#Learn Egyptian Conversations

[alazharuniversity]

Conversation in Arabic with Doctor 3rd part, Learn Egyptian arabic, Egyp...

[cheezeybread]

Could I request headcanons for Scarabia + Pomefiore where they overhear their lover speaking in their native language with is neither japanese or english? Maybe they're cussing, maybe just talking to themselves, maybe singing, whatever. Here are the characters + some language samples:

Jamil - bangla: https://youtube.com/shorts/WF2LbzJDzD4?si=11V-UicSCLv8vySx

Kalim - mandarin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_iUCZgObUDg&t=106s

Rook - egyptian arabic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zsz0ou4VX2g

Vil - swahili: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tpol4TKeJ14

Epel - welsh: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ufKf4eORcKA

So sorry it took me a while to get around to this request, I've had it gathering dust in my drafts as I brainstormed ideas for it, hehe!

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚

Jamil Viper

Jamil's first introduction to your language was when you burned yourself in the Scarabia kitchen. Touching a hot pot before he could warn you that it contained boiling soup, you cried out a foreign phrase to him

"Hauar pola!" You screamed, one hand clamping over your injured palm, applying pressure as you glared at the pot "Magir Puth!"

Despite his fretting noises as he grabbed the nearest first aid kit (of course with Kalim, Jamil had made sure there was a pack in every room) and fixed your hand, Jamil had to hide his laughter. He had just assumed that you were making up gibberish like Kalim used to do as a kid- gibberish to take place of curse words.

Once you explained to him that it was indeed an actual curse, in your mother tongue, he was a bit shocked. You mean you didn't originally speak what you were speaking now??

He'll definitely ask you to teach him some words in Bangla- mainly curse words, but if he can get his hands on a book for the language, he'll attempt to learn some "sweeter" words to use with you, if only to get a little bit closer to you...or make you feel closer to home.

Kalim Al-Asim

He's no stranger to different languages! Being in a merchant family, knowing many different languages was essential to business, and Kalim has had so many tutors teaching him so many languages- he's not entirely fluent in all of them since he never gets a chance to speak them, but he knows all the basics to have a simple conversation

He probably knew that you didn't originally speak the current language that you did in Twisted Wonderland, but hadn't really heard you speak in this "Mandarin" before.

But one day, while prepping for a party, he took a small break to ask you to show him a new dance- he wasn't particularly set on what sort of dance you showed him, he just wanted some new moves to use while dancing at the party.

To his utter delight, you grabbed his hands and tried to teach him a little dance that went to an old song you heard in your childhood- of course, since your song didn't really exist in this world, you had to hum and sing it out loud.

He's definitely going to insist that you not only teach him the song, but that you start giving him lessons on your language! He figures it'll be fun to converse to you in Mandarin, allowing the two of you to have conversations in secret, where no one else knows what you guys are talking about!

Rook Hunt

Ooh, la la!

He's going to run into you whilst you're in the library after class! You were sitting at one of the tables, half-closed eyes scanning over a textbook. Of course, you hadn't been getting too much sleep recently, so it was hard for you to actually read and digest the information you were supposed to. Which led to you mumbling to yourself instead in Egyptian Araibic under your breath.

Of course, Rook doesn't greet you at first, preferring to stay back and listen to your voice for a little while longer. He enjoys the cadence of it, the highs and lows of every word...it is truly beautiful for a language, is it not?

Once he helps you get to bed and can speak to you after a good night's rest, Rook inquires as to what you were saying earlier.

To hearing you say that you spoke a different language than this one, he was flabbergasted, but intrigued.

"Read me a poem in your own words, dear, in your mother tongue! Speak your mind, call me curses, list out your errand runs, just allow me to hear you speak once more!"

He's...strange. But he enjoys the foreign language very much

Vil Shoenheit

Hearing you sing to yourself while having a spa day with Vil left him speechless, for once in his life.

He had left you alone in the bathroom to soak in the warm, bubbling water, assuring you that he would be right back once he found a certain brand of oil that he suspected Rook had mistook as his.

Once he came back to the bathroom, your words sounded so...alluring. It made his hips sway with the beat you put out with a fist slapping the side of the porcelain tub. It was rather catchy, and he couldn't help but smile as he nodded his head to your tune.

"Oh, such a wonderful language, what is it?"

He's so genuinely curious about it all, and enjoys listening to you speak about it all- how you grew up, how you felt about your culture and language itself.

And don't worry, he'll be asking you to sing to him a lot more heheh

Epel Felmier

Another curser! Aah!

Epel absolutely loves the sounds coming out of your mouth as you lose your temper and let loose at another student bothering you in the courtyard, but curbs his excitement until he properly threatens the student with a good lickin' if he doesn't scoot out!

I'm not gonna lie, Epel seems like he'd speak Welsh if he weren't in Twisted Wonderland- it just seems to fit his character so well.

And, of course, he's going to ask you to teach him all of the swear you know, so that Epel can voice his grievances against Vil and some teachers without them being able to get mad at him (because, of course, Welsh isn't technically an existant language in Twisted Wonderland, soooooo the teachers/Vil can't prove it even exists unless you become a tattle-tail, hehe!)

Once he has his fun with cursing, Epel will try his best to learn some simple words/phrases from you so he can pass you secret notes in class and talk to you in private. He's...not the best at learning a new language, so be patient with him, but he's trying his hardest!

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚

[poptod]

Curious Companion (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: You wake up in a museum and realize you're just a wax version of yourself. Your curiosity remains, and you find yourself entrenched in conversation with a millennia old Pharaoh.

Notes: its happy, then very sad, then happy again WC: 2.7k

+

The guards didn't care much about your section of the museum. Perhaps, you wondered from afar, it was because you looked and acted much like them––more humanoid than the little figurines or the puppets and stuffed animal skins. Regardless of what the three night guards thought of you, it did allow you more freedom than many of the other exhibits, for which you were grateful. Still, you didn't like them very much.

You awoke much like the other exhibits one evening, like you were ripped from your home and suddenly placed in a museum. The only difference was you had no idea why you were there; reading your plaque cleared things up only slightly. It had your name, and a profession you once thought of going into as a child, only for you to decide upon your entrance into college that it was a fabled dream. It also said that you were the young version of yourself, and that you would discover an ancient city on the coast of Egypt in your late 50's. Overall, the experience was strange. Few people were afforded a plaque telling them what they would do in their life.

Eventually, you realized that you would never accomplish those things anyway. The real you did––you yourself were a wax figure stuck in a museum in the year of 1992, and it was several centuries after your supposed death. Computers, although very informative, were very hard to figure out in order to obtain this information.

Knowing this––knowing you would never age, never accomplish anything yourself––did little to stifle your curiosity regarding the mystical land of ancient Egypt. You spent many nights combing the internet for information on Egypt, everything that had been learned between your existence in the early 20th century to now, nearing the 3rd millenium.

This research was only interspersed by your search for what exactly brought you to life. Avoiding the night guards seemed prudent, despite the fact that they might have answers, and thus you were left to your own devices to try and figure the mystery out.

After many weeks of no answers, you decided to trail the guards at a safe distance in hopes of overhearing some conversation. They mentioned a mummy––one you had not heard about being in the museum before––and a magic tablet. Immediately you left in search of this exhibit, excitement teeming at your fingers. If the magic worked to make everything alive, surely it would make the mummy alive. If every exhibit retained their memories from life, this mummy would have an immeasurable amount of knowledge about what ancient Egypt was really like, although you knew language may be a barrier. But it didn't stop you.

You searched the museum as thoroughly as you could––which took several nights, seeing as how large the museum was––and eventually circled back round to a place near your own exhibit, which you chastised yourself for. You were part of the exhibit on Egyptian history. It would make sense the mummy would be near you. But before you could even enter the room, the sun began to rise, and you hurried back to your exhibit to await the next coming night.

That next evening, you waited until the night guards came and went, laughing and play-fighting each other as they locked up each of the exhibits in turn. As usual, they skipped you. But once they were gone you snuck out of your casing, and headed towards the screaming you had heard the first time you found the mummy's room.

The sarcophagus rattled beneath the heavy stone, and the thick lock keeping it together barely moved as the deceased person shook and yelled with all their might. The statues of Anubis, carrying was-scepters and adorned in gold, only watched you as you slowly walked down the hall. You circled the sarcophagus, admired the carvings, and then moved to read the plaque.

Ahkmenrah was his name. A young Pharaoh from the Middle Kingdom. Discovered in the 1950's. Son of Merenkahre with a partially illegitimate claim to the throne. Suspected to be assassinated due to the wounds in his back.

You returned to the sarcophagus.

"Ahkmenrah?" You said quietly.

The screaming ceased, but the rattling did not.

"Can you hear me?" You asked.

He made a sound, which was completely incoherent, but was a confirmation nonetheless.

You didn't really think about what you would do once you got this far. Originally you had a plethora of questions in store, but thinking about it now, it didn't seem appropriate to launch all of them upon the encased Pharaoh. Being stuck in a cramped sarcophagus did not sound like a pleasant time, and you didn't even know if he would understand you.

"Do you understand me?"

"Arabic?" He suddenly said, and though his voice was still muffled, it was clear enough to understand.

"Yes," you said, shuffling forward in your excitement. "Is that alright?"

"I know English more well," he said.

"Oh. Um…"

Your english skills left something to be desired, but they would suffice. They did better with reading than speaking.

"My name is (Y/N)," you began in English. "Do you, um… do you know why we are… not dead?"

"Yes, of course I do," he said in perfect English. "Do you see that tablet up on the wall? It's made of gold. The light of Amun shines down from the top upon its' keys."

"Yes, I see."

"My father gave it to me, as a gift. It is imbued with the powers of the Great God Khonsu, may he live forever. It was meant to keep our family together but, as I am separated from my family, it keeps the museum alive. It keeps us safe," he said.

"Safe?"

"Protected. Away from harm, or getting hurt."

"Ah." You laughed. "Your English is better than me. How did you learn it?"

"Well, before I was here, previously I was stationed in Cambridge University for study. That's where I learned English, and Arabic, and Hebrew. I had a lot more freedom there… when I learned I was to be transferred to a city of New York, I was most agrieved. Now I see I had every right to feel such a way. Um, (Y/N), may I ask, who are you?"

"I'm the young type of a famous person. I read, when I am… when I was older, I found an Egyptian city on the shore of Egypt. The city was built after you died," you explained.

"I see. I have another question, if that's alright."

"Yes, it is. I have also questions for you, if that's alright," you said in return, earning a laugh.

"Yes, quite alright. But I go first. (Y/N), do you know why I am locked up?"

You sucked in a breath. It was fair that he would ask this question; you just weren't prepared to answer it.

"There are guards, that the museum has to keep things safe. They keep everything locked up. Only a little bit of us are not locked up. I am not. But the guards are not very nice. I don't like them," you explained quietly, leaning in to speak through the tiny crack between the coffin and its' lid.

"I see," he said, a hint of sadness lacing his tone. "Do you… do you think you could open up my sarcophagus?"

"Yes, I think," you said with a frown. "But they will hear. Then I will be locked up too, and so will you, for the rest of time. And we will not be able to talk again."

"… you're right," he said, and sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just very cramped in here."

"I know. I am sorry as well."

You visited him every night, year after year. Each night you both would have questions for each other; yours regarding his life in ancient Egypt, and his mostly personal and theological. His sense of humor was surprisingly vibrant considering his state of being, and you enjoyed your time with him immensely. He seemed to be the only exhibit in the museum with a true soul, which you attributed to the fact that he was an actual human made of bones and flesh, and not a figure carved from wax. Each passing month you yearned more and more to see his face; to know his entirety. Each year the longing grew immensely more painful. Still, every night you went to see him, and always avoided the night guards, who grew older and older as you stayed just as young as when you first awoke.

"I want to ask," you began one night, "what God you worship."

"I worship many Gods. My favorite, my most beloved Netjer is Nefertem. But He is not a very appropriate God for a Pharaoh to worship. As Pharaoh, I was set to elevate Ra and Khonsu as the ultimate Gods," Ahkmenrah explained, though his answer only led to more questions.

"You are not allowed to worship some Gods?"

He sighed, and you could practically feel him rolling his eyes.

"Some Gods are not popular enough for the people to rally behind. So in order to retain power as Pharaoh, you have to encourage a God the people already love and adore in great hoards. I don't think it's very right, personally. But it's the way things are done. Now, (Y/N), what God do you worship?"

You paused.

"Supposedly the Abrahamic one," you said. "My family is Muslim. They worship Allah, a supreme male God. I… have a.. complicated relationship with Allah."

Ahkmenrah laughed, and the lid to the sarcophagus rattled with him, similar to the high ringing of marriage bells sounding like the shackles prisoners wore clinking around their wrists and ankles.

"Do you know who Allah is?" You asked.

"Of course I do. I didn't spend all that time in Cambridge for nothing. He emerged after the preachings of the prophet Muhammed. I've always been curious about this one God who has so wholly encapsulated the world. It seems he is the only God people worship these days."

"Not everyone is Muslim."

