the door, locking it securely behind her.

—

Gotham City isn’t cold for once, it’s oddly nice out. It’s late, so there’s a slight chill that feels refreshing with the suit on. 

Morgan arrives at 9:47 pm precisely, parking her motorcycle behind a building, and arming the security she coded for it before placing a tarp over it. Can’t be too careful in Gotham. She throws on a coat and hat to avoid any eyes on her as she quickly makes her way over to the pond. There are a few people about, some teens laughing and messing around on the playground, a middle-aged man walking his dog that looks to be some sort of German Shepherd mix. She keeps her head down, but eyes open. She does have a domino mask on, best not to upset or confuse anyone. 

On the other side of the pond, it’s much quieter, and no one is around. Morgan takes a seat on a bench and begins to wait. It’s now 9:50 pm. What sort of person is the Riddler? Early? On time? He seemed to make it clear he wouldn’t be late, so if he doesn’t show by 10:01, Morgan will take her leave and come up with something else. Perhaps she’ll simply have to do it on her own. She cringes at the idea but keeps an eye out. She cannot let her thoughts distract her. 

What would Mark and her dad think about what she’s doing? Would they be proud? Ashamed? Confused? Mark would be shocked to be dead so early in his life anyway. They always agreed that Mark would simply live forever, while Morgan would be the one to die by 18. Yet here they are: Mark dead at 31, and Morgan alive and… perhaps “well” would be an overstatement, at 27. Officially unemployed, single, depressed, and seeking out the help of a fucking supervillain. Just as she begins to doubt her decisions, footsteps can be heard. 

Morgan’s head snaps up to see a figure walking, dressed in all black, about 50 feet away. Could it be him? He’s usually a “pomp and circumstance” sort of guy, from what she can tell. The figure has a rather spirited gait, so this is either Edward himself or a henchman who hasn’t been through enough yet. Morgan stands.

“Ms. Kelly, yes?” the man questions, though it sounds more like a statement of fact.

Morgan freezes. 

“Excuse me?”

The man approaches and pulls down his balaclava to reveal the face of Edward Nigma, in person. He smirks as he extends a hand for her to shake.

“And of course, I’m right as always. Now, what could I possibly do for a fellow ex-GCPD cybersecurity officer?” He sneers.

Morgan shakes his hand absentmindedly, yet firmly due to practice. 

“What the hell are you-”

“Do not try to play me for a fool, Ms. Kelly,” Edward groans. “While your security has been up to par in recent times, the beginning of this whole ‘Ruby’ character lacked significant security. Morgan Elise Kelly, though you just changed it back from Lomeli, as you divorced your husband Leonardo Lomeli on the basis of adultery in 2015. You-”

“Okay! Jesus! Wow!” Morgan exclaims. “I do not know how you discovered any of that, but-”

“A child could have uncovered that information. Though I must admit, I was… intrigued to see you had managed to restrict the full court documents online. I could do the same, but I find it interesting you went through all the trouble to cover it all up. Were you the adulterer, my dear?”

Morgan simply stares for a moment, her mouth dry. She manages to swallow down the bile in her throat before answering. 

“No, though I don’t see how that’s relevant. Look, okay, fair game, I’ll tell you pretty much everything about me, I’m an open book, except for that. In due time, maybe. Now… about what we came here for.”

“Ah, yes, finally. What could a dimwit like you possibly offer me, Edward Nigma, the Riddler, Gotham’s most genius, fearsome future leader and Batman’s greatest rival?” Edward boats. “Color me intrigued.”

“Uh-huh, well, that’s just it. I could offer you Batman’s full, undivided attention,” Morgan starts. “Foolish foes will fall behind, and you will have him all to yourself. I just need you, Mr. Riddler, to help me make it happen.”

Edward scoffs.

“I am already his arch-nemesis, I do not need a thing from an imbi-”

“I need you to help me kill The Joker.”

[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.