"No, but everyone worships this God that came from the Israelites, yes? From the Israelites came Jesus, and the Christian God, who is the same as the Jewish God. After the Christians came Muhammed, and the Muslim God. They're all the same, are they not?" He said.

Your brow furrowed. You hadn't thought of it that way before––perhaps a product of your era. But he brought about a good point. Suddenly the fighting between the three religions seems superfluous and stupid.

"I guess so," you finally said. "There are other religions now, not only three. Hinduism and Buddhism are large in the east."

"I've heard of Hinduism. It's polytheistic, yes?"

"Yes."

"I enjoy that."

You laughed.

There was silence, and then Ahkmenrah spoke again.

"You don't really worship Allah though, do you?"

"My family does."

"Forget your family. Do you believe in this ultimate, male power in the universe?"

"… not really."

"Do you believe in any higher power at all?"

"Yes," you said, without really thinking it through. "I do not think about it much. Well, I have not, in my past. It is not… not right. But I am not sure what I believe in."

"Think about it. Tell me next time, alright?" He requested in a soft voice.

You reached out and touched his sarcophagus.

"Of course," you said.

Next time didn't come.

The night guards had grown old over the years, and the time had come for them to be replaced. They were bitter about it, you knew, and you had overheard their ideas to steal the tablet of your friend. You had few ideas on how to stop them; when the next night guard came, you thought to tell him, but he was grossly incompetent and quit within the first day. The museum ran through several new night guards––all of whom quit after seeing how the museum actually operated at night––until one man who was desperate enough finally returned night after night, trying his best and failing to lock up all the exhibits. Despite the chaos, you had been managing to sneak away to talk to Ahkmenrah whenever the guards weren't near.

The new night guard's incompetence, however, led to one of the exhibits escaping: a wax figure of an ancient hominid. The night of your conversation with Ahk, you noticed one of the figures missing from the exhibit, and saw an open window. You knew the new night guard would not be able to save the hominid, and somehow, although you'd never been told, you knew something bad would happen if they were outside when the sun rose.

You climbed out the window. Already the evening was fading away. You went running in search of the hominid, and tried your best to lure him back into the museum. As you reached the museum doors with the hominid in tow, the sun crested over the tops of the skyscrapers, and the both of you turned to dust.

…

Larry nearly got fired for losing two exhibits on one of his first nights, but all of that seemed like the distant past after his efforts in stopping Cecil and uniting the exhibits of the museum to work together in friendship. It seemed to him a great accomplishment––especially in the light of his son's happiness and the fact that he now had a job that was actually quite easy––and he prided himself on his work.

Ahkmenrah, the dead Pharaoh, however, was not as cheerful as he had been when he was released. He spent his nights searching every historical and scientific wing of the museum and never seemed to find what he was looking for.

One evening, Larry followed him, and finally spoke up.

"So… you seem to be… looking for something. Usually. Think I can help you find it?" Larry asked, his hands folded behind his back as he awkwardly approached the 4,000 year old Pharaoh.

"I had a friend, before you came," Ahkmenrah said, but didn't spare a glance away from scanning the different plaques. "Their name was (Y/N). They spoke to me while I was locked away. One evening, they didn't return. It was… somewhat recent. A couple days before you released me from my sarcophagus."

"(Y/N)? (L/N)? The historian?"

"I would think so. I think they were Arabic. I never saw their face."

"Yeah… I think I know who you're talking about." Larry pursed his lips and took a deep breath, preparing himself to deliver the news. "I'm sorry, Ahk. They escaped the museum and uh… didn't return before sunrise."

Ahk stopped moving. His eyes halted on one of the words he was reading: founded. A great sorrow filled up his heart, and took up the space where his breath would be, and filled his eyes where his sight once lay. All that remained was the sudden stillness, and the blackness in his mind.

"I see," he said quietly, attempting his best to stop his voice from failing. "Thank you, Larry."

He left, leaving Larry alone in the hall, and returned to his sarcophagus. He lay there for the night and did not move till the sun rose, and he froze in his death.

Some days later––perhaps a week or two––Larry found him sitting on the edge of the staircase, and led him upstairs. He would not say where they were going, but when they got there, Ahk had an idea of what had happened. Your plaque was put back in its' place, and standing in the glass encasing was you. You looked confused. His lips parted in a soft gasp.

They replaced you.

"Larry, what is this?" Ahkmenrah asked, furrowing his brow.

"Well, when McPhee saw that (L/N) was missing, he had another one made, and… well, here they are. Thought you might want to know," Larry said. When neither Ahk or you made any move, he continued with, "oh, let me just…" and unlocked your new casing. "There you go."

You looked at both of them, your wide eyes darting between the two strange figures as you placed your hands on either edge of the glass. Ahk offered his hand for you to step down with. You looked at his hand, and then back up to him, tilting your head to the side.

Despite your doubts, you took his hand. You asked something in Arabic––something Larry couldn't understand, but Ahkmenrah comprehended perfectly.

"Do I know you?" You asked.

"In a way," he murmured, unable to look away from you. You were shining in the usually harsh and unflattering light of the museum. He wondered how you would look in a perfect sunset.

"You seem… familiar," you said as though in a trance.

"I'll explain everything," he said softly. "Walk with me?"

"… alright."

He took your other hand, and the two of you left down the hall, staring at each other.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: The Master Fiction Plot

Lester Dent's "Master Fiction Plot", often referred to as the "Lester Dent Formula" is a widely circulated guide to writing a saleable 6,000-word pulp story.

This is a formula, a master plot, for any 6000-word pulp story.

It has worked on adventure, detective, western and war-air. It tells exactly where to put everything.

It shows definitely just what must happen in each successive thousand words.

The business of building stories seems not much different from the business of building anything else.

Here's how it starts:

A DIFFERENT MURDER METHOD FOR VILLAIN TO USE

A DIFFERENT THING FOR VILLAIN TO BE SEEKING

A DIFFERENT LOCALE

A MENACE WHICH IS TO HANG LIKE A CLOUD OVER HERO

One of these DIFFERENT things would be nice, two better, three swell. It may help if they are fully in mind before tackling the rest.

A different murder method could be--different.

Thinking of shooting, knifing, hydrocyanic, garroting, poison needles, scorpions, a few others, and writing them on paper gets them where they may suggest something.

Scorpions and their poison bite?

Maybe mosquitos or flies treated with deadly germs?

If the victims are killed by ordinary methods, but found under strange and identical circumstances each time, it might serve, the reader of course not knowing until the end, that the method of murder is ordinary.

Scribes who have their villain's victims found with butterflies, spiders or bats stamped on them could conceivably be flirting with this gag.

Probably it won't do a lot of good to be too odd, fanciful or grotesque with murder methods.

The different thing for the villain to be after might be something other than jewels, the stolen bank loot, the pearls, or some other old ones.

Here, again one might get too bizarre.

Unique locale? Easy.

Selecting one that fits in with the murder method and the treasure--thing that villain wants--makes it simpler, and it's also nice to use a familiar one, a place where you've lived or worked.

So many pulpateers don't. It sometimes saves embarrassment to know nearly as much about the locale as the editor, or enough to fool him.

Here's a nifty much used in faking local color.

For a story laid in Egypt, say, author finds a book titled "Conversational Egyptian Easily Learned," or something like that. 

He wants a character to ask in Egyptian, "What's the matter?"

He looks in the book and finds, "El khabar, eyh?"

To keep the reader from getting dizzy, it's perhaps wise to make it clear in some fashion, just what that means.

Occasionally the text will tell this, or someone can repeat it in English.

But it's a doubtful move to stop and tell the reader in so many words the English translation.

The writer learns they have palm trees in Egypt.

He looks in the book, finds the Egyptian for palm trees, and uses that.

This kids editors and readers into thinking he knows something about Egypt.

Here's the second installment of the master plot.

Divide the 6000 word yarn into four 1500 word parts. In each 1500 word part, put the following:

FIRST 1500 WORDS

First line, or as near thereto as possible, introduce the hero and swat him with a fistful of trouble. Hint at a mystery, a menace or a problem to be solved--something the hero has to cope with.

The hero pitches in to cope with his fistful of trouble. (He tries to fathom the mystery, defeat the menace, or solve the problem.)

Introduce ALL the other characters as soon as possible. Bring them on in action.

Hero's endevours land him in an actual physical conflict near the end of the first 1500 words.

Near the end of first 1500 words, there is a complete surprise twist in the plot development.

SO FAR:

Does it have SUSPENSE? 

Is there a MENACE to the hero?

Does everything happen logically?

At this point, it might help to recall that action should do something besides advance the hero over the scenery.

Suppose the hero has learned the dastards of villains have seized somebody named Eloise, who can explain the secret of what is behind all these sinister events.

The hero corners villains, they fight, and villains get away. Not so hot.

Hero should accomplish something with his tearing around, if only to rescue Eloise, and surprise! Eloise is a ring-tailed monkey.

The hero counts the rings on Eloise's tail, if nothing better comes to mind.

They're not real. The rings are painted there. Why?

SECOND 1500 WORDS

Shovel more grief onto the hero.

Hero, being heroic, struggles, and his struggles lead up to:

Another physical conflict.

A surprising plot twist to end the 1500 words.

NOW:

Does second part have SUSPENSE?

Does the MENACE grow like a black cloud?

Is the hero getting it in the neck?

Is the second part logical?

DON'T TELL ABOUT IT***Show how the thing looked.

This is one of the secrets of writing; never tell the reader--show him.

(He trembles, roving eyes, slackened jaw, and such.)

MAKE THE READER SEE HIM.

When writing, it helps to get at least one minor surprise to the printed page.

It is reasonable to to expect these minor surprises to sort of inveigle the reader into keeping on.

They need not be such profound efforts.

One method of accomplishing one now and then is to be gently misleading.

Hero is examining the murder room.

The door behind him begins slowly to open.

He does not see it.

He conducts his examination blissfully.

Door eases open, wider and wider, until--surprise!

The glass pane falls out of the big window across the room.

It must have fallen slowly, and air blowing into the room caused the door to open.

Then what the heck made the pane fall so slowly?

More mystery.

Characterizing a story actor consists of giving him some things which make him stick in the reader's mind. TAG HIM.

BUILD YOUR PLOTS SO THAT ACTION CAN BE CONTINUOUS.

THIRD 1500 WORDS

Shovel the grief onto the hero.

Hero makes some headway, and corners the villain or somebody in:

A physical conflict.

A surprising plot twist, in which the hero preferably gets it in the neck bad, to end the 1500 words.

DOES:

It still have SUSPENSE?

The MENACE getting blacker?

The hero finds himself in a hell of a fix?

It all happens logically?

These outlines or master formulas are only something to make you certain of inserting some physical conflict, and some genuine plot twists, with a little suspense and menace thrown in. Without them, there is no pulp story.

These physical conflicts in each part might be DIFFERENT, too.

If one fight is with fists, that can take care of the pugilism until next the next yarn. 

Same for poison gas and swords. 

There may, naturally, be exceptions.

A hero with a peculiar punch, or a quick draw, might use it more than once.

The idea is to avoid monotony.

ACTION:

Vivid, swift, no words wasted.

Create suspense, make the reader see and feel the action.

ATMOSPHERE:

Hear, smell, see, feel and taste.

DESCRIPTION:

Trees, wind, scenery and water.

THE SECRET OF ALL WRITING IS TO MAKE EVERY WORD COUNT.

FOURTH 1500 WORDS

Shovel the difficulties more thickly upon the hero.

Get the hero almost buried in his troubles. (Figuratively, the villain has him prisoner and has him framed for a murder rap; the girl is presumably dead, everything is lost, and the DIFFERENT murder method is about to dispose of the suffering protagonist.)

The hero extricates himself using HIS OWN SKILL, training or brawn.

The mysteries remaining--one big one held over to this point will help grip interest--are cleared up in course of final conflict as hero takes the situation in hand.

Final twist, a big surprise, (This can be the villain turning out to be the unexpected person, having the "Treasure" be a dud, etc.)

The snapper, the punch line to end it.

HAS:

The SUSPENSE held out to the last line?

The MENACE held out to the last?

Everything been explained?

It all happen logically?

Is the Punch Line enough to leave the reader with that WARM FEELING?

Did God kill the villain? Or the hero?

Excerpts from Marilyn Cannaday's biography of Lester Dent, "Bigger than Life: the Creator of Doc Savage" (Bowling Green State University Popular Press, c1990), transcribed by Jason A. Wolcott, 1995.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Worldbuilding

[tadpoles-and-daydreams]

A ramble on imposter syndrome and the accessibility of witchcraft

So, I’ve been thinking. I think a lot in case you haven’t noticed. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the major imposter syndrome I’ve been feeling lately in regards to this blog. TL;DR is at the bottom of this post.

People have been, occasionally, sending me asks requesting my opinion on things/how I do things/what I know about XYZ topic. If you are one of these people, I promise I’m not vagueposting about you in particular- in fact, I love these questions! They’re so fun to get and they actually make me sit and think sometimes, or even encourage me to write out something that I’ve been meaning to for my book of shadows. Genuinely, they're wonderful asks to receive. These questions have made me confront something, however; my blog is still small, but some people actually like what I write and value my opinion even if just a little. 

I feel like a mimic hiding in the witchcraft community. I feel like, were people to truly understand my experiences, they would want to “expose” me for knowing so little.

So I sat down with those feelings and turned it over in my head and I’ve come to a conclusion. The fact is, I don’t do research. At least- not what I think of when people talk about research. My "research" consists of the occasional rabbit hole I go down, one and two halves of different books I never finished under my belt, what I see scrolling through various social medias, and conversations I've had with other witches. I check to make sure I'm not stepping on the toes of any closed practices- in fact, that's what most of my energy goes to when it comes to research. This isn't a complaint; I'd much rather know that my craft isn't appropriative.

But I don’t know much about mythology, even that of the deities I work with. I don't even remember the holidays and what they're for. I thought Nyx was an Egyptian deity until like four months ago because I'd just heard her name in passing as a child and had never looked into the mythology... Even though I mainly work with the pantheon she belongs to. Y’all, I’ve done like three spells that I remember. My book of shadows is a messy disaster and I love it but it's got so little information in it, because I rarely write things down. Most resources (especially mythology resources) are academically worded or difficult to read for me personally, and all of these things feel like secrets I have to guard with my life because if I were to ever say them aloud, people would know I'm a fraud.

Today I've come to the conclusion that that is, in fact, absolute bullshit.

Maybe it's not, maybe this post will make some people really upset, but in my practice it's bullshit. All of the above is a result of my ADHD and the fact that I am nothing if not a hands-on learner. My craft is mostly my own experiences because that's how my whole life is; I learn by doing. My ideal learning style is sitting with another autistic person whose special interest is whatever I'm learning about and just talking for five hours, but if that's not something I can do, puzzling it out myself is the next best thing. That's what I've been doing ever since I felt had a basic foundation for my craft. Hell, even before I had a foundation I was putting my own experiences into my craft because "Well that rule just doesn't fucking vibe with me."

This post is mostly for me, but partially for anyone who feels similar. We are not broken or doing witchcraft/paganism wrong. We are simply what happens when the kid who could never do homework ends up practicing the "religion/spirituality that comes with homework." Witchcraft and paganism, in my experience, is far from accessible when it comes to the typical image of it. UPG is what makes it accessible. So yes, my practice is heavily UPG, and I don't do as much research as I think people have assumed. But I'm going to let go of the idea that I'm a fraud, because frankly I know enough about witchcraft to have supported my practice this whole time and my deities haven't smited me yet so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

TL:DR:

Fuck the rules, I don't do much research. I've researched the "basics" and what I need to so I'm not stepping on any toes of closed practices, but people seem to think I know way more than I actually do. I've felt like I was lying this whole time but frankly witchcraft just isn't accessible to someone with my flavor of auDHD, so my craft relies heavily on UPG and I've decided that I'm not broken or wrong for that and neither is anyone else. I'm tired of seeing myself as an imposter just because I make my practice doable for me.

[demigoddessqueens]

Assassin's reactions to you trying to learn their native language?

Sure thing!

altair

He’s standing in the doorway when he hears you practicing some words in Arabic. He does commend your efforts for learning but let the master show you how. He is a patient tutor, and he thinks it’s cute when you learn ‘habibi’

edward

I know he speaks English but he is from Wales

If you speak Welsh, it feels like “coming home” for him. A familiar feeling that he feels comfortable with, you two carrying on full conversations in Welsh sometimes.

shay

Kinda same thing for Shay

Speaking Irish Gaeilge/Gaelic is a “safe, familiar” feeling for him, and he’s more than eager to help teach you if you’re curious.

yusuf

Learning Turkish in your spare time is an endeavor but he’s so sweet about it, commending you for learning a new language and eagerly sets aside time for study lessons

ezio

He’s so flattered you’re learning Italian and he’s more into it than you are in trying to learn. But he’s also the super flirty one trying to teach you all the affectionate terms

connor

You’ve always been curious about him and figured a good way to know about him is to study his language. He heard you practicing one day when he comes to the Homestead, and swears his heart started to flutter. Sure he says he’s just trying to help, as if he’s not looking for a way to be closer to you.

aya and bayek

You a new recruit from a different region, and you knew said Founders were adamant about having skills. That being said, Aya commends you for learning the Egyptian dialect and Bayek is such a patient teacher.

arno

He’s going all in when you’re starting to learn French, thinking it sounds so cute when you’re trying to pronounce words and yes, teaches you the flirty ones first

kassandra

It’s nice to have such an accomplished tutor with Kassandra, and learning Greek just seems more fun when she teaches you. That and the other hundreds of dialects shes picked up over the centuries

eivor

Learning Nordic is not easy but whenever Eivor teaches you, it just sounds more melodic with how smooth their voice is you get lost in it

basim

I’d like to think he’d take a more direct approach in teaching you Arabic, dropping a few dialects he’s picked up in Baghdad or in the House of Knowledge.

Bonus

If you speak a different language around Jacob and Evie, I’d imagine they would be curious about learning a new dialect and would even drop a few new learned words around you

[coraniaid]

I complain a lot (although not as much as I could) about Season 7's awful "is Giles really the First Evil [and were the Scoobies just all too stupid to check for weeks]?" and "now that Spike has a soul, we can finally ask the important question: what if he was hypnotized by a mean ghost?" subplots, and about the show's dreadful treatment of Robin and Nikki Wood (culminating in the abominable Lies My Parents Told Me).

But, for balance, it's worth pointing out that this season's long running joke about Chao-Ahn, the Chinese Potential who the Scooby Gang can only ever communicate with through crude drawings and gestures and speaking English slowly -- since, despite the fact that half the Scooby Gang speak fluent Latin and Sumerian and Ancient Egyptian and Etruscan and any number of other dead languages, some of which they must have taught themselves in literal weeks, none of them could possibly lower themselves to learn some basic conversational Cantonese in order to communicate with somebody they've been sharing a house with for months -- is ... well, it's also really really shit, isn't it?

[scarletttries]

NSFW Headcanon Request: Steven Grant (Moon Knight)

Steven Grant + Professor Kink/AU: (prompt list here)

- Steven Grant thought there was no greater joy or honour in teaching young minds about ancient Egyptian history, and then he started teaching you.

- He had seen flocks of enthusiastic young people come and go from his halls over the last few years of teaching, and sure he'd had a few favourites here and there, but nothing compared to the first time his eyes locked on yours from behind his lectern. It was embarrassing how quickly he tripped up his speech as his eyes lingered on yours, unable to look away from the unique sparkle that flickered so clearly in them. He tried to remember where he got to in his introduction, blush rushing up his cheeks as his heart sped up far more than his usual presenting nerves, and when he watched you smile at the way he fumbled through his first attempt at a joke he started to think maybe this is what love at first sight must feel like.

- When you found him after class and asked one of the most creative questions he'd ever heard from a student in his years of teaching he couldn't quite believe how exhilarating it was to talk to you, butterflies stirring up inside him as if he'd made an instant old friend. He bit back his tongue as the thought of asking you to continue this conversation over dinner crossed his mind, trying to remind himself of his position as your professor despite how easy it was to view you as his true equal.

- You had been feeling more than a little frustrated that you had to take at least one history module as part of your studies, but at least Ancient Egypt had been your favourite time period when you were learning history in school. And when you noticed your adorably handsome professor stumble over his words with a sly smile when he caught your eye, you were pretty sure you'd never miss a lecture again.

- You'd find reasons to talk to him after class or during his office hours, and he'd send you articles or podcasts he thought you'd find interesting, telling you to call him any time to discuss your thoughts. He wanted to pretend that the power imbalance wasn't any part of his blatant attraction to you, but he couldn't ignore the way his pulse raced every time you called him professor. And finally as the spring turned to summer and you started wearing your favourite short dresses to his class, watching the way your legs would float down the stairs as you found a seat about halfway back, he knew he wasn't going to be able to wait until you graduated before he finally told you how he felt.

- It wasn't unusual for him to ask you to come to his office out of hours, usually just for an academic discussion over a cup of tea that inevitably turned to the two of you sharing more and more personal stories. But on this day you were greeted by a glass of wine and a bouquet of roses, rather than an academic text. He looked almost pale as he stumbled through the sweet confession that he had never felt like this before, and even though he knew it was improper, he couldn't bring himself to wait another minute to tell you how he felt.

- As he stares at you with the most hopeful eyes, you'd lunge forwards, wrapping your arms around his neck before landing your lips on his, finally giving him the sweetest relief of knowing how it feels to kiss you. He'd be so gentlemanly that first night, insisting he takes you on a real date so he can prove this isn't just a torrid love affair to him. You'd reluctantly agree to wait a little longer to rip his clothes off, surprised by the nervous giggle he'd let out in response, grabbing his keys so he can take you somewhere far enough away that you won't see anyone else from the university.

- A discussion over drinks with your fingers intertwined would feel more natural and comfortable than any interaction sweet Steven had ever had, as when you whisper in his ear that your ready for 'his private office hours, Professor' he'd be on his feet so quickly you'd have to stop him for tumbling over himself.

- That night, and every moment after, his office becomes his favourite place to be close to you. He takes so much joy in bending you over his desk and flipping up the skirt he's spent all lecture admiring. He makes sure to sink to his knees and run his tongue over your slit until he can feel your arousal dripping down his chin, wanting to treat you the way only an older man will, a tinge of insecurity running through him when he sees you talk to any of the idiot boys your own age around campus. When he starts slamming into you from behind he'll insist you call him professor, a swift palm slapping your ass if his first name leaves your lips. Sometimes he'll have you sit straddling his lap in his expensive leather armchair, instructing you to ride his thigh until he can see a glistening trail forming across his corduroy slacks, feeling both powerful and completely under your control.

- As much as he pretends there isn't something so fucking hot about being in a position of authority over you, when you come into his office asking for extra credit, you can guarantee he won't exactly have you writing an essay for him. Instead he'll take something else he wants from you, tossing all the papers off his desk and lifting you onto it, pulling off your clothes deliberately slowly so he can graze you with a dozen teasing touches before he instructs you to lie back and stay still for him. Still fully dressed he slides open a desk drawer, pulling out a small vibrator you're pretty sure he stole from your dorm room.

"Given you're already a star pupil, you're going to have to be really good for me to get some extra credit love."

"I'll do anything you want, Professor." Your voice quivers as he runs a finger slowly up your inner thigh, watching your chest rise and fall in response.

"I'll give you ten percent on the assignment for everytime you come for me." Before you can negotiate the details his fingers are rubbing over your clit ever so gently, and your body seems more than ready to give him anything he asks for. It takes almost all night, the first two coming quickly as he works his fingers over your entrance, only slipping his fingers inside for number three when your legs start twitching and trembling with every slight change in his movement.

"You're doing so well, gorgeous, already 30% through your extra credit assignment. But we've still got a long way to go." You can see the mischievous glint in his eye and swallow hard, already starting to feel overwhelmed by the way he expertly manipulates your body. Soon his tongue is nestled between your legs while his fingertips tweak your nipples, the extra sensation quickly driving you to the 50% point, starting to feel a bit unsure of how much more of this your overstimulated body can take. As you try and catch your breath, coming down from your latest high, you suddenly hear the buzz of vibrations as Steven slides the small device over your slick entrance, even the softest setting feeling overwhelming when you're already so wet and sensitive. You feel Steven start using his considerable strength to keep your hips pressed firmly against his desk, no respite or escape as the pressure inside you starts to climb again. Tears prick in the corner of your eyes as you start think there's no way you can come again, and you whimper out his name so softly you almost don't think he hears you, until you feel the intensity between your legs shift up a gear, making your whole body spasm in blissful agony.

"Now now, good girls don't call their professors by their first name. You're going to have to be more careful or I'll have to start counting again from zero." You can tell from his grin that he'd do it, finding unparalleled joy in forcing orgasm after orgasm out of you and watching you struggle to hold yourself together as you leak more and more across his desk and flinch at even the gentlest touch. You bite back your tongue as he works to make you cum twice more, finally pleading with him to give you a break, to let you take 80% on the assignment.

"Come on sweetheart, you're so close to full marks, I know you can give me just a couple more. You're doing so well for me. I just want to feel how good I've made you feel." You hear him unbuckle his belt as he coos softly at you, waiting for you to tentatively nod your head before his whole body is onto top of you, keeping you exactly where he wants you as slams into you with no mercy until finally you give him everything he wants and more.

- Luckily you have a chance to get him back a couple of weeks later, when your makeout session gets cut short by another student coming in to ask a genuine question. Steven doesn't think twice about the way you hide under his desk to give him some privacy, that is until he realises his trousers are still undone and you're planning on taking full advantage of that. He keeps his eyes trained on the student in front of him as he feels your tongue lap as his tip, his fingers digging into the arms of his chair in a desperate attempt to remain composed. He manages okay as you run your tongue over the length of him, but when you give him no warning and slide him between your lips straight to the back of your throat he has to stifle an uncontrollable groan and awkwardly blame it on a stomach ache. His hips start twitching in his seat as you suck him as hard and fast as you can without making a sound, and as you start to feel his stomach muscles tense under your touch you notice Steven shooting you a startled look whenever he thinks he can. You don't pay him any notice, choking him back and running your hands over his lap and stomach until you watch his eyes clench shut and feel the taste of him spilling over your tongue, impressed by how quickly he blames his reaction on the fact that he must be coming down with something. When finally the student leaves and you two are alone once again, Steven sinks to his knees with the biggest smile on his face, telling you 'Just how brilliant you are, even if you will absolutely be the death of him.'