[theunholybastard]

ummmm if you’re Asking for requests… i think it would be awesome to have a little bit of old sister imperator/papa nihil loving their little bit of peace and quiet at the beach house and fooling around like the old days

FINALLY IM GETTING TO Y'ALLS REQUESTS NOW I PROMISE🙏🙏😭😭

The Good Ol' Days (Papa Nihil x Sister Imperator)

Tags: Short But Sweet, Blowjobs, Riding, Reunion Sex, Old People Being In Love And Fucking Freaky Style

Working at the Ministry can be exhausting, and nobody knows that more than Sister Imperator. She hasn't so much as called in sick for the past 50+ years she's been working here, and half a century of all work and hardly any play will take a toll on just about anyone. Especially now in her old age, she can't afford to pull all nighters getting paperwork done, sitting in her creaky old office chair that is in desperate need of a replacement.

A long vacation is just what she needed right now, and Psaltarian, feeling generous, offered up his beach house as the perfect getaway. What would've been a perfect trip was spoiled when Nihil overheard the conversation and took it as an invitation for him to tag along. Sister should've known to be more discreet if she wanted any alone time to herself. If there's anything she's learned from the decades of knowing him, it's that he will go out of his way to be around her at all times, much to her dismay.

But it was no big deal. Nope. She can relax and unwind with Nihil breathing down her neck just as easily as she could without. Mhm. I mean, there's two separate bedrooms, so it can't be that bad, right? Surely she won't be tempted to sneak into his room, into his bed late at night in search of warmth. Holding a grudge against the stupid bastard since '69 has definitely drained every ounce of love she possibly had for him all those years ago... Right?

But guess who ended up sneaking under his covers the very first night. The tension was just too much, the yearning she's tried (and failed) to conceal over the last half a century. She can ignore her feelings just fine when they're at the Ministry, but when the two of them are alone together, secluded by the romantic allure of the sun setting over the ocean, she had no choice but to give in to those feelings, the same feelings she felt back in the good old days, back when she was young, carefree, and extremely horny.

Nihil was still awake when she entered his room sometime after dark. He knew what she was there for. This isn't the first time they've indulged in some late night lovin' since their messy split, and it certainly won't be the last, no matter how many times she stresses it will. Nihil only wishes it would happen more, that one day he will wake up the next morning to find her still in bed with him. Part of her wishes to stay too, but her ego simply won't allow it, even after all these years.

Still, she slips off her nightgown, exposing a body that has changed very much over the years, but a body he worships all the same. His blood rushes south as she straddles him, lips grazing, daring the other to lean in first. It's a miracle that a man his age can still get it up, but when it comes to her, he can always manage. He kisses first, he always does, and just like always, a spark ignites within them the moment their lips meet, the walls tumbling down as their inhibitions are released.

Their movements are slow, but there's a sense of urgency in them, as if they don't know when the next time they'll be able to indulge in each other's bodies like this will be, as if that's up to fate to decide and not them. Sister rolls her eyes when she pulls down Nihils pajama bottoms to reveal his cartoonishly ridiculous heart print boxers. If she weren't already so turned on and in desperate need of carnal pleasure, this would've been a mood killer. Instead, she continues to strip him.

"It's like you knew this would be happening." She scoffs, throwing those hideous undies to the side, a hint of amusement hidden within her stern tone. Nihil smirks goofily.

"I did."

Another eye roll. "Can't you resist being smug for one night and fuck me already?"

"Oh Sister, the only thing I can't resist is you."

"Shut up, old man."

-

Nihil resists the urge to make a Mary On A Cross joke when she goes down to wrap her warm, wet mouth around his length. And Sister, returning the favor, resists the urge to giggle when Nihil suddenly bursts into a coughing fit while she bounces on his dick. Just like the good old days. And afterwards, when they're both spent and sore, their aged, naked bodies intertwined, the sound of his heartbeat lulls her to sleep. Maybe this time she won't leave before morning.

Just like the good old days.