- With his own student days being far more tame and isolated than he would have liked, Steven feels like he's making up for lost time in the sweetest way when he sneaks into your dorm room for the night, or finds some weak excuse to attend a student party just so he can spend the night somewhere fun with you. He'll find excuses to bring you to the events in his calendar too, saying he's making a tradition of bringing his best students to events, even if it's always just you held tight by his side in a dress he genuinely forgets how to breathe around when he first sees you.

- While he may have a huge professor kink thanks to you, and gain some thrill in sneaking around with his reputation on the line, he also can't help but daydream about a time after your graduation when the two of you won't have to sneak any more and he'll be free to walk hand in hand with you everywhere to two of you want to go.

[her-satanic-wiles]

Masterlist ⛧ Lost in Translation Masterlist ⛧ Ao3

Words: 12.4k.

Reading Time: 50 min.

Warnings: begging, cock warming, creampie, cunnilingus, dry humping, fingering, hair pulling, marking, mentions of masturbation, mild pain kink, mild salirophilia, moderately underprepared penetration (but no pain), multiple scenes, nipple play, penetrative sex, praise kink, so much whimpering omfg, unprotected sex (cover the bone to slide it home, bro), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

Taglist: @zombiesnips-blog @da-rulah @teenage-birt-dag @ellenokumura @thew0man @sodoswitchimage @the-real-eggplany @deathmimedream @love-is-all-you-need-13 @kadedoesthings @rosyerato @xshadylady @popiaswife @perpetratorwithaquill @punkiy50 @onlyhereforghost @kaijukimchi @copiaspet622

As the newly appointed Cardinal Copia struggles with the weight of a looming prophecy, a resilient scholar challenges the narrative, uncovering a conspiracy that reaches beyond the walls of the Ministry. The emergence of a forbidden love ignites a rebellion against a power-hungry Sister, whose thirst for control threatens to reshape the very foundations of the Church. Will the revelation of those schemes lead to liberation or plunge the Ministry into chaos?

Previous Part ⛧ Next Part

🔞 MDNI 🔞

One moment you were in the peace and tranquility of the Ministry’s library, the next you were in the Ministry’s personal plane getting ready to land in Heathrow Airport, with Cardinal Copia by your side. The flight from Rome to London was wonderfully short, ticking in at just two and a half hours long. Plenty of time for you to go over the notes you made at school on Hebrew, more specifically the ancient Hebrew that you required in order to translate Abrahamic texts to Ministry-standard levels.

Ancient Hebrew was much more difficult for you to learn, given that it was an entirely different alphabet to the one you were used to. The script used during ancient times, particularly during the First Temple period, had a more pictographic nature, not entirely unlike Ancient Egyptian. During the 1st century CE, the Hebrew language was undergoing a significant transformation and coexisted with other languages in the region. Biblical Hebrew was more akin to modern day Hebrew which allowed you some crossovers in your day-to-day studies, but it was still very different in most aspects.

The Ministry, as it was open to everyone from all walks of life, held so much diversity between its unhallowed walls, it was beautiful. There were languages spoken from all over the world, but in order to unify everyone and make communication easier, Italian was the main language, followed by Latin, then English, then other denominations. The Church revelled in the chaos created by such a diverse cast of characters - and for a long time allowed everyone to just play the conversation by ear. In essence, you’d watch someone open their mouth and pray to Lucifer that they were about to speak in a language that you understood. It wasn’t until Mama Ardens II reigned in the late 15th Century that she introduced the official language of Italian. This was challenged by some members of the clergy as it was “too Catholic”, but there was a reason her name was Ardens and she shut the clergy up pretty quickly.

During the flight, you could feel the weight of the Cardinal’s eyes upon you, burning through you like Hellfire upon the skin of the worst sinners. The majority of the time, you’d catch him looking at your papers, as if he was refamiliarising himself with Ancient Hebrew too. But there was the odd occasion when your eyes locked with his, and he panicked and turned away, pretending as though he was looking at something else behind you. The act itself made you so, very aware of your appearance. What could he possibly be staring at? And why? You found yourself wiping something from your face just to be sure you didn’t have anything on it.

“Scusi, Sorella.” The Cardinal said, interrupting your studying with a gloved tap to your shoulder. You looked at him, the haze of the ancient world fading with each passing second. “This is Hebrew, sì?”

You stared at him blankly for a second before answering. “Yes, Your Dark Eminence.”

He nodded. “It looks like Ancient Phoenician.”

“You know Ancient Phoenician?”

“A little. I went through a phase in my teens where I wanted to be different. Everyone else knew Latin and Greek, I wanted Latin and Phoenician.”

You laughed. “I think everyone goes through that phase when they’re a teen.”

“Probably. The alphabets are the same, no?”

“No, actually. They’re very similar, but they’re not copies of one another. What modern historians refer to as the “Paleo-Hebrew” alphabet was used by some of Abraham’s children. The Phoenician alphabet and the Paleo-Hebrew alphabet were pretty much the same alphabet, despite possible tiny differences in the letterforms, but every language spoken by the Canaanites shared this alphabet. Even the Arameans made use of it. It wasn’t invented by the Phoenicians or even by Abraham’s children. Most likely it was a group of early, unnamed Canaanites that we’ve no evidence for… yet.”

“Does it function the same way?”

“I don’t know enough about Ancient Phoenician to tell you either way, but,” you picked up your sheet of paper that helped translate the Hebrew to the Latin alphabet and handed it to the Cardinal, “you’re more than welcome to figure that out for yourself.”

He perused the sheet in front of him for a short while, getting to grips with the look of it. Every now and then, little hums of understanding would spill involuntarily from his lips, each one making your heart soar with adoration.

The world’s impressions of the Cardinal often exaggerated his behaviour. He demonstrated a sweetness that spoke to his true nature, far from the menacing figure many had imagined.

The Cardinal was an introverted man who took comfort in his own company, just like you. Even though he was capable of being an ambiverted position when called for, it was obvious that he valued solitude over social interactions. It felt as though he was choosing to be alone, and it went beyond simple preference to suggest a deeper, complex side to his nature.

The truth, sadly, appeared to be a little grimmer. Sister Aisha, who was known for her direct and sometimes sarcastic comments, did not hold back when she called the Cardinal “a creepy old man.” And made no attempts to hide any contempt she held for him, but she was one of many who felt exactly the same way.

The daily peeks into his life revealed an odd habit: a Ghoul snatching his meals from the kitchens and slipping them into his office. His life of isolation not only shielded him from the Ministry’s scrutiny but also added to the mysterious atmosphere that enveloped him.

People often treated their future leader with a certain amount of condescension, either not realising his potential or brushing it off completely. They were unable to see his character’s depth and his hidden strength. It was as if they only saw the surface—a man who didn’t fit the Ministry’s stereotypical image of power.

You would see the eye rolling, the dismissive gestures, and the sporadic scoffs aimed at him. The insensitive treatment looked to be the result of ignorance, an inability to realise the importance hidden behind his modest demeanour. The Cardinal had to deal with the disdainful attitudes of those around him in his earlier days, while others in similar positions might have commanded immediate respect.

But there was something about him which you saw that others missed. You had a gut feeling that there was more to this modest person than first appeared. Feeling sympathy for the Cardinal and believing he deserved better than the casual remarks and sidelong looks, you watched the irritating treatment take place.

The Ministry had no idea that hiding beneath that seemingly ordinary man was the potential for a strong leader. The future Cardinal Copia would eventually triumph over the criticism and unpleasant treatment, demonstrating that genuine strength frequently hides in a person’s depths, ready to be revealed when the time was right.

And a different Cardinal showed up in those moments when he wasn’t burdened by the duties of leadership and he allowed himself to converse. His kindness came through; his soft-spoken manner revealed the fragility beneath the surface of power. It became clear that the Cardinal was a complicated person who was oversimplified in the eyes of the world to be a stoic, unapproachable figure.

Being in the background gave you the opportunity to observe the Church’s internal drama, the shenanigans, and the power struggles without taking an active part in them. It was a position of quiet strength, where your biggest advantage became your understanding and awareness of the inner workings of the Ministry.

The Cardinal’s lack of notice meant freedom from unnecessary attention. You could spend your time reading the ancient books, exploring the archaic library, and performing your tasks without having to deal with the spotlight. The shadows offered a certain safety, a place where you could pursue your curiosity without being distracted by people.

In quieter moments, among the centuries-old books and dimly lit hallways of the Ministry, there was a faint longing, a yearning for a relationship that went beyond the pages of forbidden knowledge. There were times when you wished the Cardinal would give you that elusive, uneven smile, even though you cherished the safety of anonymity and the cover of darkness.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you dreamed that the Cardinal would acknowledge you in a way that went beyond the standard Ministry exchanges. You yearned for some small act that displayed a great deal in the calm language of desire, something that would bring back memories of old-fashioned chivalry.

You imagined a moment when the Cardinal, freed from the restraints of rank, would hold your hand with a tenderness suiting the moment. You’d read about such actions in the romance books that lined the library’s shelves: a gentleman’s kiss upon a lady’s hand, as a sign of affection and a modest declaration of a relationship that went beyond the everyday.

However, these moments remained unattainable since the intricate web of the Cardinal’s ascent to importance and the manipulations of the Ministry. The reality of your job as an archivist at the Ministry’s library clashed regularly with the dreams that danced in the corners of your mind. Your dreams were tucked between the shelves like a bookmark between book pages.

It was enough to send previous incarnations of yourself into a near-coma of shock to learn that the Cardinal was not only aware of your existence but actively seeking your aid for a mission to London. A storm of emotions mixed disbelief and excitement at the thought that your unnoticed presence had attracted the attention of the Church’s leader. It seemed like a strange transition from being a quiet observer to a major role in a clandestine mission—a story arc that went against the expectations of the once-quiet guardian.

As the jet streaked through the sky, carrying you and the Cardinal into to the fascinating depths of London, you found yourself suddenly drawn away from your usual scholarly pursuits. Rather than immersing yourself in the ancient Hebrew texts that waited for you in the city, you were chatting with the Cardinal informally, like you were the closest, lifelong friends that could ever be.

You were sitting side by side in the cramped plane, and you pulled out a notebook with Hebrew idioms and symbols in it. The aircraft’s steady hum provided a unique setting for this unusual classroom, where the Cardinal—who wasn’t exactly famed for his mysterious charm—became a passionate learner.

You patiently explained the complexities of the old Hebrew language to the Cardinal. As you clarified their meanings and intricacies, the characters—each bearing a history and resonance from millennia ago—took on new life. With a mixture of passion and nervousness the Cardinal tried to imitate the characters in his trademark clumsy charm. That was to say, he got things wrong… a lot.

The unexpected language lesson had led to a moment of shared laughter, a welcome respite from the weight of ancient texts and scholarly pursuits. After one particularly amusing mistake, the laughter gradually subsided, giving way to a comfortable silence. In that quietude, an unspoken connection lingered in the air.

As you glanced over your notes, the Cardinal’s gaze shifted, and when you looked up, you found his eyes fixed upon you. The atmosphere seemed to shift, charged with a subtle energy that transcended the boundaries of mere camaraderie. His gaze, softer and more contemplative than before, held an unspoken sentiment that eluded easy definition.

His eyes traced the contours of your face with a newfound tenderness, and there was a momentary pause, as if time itself had hesitated to acknowledge the shift in dynamics. A gentle intensity lingered in the air, and his gaze descended to your lips with a soft, unspoken longing.

Unaware of the subtle shift in the Cardinal’s demeanour, you continued to meet his eyes with an easygoing smile. The shared laughter had forged a connection, and the silence that followed seemed to amplify the unspoken nuances lingering between you.

For the Cardinal, the moment held a depth of emotion that he struggled to articulate. His eyes conveyed a silent contemplation, and in that fleeting silence, there was a desire—subtle, yet palpable. The notion of a kiss hovered in the unspoken spaces between you, a sentiment that had yet to find expression in words.

As the plane continued its journey toward London, the Cardinal’s gaze remained soft, a reflection of the newfound connection forged in the unexpected intimacy of the language lesson. Little did you know that this unspoken exchange would linger as a subtle undercurrent, shaping the course of the journey that awaited you in the heart of the ancient city.

The announcement of the impending landing interrupted the quiet exchange between you and the Cardinal. With a shared understanding, and an awkward clearing of the Cardinal’s throat, you both began the task of clearing away the notes, neatly organizing the scattered papers that documented your linguistic exploration. The air hostess moved through the cabin, her voice announcing the approaching descent and the estimated time until landing.

As the plane touched down in London, the anticipation of the journey ahead resonated in the air. Your bags, along with the majority of the Cardinal’s Ghouls—Swiss, Aurora, Cirrus, and Phantom, as you noted—were efficiently handled and transported to the hotel. The remaining Ghouls accompanied you and the Cardinal, ready to delve into the mysteries held within the Crimson Archives.

Exiting the airport, the chill of the London air greeted you, a stark contrast to the climate you had left behind. The Ghouls maintained an eerie silence as they efficiently guided you and the Cardinal toward the awaiting vehicle. The journey to the Crimson Archives unfolded, the city’s landmarks passing by in a blur of history and modernity.

The Crimson Archives, a repository of knowledge and secrets, awaited your exploration. The Cardinal, his curiosity undiminished, glanced toward you with a glint of excitement in his eyes. The Ghouls, ever vigilant, maintained a discreet presence, their loyalty to the Cardinal evident in every step.

As you approached the entrance, the imposing facade of the archives loomed overhead, a testament to the weight of the knowledge contained within its walls. The building itself was designed in the typical Edwardian Baroque fashion, a classic from the 1600s that had made its way all across Europe to decorate the streets of the well-to-do, adding a sense of grandeur. The white exterior was profanely white, as though someone was out with a toothbrush every single day, cleaning the brickwork and repainting it to hide any and all blemishes.

The monochromatic exterior was interrupted only by the double-doored entrance, a vivid splash of red staining the wood. The crimson hue, reminiscent of dried blood, served as a stark reminder that beyond those doors lay the repository of forbidden knowledge—the Crimson Archives.

As you approached the entrance, the weight of anticipation hung in the air. The Ghouls, their presence silent and imposing, flanked you and the Cardinal, their loyalty a reassuring presence. The red doors creaked open, inviting you to step into the enigmatic world that awaited beyond.

Crossing the threshold, you entered a realm where time seemed to stand still. The interior, bathed in a muted light that filtered through stained glass windows, exuded an air of reverence. The scent of ancient parchment and weathered leather permeated the air, as if the very essence of knowledge clung to the surroundings.

Rows of towering bookshelves lined the expansive space, each shelf bearing the weight of countless tomes. Dust motes danced in the filtered sunlight, adding a touch of magic to the ambiance. The hallowed halls echoed with the whispers of the past, inviting you to unravel the secrets concealed within the carefully preserved volumes.

As you and the Cardinal ventured deeper into the Crimson Archives, the architectural beauty and the solemnity of the surroundings intensified. The knowledge held within these walls spanned centuries, and the building itself stood as a testament to the reverence bestowed upon the pursuit of wisdom.

Every step further into the archives felt like a journey through time, a pilgrimage into the mysteries that lay dormant, waiting to be unearthed. The building, with its timeless design and meticulous preservation, stood as a guardian of the secrets you sought, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of history that had left its mark on every page within.

The interior of the Crimson Archives continued the theme of elegant austerity with a predominantly monochromatic palette. An airy atmosphere that encircled the room in a timeless hug, was created by the towering bookshelves’ shadows dancing across the white walls.

The black accents, whether in the form of wrought-iron railings or the dark frames of portraits lining the walls, added a touch of sophistication to the otherwise pristine interior. The interplay of light and dark accentuated the architectural details, casting a mysterious allure that beckoned those who dared to explore further.

Crimson red, the color that lent the archives its name, punctuated the surroundings like droplets of blood against a canvas of parchment. The rich hue adorned draperies that framed arched windows, lending a warm contrast to the cool tones dominating the space. Plush rugs underfoot absorbed the echo of footsteps, muffling sound and enhancing the sense of reverence.

Wooden furnishings, stained with a reddish tint, added to the overall warmth of the archives. The bookshelves, meticulously organized and towering towards the ceiling, featured rich, dark wood that cradled the weight of centuries-old knowledge. Each shelf, each tome, seemed to radiate history, promising a journey through time with every page turned.

The two of you stood before the unattended front desk, the absence of any library staff adding an extra layer of mystery to the already cryptic atmosphere. The desk, pristine and uncluttered, awaited the presence of a librarian or archivist to assist in navigating the vast sea of knowledge housed within the Crimson Archives.

All was vacant save for the single silver bell that guarded the area. Gleaming like a beacon in the poorly lit surroundings, its smooth surface reflected the surrounding light. Beside it was a plain note with a clear instruction in exquisite script, “Ring for assistance.”

“What kind of cult have we walked into?” You asked, taking in your surroundings.

The Cardinal noticed your unease, and rested his hand on your shoulder. “This sounds like the beginning of a very bad joke, no? Two Satanists walk into a cult’s archives…”

You chuckled, feeling a little calmer. As you reached for the bell, a faint sense of anticipation hung in the air. The Cardinal observed with a mix of curiosity and amusement, perhaps intrigued by the prospect of unraveling the secrets within the hallowed halls of the Crimson Archives. With a gentle tap of your finger against the silver surface, a melodious chime echoed through the silence, resonating with the reverence of ages past.

The sound lingered for a moment before dissipating into the air, leaving a quiet expectancy in its wake. The hushed whispers of pages turning and the distant creak of aging wood filled the void, creating an ambiance that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the written word.

Eventually, a Lord Worthington waddled forward, his ample belly preceding him. He was indeed bald, with a shiny forehead that reflected the overhead lights. His round face was flushed, and beads of perspiration adorned his bald pate. Despite his portly appearance, there was an air of joviality about him. He sported a finely groomed, gray mustache that curled at the ends, giving him a somewhat eccentric air. Lord Worthington was the founder of the Crimson Archives - essentially a personal collection of ancient artifacts and texts belonging to a man with too much money in his bank account.

“Your Dark Eminence!” he exclaimed, extending a plump hand towards the Cardinal. His fingers were adorned with several ornate rings, and he wore a cream-colored waistcoat that strained against the girth of his belly. Each word he spoke seemed to be accompanied by a cough, as if his excitement and his respiratory system were engaged in a perpetual tug-of-war. Lord Worthington’s eyes twinkled with a mix of reverence and genuine enthusiasm as he quickly shook the Cardinal’s hand, hard enough to shake his entire body. “It’s an absolute pleasure to have you here at the Crimson Archives, sir! What a delightful encounter. I suppose you’re here for that Eden book, yes?”

“Sì. If you could take us to it, that would be helpful.”

Lord Worthington beamed, his excitement undeterred by the Cardinal’s succinct response. “Of course, Your Dark Eminence! Right this way!”

He led you and Cardinal Copia, and by extension, the Ghouls, through the labyrinthine corridors of the Crimson Archives. The air was heavy with the scent of aged paper, and the occasional cough from Lord Worthington punctuated the quiet rustle of unseen activity. You couldn’t help but marvel at the vastness of the collection and the meticulously organized shelves that seemed to stretch into infinity.

After what felt like a journey through time itself with the Lord talking to you both about the history of the archives, Lord Worthington stopped before a particularly ornate set of double doors. The crimson theme persisted here, with intricate patterns etched into the dark wood. He produced a set of antique keys, each one adorned with a different emblem, and selected the appropriate one to unlock the doors.

“Here we are, Your Dark Eminence, Sister,” he announced, ushering you into a room that seemed plucked from a forgotten era. The smell of aged parchment was more pronounced here, and the room was illuminated by the warm glow of antique chandeliers. Ornate bookshelves lined the walls, each one crammed with dusty tomes that bore the weight of centuries.

“In this chamber, we keep some of our most prized possessions. May I present to you, Eden’s Veiled Chronicles,” Lord Worthington gestured towards a display case in the center of the room. Inside, under the protective gaze of glass, rested an ancient manuscript bound in cracked leather and adorned with faded symbols.

The Cardinal’s eyes lit up with anticipation. “May we…?” he began, gesturing towards the display case.

“Of course, Your Eminence! Feel free to examine it as closely as you’d like. It’s an honor to have you here,” Lord Worthington responded, his voice filled with genuine reverence.

As you delicately extracted the Chronicles from its protective casing, a sense of reverence settled in the air. The ancient manuscript, veiled in the passage of time, revealed itself in all its glory.

The cover, made of cracked leather with an otherworldly patina, cradled the secrets within. Faded symbols, once vibrant, adorned the surface, telling a story of eras long past. The leather, though aged, retained a certain suppleness, a testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone age.

Upon opening the cover, the parchment pages unfolded like the petals of a timeworn flower. The script, a dance of ink on the vellum, told the tale of Eden’s secrets. The language was fluid, an intricate dance of ancient Hebrew, and the illustrations, though faded, spoke of a world unseen.

The Chronicles bore the marks of countless hands that had touched its pages over the centuries. Annotations in different hands adorned the margins, an ongoing conversation across the ages. Fragments of commentary in Latin, Aramaic, and even Phoenician wove together a tapestry of understanding and interpretation.

The illustrations, a blend of artistic expression and symbolic representation, depicted scenes from the Garden of Eden not commonly known. Angels, serpents, and enigmatic figures danced across the pages, each stroke of ink telling a story lost to common narratives.

As you turned the pages with the utmost care, the scent of ancient wisdom, a mixture of parchment and the faintest whisper of long-gone eras, wafted through the air. The Chronicles seemed to exhale the secrets it held, secrets waiting to be unveiled to those who sought knowledge beyond the veil of conventional understanding.

The Cardinal leaned in, his eyes tracing the ancient words and symbols with a mixture of awe and curiosity. In order to get as close as possible, you felt his hand on the small of your back, then his fingertips dancing towards your waist, pulling you closer to him. Ordinarily, this would infuriate you, but as it was the Cardinal’s hand clutching onto your body, you found your cheeks flushing. Lord Worthington watched, his coughs momentarily silenced in the presence of such historical significance.

“It’s extraordinary.” The Cardinal said, enthralled by its enigmatic histories that he was unable to decipher.

“It’s so well preserved, Your Dark Eminence,” you told him, equally magnitised, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How long do you think it would take you to translate it?”

“I couldn’t say - maybe a few months. But I’m so excited to get started. Look here,” you pointed to a passage that you were the only one able to understand, “it’s the story of Lilith and how she fell from Yhwh’s graces!”

“Straordinario! What’s the story?”

“Well, it starts how we’re used to reading it: created from Adam’s rib, refused to be subservient, was kicked out of Eden. But we never truly learned what happened to Her afterwards. There’s something in here about the Dark One finding Her, reviving Her with water, and taking Her to Hell with Him - but I’ll need my notes to understand the specifics. It sounds more like a love story than anything else. I’m so excited.”

You finally looked up at the Cardinal, whose eyes were fixated on your face again. His pupils were dilated significantly, as he stared at your face - eyes lingering a little to long on your lips. His hand, which was still around your waist, had tightened its grip and subconsciously pulled you closer to him. You could feel his rapid heartbeat through his cassock, feel the heat of his nervousness emanating from him like a radiator. You felt lured to lean in closer, to feel his warm breath on his cheek, to taste his lips that no doubt still tasted like the coffee he drank earlier. Your eyes were searching in his for something, anything - maybe even a bit of confidence to do what you’d been longing to do the moment you saw him. You did. You allowed your head to lean in just a tad. You were so close to him.

His breath.

His hand.

His -

A cough brought you out of whatever spell the Cardinal had put you under, and you both backed away from each other as quickly as you could. The Cardinal’s eyes were shifty and nervous, while your lips were caught between your teeth in disbelief. That was the closest you’d ever been to him, and the pull of something more was so unbearable it almost clouded your judgment.

You were about to kiss your boss’ boss’ boss, in an archive that didn’t belong to you, holding a 1500-year-old text about the creators of your faith. Your cheeks filled with embarrassment at the thought of Lord Worthington watching this happen right in front of him, and being the one to wheeze his way into breaking up the spectacle.

Naturally, a man who held a lot of money wouldn’t let something so valuable go out of the kindness of his heart. The British Aristocracy had no idea what kindness even meant - everything they did was for the good of their bank account. The Chronicles belonged in the Ministry and the Ministry’s archives. It was an important piece of religious history that needed to be with its siblings and on display for everyone to see, not just the obscenely rich. It took a lot of negotiating to get Lord Worthington to agree to a price that didn’t absolutely bankrupt the Church, with a little extra intimidation provided by Mountain in order to sweeten the deal. But, this important piece of history now belonged to the Ministry, the acquisition was finalised, and the next day you’d both be returning back to Rome.

The hotel, an opulent sanctuary nestled in the heart of London, exuded an air of grandeur that resonated with the city’s rich history. As you and the Cardinal entered the lavish establishment, the grand foyer unfolded before you in a symphony of elegance.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow that danced upon the intricately patterned carpets below. The walls adorned with historical tapestries whispered tales of the past, and the subdued lighting added a touch of mystique to the atmosphere.

The concierge, clad in a tailored uniform, greeted you with a courteous smile before he led the way through ornate corridors adorned with classical artwork, creating an ambiance that blended the contemporary with the timeless. You marveled at the seamless fusion of luxury and tradition, a setting befitting the dignitaries and scholars who sought refuge within its walls.

In the quiet solitude of your room, you took a moment to marvel at the view from the window. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a testament to London’s vibrant energy. The bed, adorned with plush linens, promised a night of restful repose.