-

[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--

[gravehags]

hold me now - the natalie edit

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

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: 2,588

Summary: Natalie's never heard that tone from Copia before period let alone directed at her.

a/n: happy new year's eve you get TWO natalie edits tonight :)

~~~

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. Natalie’s 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 her voice and–

He barks her name once. No endearments. That’s all it takes to have her stopped in her tracks, slowly turning to face him. When the next words out of his mouth come sharp like a whip crack, he sees Natalie physically recoil.

Enough. Quiet.

Immediately he’s filled with regret as he watches her back away towards the door, fidgeting with her 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,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically small and high, the way it gets when she’s holding back tears, “Sorry I’ll just–”

By the time he reaches out to her, still unable to speak, she’s already got her back turned to him and he watches her 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 her, apologize on bended knee but he just…sits. 

Sathanas, what have I done?

—

Natalie’s proud of herself, she doesn’t cry until after she returns to her office. As soon as the door shuts though, an ugly sob is wrenched from her throat and she collapses into the empty chair opposite her desk. She can’t form a coherent thought, all she can do is bawl into her 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.

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

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

Natalie’s tears slowly cease and she diligently wipes up the streaks of mascara on her cheeks.

She 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 her. 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 Natalie in ages and fuck, he misses her desperately. Misses her smile, her laugh, how excitable she gets when she’s talking about something she cares about. Misses the very thing he chastised her and hurt her feelings for, fotutto idiota. He doesn’t blame Natalie for not coming to his quarters or visiting him during work hours. He certainly wouldn’t blame her 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 her. Hasn’t even attempted to say shit to her. Natalie’s pain and embarrassment morphs into anger on the dawn of the second day when she checks her phone and sees no texts, no missed calls. The hurt is still there, that ache in her chest that doesn’t really go away, but she’s truly floored that he could be so casually cruel to her then act like she simply doesn't exist. Maybe it’s over (and the notion makes tears well in her eyes and makes her choke on each breath) but doesn’t she deserve to hear it from his lips? That’s all it takes to have her sobbing again as she attempts to brush her teeth, dejectedly spitting out toothpaste into the sink. It’s early, ridiculously early to be in her nightgown getting ready for bed but every night without Copia has been agony and all she wants is to no longer be conscious. She pads over to her nightstand and is about to check her phone simply out of habit when there’s a loud knock at the door and she freezes. Part of Natalie - the petty, horrible part - considers ignoring it the way he’s ignored her. Letting him stew. But her heart is ultimately what pulls her towards the door and has her opening it. Her lip wobbles when she sees him before her - in his clean red cassock, no biretta  - but Natalie prides herself on remaining tearless. He looks incredibly nervous and nauseated as he beholds her.

“Eh…may I come in?”

She says nothing but stands aside and gestures for him to enter. It’s not until he’s fully inside her apartment Natalie sees the healthy bouquet of lily of the valley behind his back and her icy demeanor melts a little. He hands them to her, eyes dodging hers like a fifth grader with a crush. It’s charming, she can’t lie. She takes the flowers from him and he watches her carefully as she fills up a vase and places 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 Natalie resting her weight on her hip with her arms crossed and him fidgeting with his cuffs. She’s about to ask him to get it over with if he’s breaking up with her 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,” Natalie says, 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?”

Her vision is going blurry and she swears 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 her 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 Natalie’s 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 her, 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.”

Natalie’s heart plummets.

“Is that what you want?” she asks 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 her.

“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 Natalie’s cheeks as she looks upon the man she loves and the way his eyes are upturned to her seeking repentance.

“You know I love you more than anything,” she whispers, “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–”

She scoffs 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,” she says, 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,” Natalie says 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 her lips. Abruptly, she wraps her arms around him and holds him tight.

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

“Love you too, Natalia,” he whispers, kissing the top of her head, “And I am sorry for everything.”

The two of them embrace one another in the quiet for a moment before she speaks.

“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?”

Natalie hides her 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?”

She giggles as she tugs 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 Natalie lifts her nightgown over her head and lets it fall to the floor.

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

She looks down at the bulge in the red fabric and smiles.

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

He sighs.

“I know you will.”