You took off your veil, rolled up your habit’s sleeves, and combed your hair back from your face. Lying on the polished desk like a quiet oracle waiting to reveal its secrets was the text, a relic of antiquated wisdom, persuading you to get straight to work. Bathed in the soft light of well-placed lamps, the room filled you with the anticipation of discovery.

You didn’t realise that time had passed you by in all the hours you spent hunched over your desk. You only noticed it was dark outside when a gentle knock at the door pulled you out of your work, and you’d already translated the first two chapters. You stood and opened the door to reveal the Cardinal standing there, awkward as ever, holding a plastic bag in his gloved hands. “Ah, Sorella!” He greeted. He was about to say something when he saw your appearance. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he felt his mouth go dry. There was something so intoxicating about your dishevelled appearance and sleepy, work-tired eyes, he found it difficult to string even the simplest of sentences together. “Y-you had disappeared for a few hours, I assumed you had begun working on the text, sì?”

“Oh, yes, Your Dark Eminence. Sorry, I lost track of time.”

The Cardinal smiled. “I thought you might. And, call me Copia, please. Only if you want to, of course. The last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable. But I would prefer you to call me Copia.”

“Copia.” You said softly, feeling the name on the tip of your tongue and getting used to it. You opened the door. “Please, come in.”

“Ah, sì, grazie. I have brought, uh, Chinese food. I thought you might be hungry. I brought some for myself, too. I was, uh - I was hoping to join you. But, i-if you don’t want me to then I’ll get my stuff and go - nessun problema.”

“No, I’d like that… you to join me, I mean.”

Copia smiled and let out a soft and breathy laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You said, copying everything he just did without realising. For some reason, you felt nervous at this exchange. Your heart was light yet pulsating quickly in your chest as you set up the coffee table with the food.

“After dinner,” Copia began, “I was hoping to see what you’d completed so far. Is that okay?”

“Of course, Your Dark… Copia.”

Copia laughed at the way you corrected yourself.

Once the table was set up for dinner, the two of you began to tuck in on the feast. You didn’t realise until the first bite just how hungry you actually were.

The warmth of the Chinese food filled the room, accompanied by the quiet clinking of cutlery against porcelain. The atmosphere shifted from scholarly concentration to a more casual friendly conversation as you and Copia shared the simple pleasure of a shared meal. The fragrant aroma of the dishes mingled with the heady scent of ancient texts, creating an eclectic symphony that defined this unique moment in time.

Copia, despite his position as a Cardinal and leader of the dark congregation, displayed an endearing awkwardness. His genuine attempts at conversation and the occasional nervous laughter drew a smile from you, making the evening feel remarkably relaxed. It was a side of him that few were privileged to witness, and you found yourself appreciating the authenticity beneath the ceremonial robes.

As you both enjoyed the meal, conversation flowed effortlessly between bites of food and sips of tea. Copia’s inquiries about your progress with the translation prompted you to share the revelations from the Chronicles. The text, a silent witness to millennia, now whispered its secrets to those willing to listen.

After dinner, you guided Copia to the desk where your translation work awaited. The dim light cast a gentle glow on the pages, and as you began to explain the nuances of the ancient script, Copia listened with an attentiveness that transcended his usual awkwardness. His eyes, normally obscured by the dark recesses of Cardinal makeup, displayed a genuine curiosity that mirrored your own.

The Cardinal’s presence brought a new dimension to the room, and the collaborative effort to uncover the mysteries of the Chronicles continued. Together, you and Copia navigated the labyrinthine passages of ancient knowledge, forging a connection that transcended the formalities of your respective roles within the Ministry.

Copia leaned over the desk, his eyes scanning the carefully translated pages of Eden’s Veiled Chronicles. His expression shifted from curiosity to genuine admiration as he perused your meticulous work. The dim light accentuated the lines on his face, adding a touch of vulnerability to the Cardinal’s usual composed demeanour.

“Sorella, this is exceptional,” he exclaimed, his voice a blend of surprise and appreciation. “Your dedication to this translation is truly commendable. It’s not an easy task, and yet you’ve navigated the intricacies of the text with such finesse.”

A warmth spread through you, a mix of pride and the satisfaction of receiving acknowledgment from someone whose opinion carried weight within the Ministry. Copia’s genuine compliments were like rays of light breaking through the shadows of the ancient library.

“I… thank you, Copia,” you replied, a hint of bashfulness in your voice. “I’m just doing my part.”

He nodded, a genuine smile playing on his lips. “You’re more than just ‘doing your part.’ You’re preserving knowledge, bringing to light the hidden narratives of our beliefs. This text could hold secrets that reshape our understanding of our faith.”

The compliment, spoken with such earnestness, made you appreciate the significance of your work even more. The connection between you and Copia deepened, forged by a shared reverence for the knowledge contained within the Chronicles.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, a charged atmosphere swirling around you and Copia. His eyes, a captivating blend of intensity and vulnerability, met yours with an unspoken question. The uncharted territory of desire loomed between you, and the words hung in the air like a forbidden incantation.

“Sorella,” Copia began, his voice a soft murmur, “I want to kiss you. May I kiss you? If not, that’s okay, I’ll understand.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between the pulse of curiosity and the gravity of the moment. A gentle nod from you granted permission for a connection that transcended the scholarly pursuit of knowledge. Copia approached slowly, bridging the gap with a careful reverence.

His gloved hand brushed against your cheek, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. He leaned forward, and the warmth of his presence surrounded you, capturing the silent anticipation of the room. The kiss, tender yet laden with unspoken emotions, sealed a connection that reached beyond the confines of the Crimson Archives.

Time seemed to stand still as you shared that stolen moment, the world outside the hotel room fading away. Copia’s kiss held a delicate balance of longing and restraint, a testament to the complexity of emotions that bound you together. The quiet intimacy unfolded, painting a tapestry of shared desire and the unspoken connection that had blossomed amidst the ancient texts.

As the kiss lingered, a myriad of emotions played out in the silent spaces between breaths. It was a dance of vulnerability and acceptance, the uncharted territory explored with a shared understanding. When the moment finally released its hold, a soft whimper escaped Copia’s lips.

He tried to pull away for a moment, but you didn’t want to. Your hands pulled at his cassock pulling him impossibly closer, refusing to let him disappear too soon. A desperation filled you, a need that had been bubbling under the surface for years and years until it had spilled over between the walls of a beautiful, London hotel room. Copia’s whimper elicited your own, which in turn, did something to him that he hadn’t felt in years, something he thought he’d never feel again.

His own gloved hands tugged at your waist as his tongue slid into your mouth, welcoming him willingly. Warmth pooled in between your legs when he pushed you against the edge of the desk and trapped you between his plush body and the wood. You could feel him growing hard beneath his robes, his centre now flush with yours and rocking against you slightly. He didn’t realise what he was doing until he was mid thrust, and he pulled back from you as though you’d electrocuted him. “Sorella,” his voice was breathless and low, almost growly, “you have to tell me you don’t want this now. Otherwise I won’t stop until I’ve had you.”

The black of his top lips had been completely smudged off, originally from the grease of the Chinese food, but finished by the friction against your lips. His cheeks were flushed purely pink from the embarrassment of his desperation for you, but also from sheer want of your body against his.

“Please don’t stop.” Your voice matched his, except for the little whimper that punctuated the end of the sentence.

Immediately, he attached his lips to yours, a little rougher than before but no less enjoyable. You wrapped your arms around him like a koala clinging to a tree, eyes closing and whimpering at the feeling of Copia’s clothed cock grinding against your sensitive clit. You gripped onto him stiffly, hair standing on end as you felt his lips travel down to the corner of your mouth, then land on your neck and began to lick and kiss at the sensitive spot there.

Copia’s mind forced him to move, despite all the blood being rushed down south and making it difficult to think. He removed his right glove, and dipped his now bare hand under the skirt of your habit. Naked fingertips stroked against a naked thigh, and travelled all the way up to your panties, now soaked with your need for Copia. Those fingers hooked around the gusset of your panties and pulled them to the side, before running along your folds and gathering up your slick. You were dripping for him. So wet you coated his fingers as if he’d just put his fingers into a lake. He’d pulled his cock away from you momentarily so that he could check to see how ready you were for him, but found himself humping against your thigh in his need for pleasure.

“Mi dispiace, amore. I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

You reached for his cassock and began undoing as many buttons necessary in order to free him. “Please,” you begged, your voice muffled by the kisses you were giving him, “give it to me. I need to feel you, Copia.”

As soon as he was free, he lined himself up and pushed inside. As soon as he entered you, you watched as his eyes rolled back and his mouth hung open. He was slow at first, aware of the fact that he hadn’t stretched you out before hand and curbing his need for you long enough to not hurt you. But even so, it was a battle against his body. Your nails dug into his clothed shoulders, gripping firmly at the pressure in your cunt, and relaxing around the intrusion. He felt divine, as though he were a puzzle piece slotting into the right place on the board. As though he were made specifically for you. He was long enough to hit your cervix when he’d bottomed out, and thick enough to stretch you, but none of it hurt.

As soon as he’d halfway, he stayed still, capturing your lips in another kiss and licking into your mouth like a starved man; borderline crazy and frantic with his actions. It took him a little while to get the wherewithal to speak, and once he did it was through a breathless and strained voice where he was clearly trying to not cum too soon. “Merda!” He hissed, feeling your tight, wet heat comfortably wrap him. “You are the reason men sin.”

The gravity of his words had you clenching around him, earning a delicious whimper to fall from his lips.

“Non fare così!” He exclaimed through pained laughter., dropping his head back to the crook of your neck. “I don’t want to cum too soon.”

“Copia, please.”

Copia pushed the remainder of his cock inside you, slamming home involuntarily and making both of you moan out in surprised pleasure. Your toes curled at the feeling of the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, and you teethed at his jaw.

His hips began pistoning in and out of you, each thrust slow and hard, driving into you with precision and force. His hands moved to your hips for leverage, creating just a little space between your bodies allowing him to fuck into you like you both needed. His cock filled you so nicely, your back arched and your shoulders rested against the cold wall, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you clutched onto his shoulders as though your life depended on it.

The noises Copia was making as he pumped into you were things you’d only heard in your fantasies under the cover of night when you were touching yourself, dreaming of this exact moment. His whimpers; the grunts and groans that escaped him along with the breathy moans and the strings of Italian expletives that made your cunt squeeze around him so impossibly good, dribbles of drool were beginning to spill from the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it, amore.” Copia said breathlessly as he continued to rail you. “St-stretching around my cock. You’re doing so well for me.”

The desk groaned beneath you from the force of Copia’s thrusts and the weight of you and all the desires the two of you harboured for one another. It smacked against the wall repetitively as Copia released all those pent-up feelings and poured them into your soul. His eyes travelled up and down your body, taking in the sinful sight of your clothed breasts bouncing beneath your habit. Your dishevelled appearance that had him blush when he first saw you now had him feral and dying for you with each thrust into the utopia that was your cunt. He could feel himself get more and more addicted to the feel of you. As long as you allowed him, he’d have you every single day.

“Wanted you for so long!” You hurried out, confessing your sins like you were in the booth in the Basilica di Lilith.

“Yeah?” Copia reached down and began playing with your clit. “Is this everything you wished for, amore?”

“Feels so good! Fuck!”

“Pretty little thing, taking my cock so well.” He leaned forward and began kissing and licking at your neck again, pressing himself as close to you as he could without hindering the movements of his fingers against your clit. His bare fingers stroking over your folds sent shivers down your spine. That coupled with the pounding he was giving you and you didn’t stand a chance. It was a matter of minutes before you came all over his cock, seconds if he moved just a little bit faster.

You suddenly became hyper aware of the papers below you, strewn about across the desk messily. Thankfully the Chronicles were safe on the other side of the desk, but your translations were at risk of flooding if you didn’t say something. But the words died in your throat when you tried to ask Copia to move. They couldn’t leave your mouth because the angle he was hitting you at was just so good, it left you gasping for air and loudly moaning into his ear.

“So beautiful.” Copia said, muffled by your skin. By now his words were slurred and his thrusts were erratic, his fingers the only appendage responding to their fullest capacity because your orgasm was on the line. “I want you to cum, amore. Cum on my cock. All over my fingers. You’re already so nice and wet for me. Let’s see if you can get wetter.”

“Fuck, Copia!”

“That’s it - say my name.”

“Copia!”

“Again, amore!”

“Fuck! Copia! I’m gonna cum!”

“That’s it. Such a good girl. Cum for me.”

The knot in your stomach finally snapped and you came harder than you had in Lucifer knew how long. Touching yourself to the thought of Copia turned out to be nothing like the real thing - the way his body slotted so perfectly between your legs was nothing short of a curse, because you knew now that nothing else would ever be the same. Nothing else would make you feel as good. No one else could ever take care of you the way he could. As you came around his cock, he talked you through it, planting kisses on your exposed skin and holding you close to him, all the while not letting his fingers rest until you pushed him away from you.

Then, it was his turn. With a strangled groan that poured into your mouth like the sweetest nectar, he emptied himself inside of you. He whimpered pathetically with each thrust, almost silenced by your tongue in his mouth. The hand that remained on your hip sturdy with its grip and clasped onto you to stop himself from tumbling over with the sheer force of his orgasm. Yeah, he could quickly get used to this.

After a few moments of staying where he was, kissing you just as passionately as he had moments before, he finally pulled away and rested his forehead onto yours.

“Ciao.” He said softly.

You rolled your eyes at the reference to the Black Mass so long ago, but your mouth shaped into a brilliant smile, with eyes that beamed to happily, Copia was almost blinded by them. “Ciao.” You responded, a giggle catching in your throat and distorting the word ever so softly.

“Ah, amore, we have a problem.”

Your stomach sank. “What?” You asked, preparing yourself for the worst.

“I came inside you.”

You sighed in relief. “Oh, it’s okay. The Ministry provides birth control for all those who want it - I wanted it.”

“Ah, sì. That I know. But… my cock is the only thing stopping my cum from escaping. And you’re sat on some papers.”

Your eyes widened, remembering your want to move locations just moments ago. Your mind went blank. “Shit! Oh, no, no, no!”

“It’s okay! There are tissues-”

“On the other side of the room!”

“Okay, I could pull out and-”

“Then your cum would get all over my translations!”

After some back and forth, it was decided that you would awkwardly lift and wiggle your hips so Copia could reach underneath you and pull the flimsy paper out from beneath you. Every time you did, you would accidentally clench down on his softening cock, and he would hiss or scream out in, what sounded like pain, but it was mostly just sensitivity. That, and he knew that one more clench from you would have him chubbing up inside you again, and he was too tired for round two. At least immediately, anyway.

Once you were both certain your hard work had been saved, Copia placed two gentle taps on your thigh. “See? No harm done. All is well.”

“I may have cried if my work was destroyed.”

Copia pulled out of you, causing both of you to whimper at the sensation. But, Copia placed a kiss on your forehead and stroked your cheek with his gloved hand. “I would never be the reason for your tears, amore.”

You leaned into his touch, but removed the glove before you did allowing you to feel his bare skin on yours. You placed a soft kiss to his hand, finding comfort and solace in his touch. You believed him. You knew he would never do anything to hurt you. “Grazie.”

Copia smiled, looking at you with pure adoration in his eyes. “Prego! Now, I think we should clean up, don’t you?”

You nodded and allowed Copia to help you off the desk and lead you into the bathroom.

You had never showered or cleaned up with another person after sex. Your conquests at the Ministry had usually been either ritual-based or so casual, your partner barely stayed after the fact. But Copia was leading you to the bathroom with his own hands, and turning on the water as hot as possible to get it nice and warm for you when you both were ready - and by Lucifer, did that man take care of you.

He started by brushing your hair, picking up each section gently and working out any knots in it until it was silky smooth and primed and ready for washing, all the while making low conversation with you, his tenor, nasally voice reverberating around the bathroom and bringing comfort to your ears as he worked away at your hair.

He then unzipped your habit, and helped you out of it, folding it neatly to place on the counter so that it would be ready for the next time you wanted to wear it - or pack it, he wasn’t sure.

Bras were tricky garments for Copia, usually when he was too horny to function and wanted access to his partner’s chest. But right now, he was able to take his time with the evil thing, and place soft kisses on your exposed skin to distract you from how long it was actually taking. But, once your breasts were freed, your bra joined your habit on the bathroom counter. He took a moment to appreciate your naked form, drinking in the way you looked completely bare to him. He tried not to stare too long, lest you become uncomfortable and ask that he left - which he would, but he didn’t want to.

You were stunning. So beautiful he almost wanted to put you in a museum and marvel at your work. You’d put Michelangelo’s work to shame if you were placed next to it. You would embarrass the classic artists of old with your beauty. He picked up your hand, “One day, amore, I will worship you so well it will make the gods jealous,” and placed a gentle kiss to the back of it.

He couldn’t be real - there was no way that a line like that came out of a man like him in your overpriced hotel bathroom filled with steam, so quickly after getting to know you. It was like he had come straight from the pages of a book, complete with all the right lines and gestures to make you fall in love with him.

The Cardinal’s words, a blend of poetic elegance and genuine emotion, painted a canvas of longing and passion spoken in one of the least romantic spots on Earth yet it had your heart racing violently in your chest. The weight of his gaze and the timbre of his voice wove a spell, binding you in a moment suspended in the tapestry of time.

His own clothes took less time to remove, as though he were that one particular scene of the movie Bruce Almighty, where his clothes are just ripped from him and he’s ready to do… well, whatever task one might need to do when naked. The sheer speed of the man, launching his cassock and robes all around the room and making you laugh with the absurdity of it. His salt and pepper hair, a mess from his hat and his Cardinal’s paints a small mess from the exertion of before.

You both got in the shower and washed away the mess of the day from each other’s bodies, lathering soap and rubbing it all over each other, removing each other’s paints and make up and washing each other’s hair. Copia took extra care around your vulva, making sure to clean you thoroughly but as gently as he possibly could so as not to cause you any pain. A thorough lover in all aspects - you wanted to keep him forever.

You dried yourselves off, being silly with the hairdryer before he gave you a gentle kiss and the two of you headed into the bedroom. He picked up his robes and was about to dress himself until you stopped him and told him to join you in bed.

As you and Copia curled up in the softness of the comfortable cushions, the room’s soothing glow from the bedside lamp created a peaceful cocoon. The blankets, a sanctuary of warmth, held the heat that radiated from your joined bodies. He gestured for you to lie on his chest, where your fingers danced and stroked over his hairy torso, drawing the lines of his tattooed “666” over his heart, his chubbiness acting as the ideal pillow. You had only ever seen it in the Ministry’s stained glass windows and, later, in stage replicas of the same stained glass during his performance in the Ghost Project. You didn’t think it was real, but there it was, faded from years of age and hidden partially beneath brown chest hair. The abs in his stained glass replica certainly weren’t real, but there was something about his jiggly tummy that made you happy.

In your hotel room, a soft calmness consumed the two of you, like your own private sanctuary. The authentic connection that formed between you and the Cardinal seemed to eclipse the problems of the day, the weight of your responsibilities, and the Ministry’s norms and regulations.

As you lay side by side, the vulnerability caused by the openness of the conversation and the tenderness of the dim light highlighting your faces. Copia’s comments resonated deeply with a man who had taken solace in the carefree moment’s simplicity, akin to the lines of a lovely song.

The Cardinal’s unbridled, sincere laughter permeated the room, a soft refrain that broke between the calm discussions and times of mutual delight. The walls that usually covered the complexity of your lives came down during this quiet talk, and you two were able to get to know each other on a level that would never have been possible. He was Copia Emeritus, the youngest son of a man who had once performed the same role as him, and an innocent boy who had grown up in a difficult environment. He was more than just the Cardinal and the Head of the Satanic Church. And you were able to lay your soul bare to a man who could understand your troubles in a way not many people could. A rare connection, but a real one.

The soft rustle of the blankets and the soothing rhythm of breathing created a lullaby of comfort,wrapping both of you in a gentle touch of the night. His arm wrapped around your naked body in a hug of protection, drawing you as near to him as he could, as if you were his own.

A fresh day looming over London, sincere conversation, warmth between you and Copia, and a bedroom filled with the soft murmuring of dreams were the small things that brought you comfort in life. With its gentle wings, the night captivated you both, trapping you in a dreamlike world and a soundless melody of hearts interwoven in the unholy.

The throb of excitement and the rush of unexpected intimacy blended with the ashes of dreams that twirled on the brink of awareness, and you fell asleep hardly comprehending the position you were in, but committing it to memory, nonetheless. In order to get a good night’s rest, you made sure to quell the fear that he’d be gone in the morning, and you’d come to the horror that this was all a dream - a fantasy your brain concocted to cope with the idea that you were so close to him.

The soft glow of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm embrace upon the room. As consciousness gently reclaimed its hold, you stirred, expecting to find Copia’s presence beside you. However, the realization that the bed was empty washed over you, accompanied by a subtle undercurrent of disappointment.

For a fleeting moment, doubt crept in—had the encounters with Copia been nothing more than the whimsical product of a dream? The vividness of the previous day’s events felt like a mirage, and a sense of yearning lingered in the room, echoing the emptiness left by his absence.

You sat up, the sheets cascading in gentle waves around you, and surveyed the room with a mix of hope and uncertainty. The memories of the shared Chinese dinner, the playful banter, and the intimacy of being cradled in Copia’s arms seemed almost too fantastical to be real.

As you rose from the bed, the lingering scent of Copia’s presence surrounded you, a subtle fragrance that whispered of the shared moments. A pang of longing accompanied the realization that, regardless of the dreamlike quality of the encounters, there was a void in the room that mirrored the absence of the Cardinal.

Attempting to dispel the lingering doubt, you moved through the room, still as naked as you were when you fell asleep the night before, half-expecting to find traces of him—the imprints of his presence, a forgotten belonging, anything that would validate the reality of the connection. The room, however, revealed no such evidence, leaving you in a state of quiet contemplation.

In the silence of the morning, you grappled with the uncertainty, a delicate dance between the threads of reality and the ephemeral nature of dreams. The longing for Copia’s company lingered, an echo of the intimate moments shared, and the room retained a faint resonance of the enchantment that had unfolded.

“Ciao, Sorella,” Copia greeted, his eyes brightening as he entered, the subtle rustling of the bakery bag in his hands adding a touch of mystery to the moment. The relief that washed over you was palpable, dispelling any lingering doubts about the reality of the connection forged the day before.

“Good morning, Copia,” you responded, a genuine smile gracing your lips as he approached. The aroma of freshly baked goods wafted through the air, a delightful accompaniment to the morning sunlight that bathed the room. He hung the bag from his wrist and used his free hands to cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a passionate kiss before you had the chance to protest at your morning breath.

“I thought breakfast from a local bakery might make for a pleasant start to the day,” Copia explained, presenting the bag as if it held a treasure trove of delights. His demeanour, a blend of awkward charm and genuine warmth, echoed the sincerity of his actions. “I wanted to surprise you, but you’re out of bed.”

“I’m sorry… would you like me to get back in it?”

He nodded. “Sì. This isn’t my bed or yours, and we’re leaving in a few hours. Let’s be heathens and eat pastries under the duvet!”

As he began to unveil the contents of the bag, an array of pastries and bread emerged, each one tempting and inviting. The simple act of sharing breakfast became a moment of connection, a continuation of the unspoken understanding that had woven its way through the shared experiences of the previous day.

You climbed back into bed, watching your fully clothed Cardinal do the same - paints and all adorned on his face as though you hadn’t already seen his bareness the night before. He was chipper - even more so than before. It was nice to see him so relaxed.

The room filled with the comforting scent of fresh bakery delights, you and Copia began to enjoy the morning repast. The ambiance shifted, the initial uncertainty dissipating in the face of this shared moment of simplicity and warmth.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, a mixture of lighthearted banter and genuine interest in each other’s thoughts. As you nibbled on pastries and sipped coffee, the room seemed to come alive with the easy friendship that had developed between you and the Cardinal.

Breakfast finished slowly, lazily. Your time distracted with continuing your conversation from last night before you both fell asleep. The conversation only stilled when Copia returned to the bed, sitting atop the sheets and stroking the hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. Then, his lips were on yours.

He didn’t intend for the kiss to be anything but sweet and chaste, but soon enough, his body was positioning himself over yours and forcing you to lie back against the pillows, one hand propping him up over you, the other roaming over the sheets that covered your body. It was deep and delicious, and made your body tingle with want and your legs spread in anticipation, a silent plea for him to touch you again just as he had the night before.

When he’d removed the duvet from your body, a struggle considering he was on top of them, and had situated himself between your legs, he allowed his hands to wander all over your body as though they were trying to find a destination but kept getting lost. As more and more of your body became exposed to him, he allowed his lips to voyage across your curves, open mouthed kisses leaving trails of saliva in their wake as proof that they’d been there. Your breaths were heavy, allowing your breasts to rise and fall with the exertion. Your lips, kiss-swollen and tantalising, he just wanted to run his tongue over them and taste you in your entirety.

His lips fell upon your chest and worked their way down to your nipples. He tongued the left one, first - fingers pinching the right while he licked and sucked at the bud, groaning as if the taste of you was the most delectable dish he’d ever had the honour of eating.

“I wonder,” he began, lying on his stomach, his hands moving to your thighs and spreading your legs wide enough to slot himself between your thighs, “why Lord Lucifer kept you from me all this time?” He kissed your thigh. “Why he wasted my time on other conquests when the sweetest prize was right under my nose the whole time.”

He groaned at the sight of you; your glistening, taut heat spread and open for his personal viewing, ready and waiting for his tongue to ravish you as you deserved. He kissed up your thighs, and as he did so, you took the opportunity to pick up his hat and toss it across the room. This earned you a chuckle.

One of his fingers ran up and down your folds, catching on your clit once or twice and making you shiver and jolt with anticipation. Then, those fingers that had gathered your slick slipped into his mouth, and his eyes fluttered shut in delight. “Time to make good on my promise and make the gods jealous of you.” He told you, before diving into his newfound faith enthusiastically.

Your hands immediately flew to his hair, digits locking around his mouse-brown strands as your back arched against the wall and completely off the desk. Copia immediately went in, tongue swirling roughly around your sensitive clit and intermittently sucking at it to get those divine noises to spill from your lips. You had no thoughts of quietening yourself, not when his tongue felt like your whole world could collapse at any minute.

It didn’t take long for your hips to start bucking into his face, chasing the pleasure that he was generously giving you. His moustache scratched against your labia as his lips moved, occasionally hitting the right spots and having you clench around nothing. However his cock and his fingers felt last night, was nothing compared to the way he sucked your clit into his mouth, causing loud, uncontrollable moans to spill from your mouth into the cold morning air.

“Copia - fuck!” Your toes curled beneath you as you let out a scream, Copia still flicking his tongue quickly over your folds.

The heat inside the room rose rapidly, making it almost unbearable and causing a sheen of sweat to form on both of you. Copia trapped you in the position he so desperately wanted by firmly pressing your body down and wrapping your legs around his head. He used one arm to keep your hips pressed down while his fingers on the other were sucked into his mouth to wet them with his saliva before they were mercilessly pumped into you.

He adored the sounds you made the night before, but these sounds were entirely different. Brand new. They were boosting his ego and his confidence so much more, allowing him to get a little rougher with his ministrations, stretching you out to fit him beautifully, just as you had before.

Copia moaned as your fingers tugged at his hair, sending vibrations through your heat and throughout your cunt. The sounds that flooded the room were overshadowed by the sinful squelch your wetness made as his fingers worked up and down against that spot. Those fingers reached the parts of you that his tongue was unable to penetrate as he continued to lap at your folds. His fingers felt even better than his tongue, and that fucking moustache was going to send you to an early grave.

As he moved his face, all you could feel was the tickle of prickly hair brushing against your incredibly sensitive spot. You could feel his moustache every time he moved due to his erratic and fast his movements that had your back arching off the matress and your eyes tightly squeezing shut. You were a loud, sweaty mess completely at the mercy of Copia’s actions, and he was fully aware of his actions.

His tongue moved more quickly as you started hitting your high, and his fingers pumped harder, curling to find your favourite and most responsive spots. With his moustache, it didn’t take him long to bring you to your release. Before long, your back arched and you let out a scream as he continued to pump his fingers through your release. You clung to the bedding, needing something to vent your annoyance on. You felt filthy and unholy, Lucifer. It felt so damn good. Copia took his time caressing your folds and surrounding your cunt, savouring every last drop of your exhaled breath as you laboured to breathe. He was enamoured with you. He could never get enough of you.

“Così delizioso,” he told you, pulling back from your core, “could do this forever, amore.”

He crawled up the bed and locked his lips to yours in another desperate kiss, and you groaned at the taste of you on them. As he was on top of you, your hands began working at his robes to get him just as naked as you still were. You needed to feel his skin, needed him against your body otherwise something bad might happen. His robes were a fight and more frustrating than anything else, causing him to stand on the floor and remove everything as quickly as he could on his own, but the whole endeavour ended in a fit of giggles from the both of you as he dived back on top of you, fervently kissing you.

His cock dragged through your folds as he rubbed against you, giving himself just a little respite from the intense feeling and making you shiver with sensitivity below him. “So wet, amore. All for me, sì?”

“Yes, Copia.” You whispered, your breaths ragged and strained. “Only you.”

His cock jumped at the thought. Were you really considering giving yourself to him forever after only one night together? Were you so willing to belong to him so soon? He loved the thought - the idea that you were so enamoured by him that you just couldn’t refuse; that you didn’t want to refuse him.

“Amore, I could tell you all the things I love and adore about you and stuff your pretty cunt with my cock all day and night. You want that?”

“Yes!” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his cock kept rubbing against your clit, now sopping wet with your juices.

He moved his hips back and, without moving his hands, lined up with your entrance. “Do you want it, amore? Do you want my cock?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me how much.”

“So much, Copia, please. I want your cock to fill me up so fucking good. Please give it to m- oh, fuck!”

He pushed inside of you before you could even finish the sentence, apparently more needy for your cunt than he thought. There was a brief ache from his pounding last night, a twinge that had your eyebrows furrowing, but your mouth hanging open at the pleasure of the stretch.

His kisses traced the same areas they did the night before, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he tried to not cum too soon, especially with the way your cunt was fluttering against him. You were twitching, as if you were begging him to move or do something. But the way he was riled up combined with the way you felt was a terrible combination that would only end in him spoiling the fun before it had even got started. You were truly delectable in every sense of the word - an addiction forming with no hope of relief. Not that he would ever be willing to quit.

“Sathanas,” he whispered into your skin, “this cunt!”

He tested the waters, thrusting once, twice, then three times before deeming his body recovered enough from the initial invasion to pick up the pace and start taking what he needed from you.

“Ah!” Each time those noises fell from your lips was when he thrusted particularly deep inside you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix beautifully and forcing the involuntary sounds to escape.

Copia was draped over you, covering you entirely; pinning you against the mattress with his full weight. There was no way you could move, no way you could think independently of the pleasure that he was putting your body through. You just had to lie there and take it with your legs wrapped around his hips trying to keep him as deep as possible so he’d keep giving you the pleasure you were desperately craving.

“Amore, you’re doing so well,” he panted, “you’re so gorgeous all wet and screaming for me. Merda! Giving yourself to me like this. An honour.”

The position he was in on top of you, and the way he pinned you down with the whole weight of his body, meant that his pubic mound was grinding against your clit, stimulating you with each grind of his hips. Your nails dug into his back and ran down it, creating red welts that Copia knew he’d wear proudly for weeks until they disappeared entirely. The feeling of your nails digging into him did something that drove him to the brink of insanity, and he found himself moving much faster than before.

You were close to cumming, but so was he. A mere few thrusts away before he was cumming deep inside your tight, wet heat, losing himself in your body as he had the night before. You felt divine - like sin itself had come alive just to torment him. He couldn’t believe you’d been there all that time and he’d not noticed you until that Black Mass a mere month ago. Yet here he was, balls deep inside you a second time, fucking you within an inch of both of your lives and needing to just… bite.

“Cumming!” You yelled, your voice high-pitched and straight out of a porno.

“That’s it, amore. Just like that. Cum all over this cock.”

Your second orgasm, just as powerful as your first, had your legs locking around Copia’s hips and forcing him deeper, restricting his wriggle room and making him take the full attack of your fluttering cunt as you spasmed beneath him. Your toes curled, your body arched as much as Copia would allow it to, and your eyes screwed tightly shut from the force of it all.

This triggered his own orgasm, cumming deep inside you and gripping onto your body so firmly, he’d leave a bruise. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, mouth attached to the skin and muffled groans emanating from the area as his hips shook with his own force. His body responded similarly to yours - as in, it was completely out of control. It wasn’t until your legs unlocked him and you allowed him some freedom to pull away, he’d noticed the hickey he’d left on your neck.

“Amore,” he said breathlessly, “I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?”

“Not at all,” you replied, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face.

He poked the hickey - it only hurt a little, as a fresh bruise usually would.

Despite being free, he fell back on top of you, using your entire body as a pillow. He was too tired to move now - too comfortable, too happy. He couldn’t possibly think about the horror that was coming… having to leave this cozy room and soft bed, the warmth of your arms, to get on a cold plane where he’d have to pretend he wasn’t utterly enamoured (and horny) by your presence alone.

But reality called, and work awaited.

This time, however, he’d have you by his side, or even underneath him, whenever he wanted.

Previous Part ⛧ Next Part

Commissions are open! ⛧ Memberships ⛧ Tip Jar

[passivenovember]

Billy knows he's pregnant because he has a double whopper with no cheese on the way home from Loch Nora.

Billy hates the Burger King. It tastes like cardboard and the cheese burns noxious holes in his stomach, probably, but things change when you're gonna be a mom.

A dad. Whatever.

Steve Harrington shoots his wad and, like magic, like Steve Harrington's spunk has turned everything inside him into stardust, Billy can't get enough of the shit. He'd buy cologne made of BK's burger fat, if he could, and spend all day sucking on his wrist like a dog.

So. Billy's pregnant. It's obvious. Among other things.

And no one ever said Steve Harrington was smart, not in any way that matters, and Billy can't learn his lesson. They fuck on Thursday night because apparently this is a middle-of-the-week kind of arrangement, now, and Harrington comes apart inside of Billy because you're on the pill, Malibu, it's okay.

Billy likes it. Lets him. Thinks, there's probably no harm in it now that he's no longer the Virgin Mary. It feels immaculate, anyhow, that this could happen.

Steve fucks into him sloppy, losing his rhythm until he spills, and tears swamp Billy's vision so he misses the whole fuckin' thing. The main show.

He wants to keep the baby. No one ever said Billy was smart, either.

But there are things in this life he'll keep to himself. He's allowed that. He shares so much with Max and Steve, and by association all the other fucking people that love Steve, and it gets old.

He can have this.

Billy thinks that this could be just for him.

"Fuck, Billy," Steve pulls out, but not before peppering Billy's face with soft butterfly kisses. His breath smells like them. Like blueberry seeds, underneath it all, "Goddamn, your pussy's magic."

Billy's hole runs sloppy. Too fucked out to hold anything in.

Billy almost laughs out loud, because. It's magic. It's a joke, right, his pussy swallowed and now there's--

"Love that thing you do with your hips. Love the sounds you make when my shaft rubs--"

"You're a fucking pervert."

"I was normal, before you let me hit," Steve trails damp, sticky fingers through Billy's chest hair. "You hungry?"

I'm pregnant. "No."

"Sure?" Steve rolls closer on the mattress, nosing Billy's damp, pillow-squashed curls out of the way, "You smell like you could eat a fucking village."

"I'm fine."

"Orphans and all, baby."

"So fucking weird."

Steve hums. Pulls on Billy's earring with his teeth and then licks a wet, fat stripe over his bonding patch. Teasing. "If you're hungry I could get us food."

"I'm fine."

"Really, I just need to put some shorts on and I'm outta here, fuckin'. Pedal to the metal--"

"Jesus Christ, I said I'm not hungry so fucking drop it, asshole," Billy shoves away, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He feels around on the carpet for his jeans, his t-shirt, his converse.

Steve runs out of him, gluing him to 500 count Egyptian Cotton. Pisses him off.

"Billy," Steve says.

Billy tugs his socks on. He was freezing, apparently. Never realized it. His teeth chatter so he stoops, reaching for the closest hoodie shaped thing in their heap of discarded clothes, and then.

"You don't have to go, baby," Steve pokes him between the shoulder blades, gentle as a falling leaf. "Please stay."

"You're pissing me off."

"What else is new."

"I'm gonna--"

Steve wraps around Billy like a blanket, cock soft and sticky against Billy's tailbone. His legs are lean and strong, all muscle and good intentions, just like the rest of him.

Billy hates it.

He melts back against Steve's chest, anyway, vision swamped again.

"You gonna tell me what's wrong, or do I gotta beg?"

"Little manners might be nice."

"Billy Hargrove. Please tell me what's got you smelling like a sugar factory caught fire." Steve pets through his hair. Knows how it turns Billy to putty. Has to. "Omega troubles?"

Billy bites down on the inside of his cheek. Tastes blood. "You wouldn't get it."

"I could try," Steve tells him. His lips are soft against he back of Billy's neck, at his ear lobe, on the tense knob of his shoulder. "Please. Tell me so I can fix it."

"You can't," Billy says, traitor voice cracking open, raw, "You can't fix it. It's mine."

My life. My baby.

"Okay," Steve says easily. Kind and good and sweeter than anything Billy could ever deserve, "Stay the night, so I can cook for you before you fall asleep, and again in the morning."

Billy swallows, throat clicking like a dead lighter. Can't breathe, can't--

"It's alright," Steve kisses his neck, "Everything will feel better in the morning."

"We never should've started this bullshit," Billy sits up, heart lurching at the soft, pained noise Steve lets out into the air between them. He can't handle this shit. He can't do this, he can't--

"Billy--

"I'm pregnant," Billy says to Steve's Duran-Duran poster. Can't believe how young he feels, in this moment. Can't begin to wrap his head around the fact that he's twenty years old, and he's in Hawkins, Indiana, and he's going to have a fucking baby with someone who's got such a shitty taste in music, and--

He wants it.

More than he's ever wanted anything. Billy opens his mouth to say it, to scream it at the popcorn stucco, watching like a trillion angel eyes overhead.

But Steve breathes, like an old car trying to start. "You're sure?" He asks.

Billy's shaking even though Steve is a warm, solid weight against his back, burning them up. "Yes."

"How?" Steve asks, full of wonder, and Billy has to get away.

The carpet is heaven under his feet. "I've been. Eating a lot of Burger King."

"Burger King."

"Yeah. Cravings for shit I never liked before. Double whoppers with no cheese," Billy wrings his hands, "And. I didn't have a heat this month, so Joyce took me to the clinic. They said I'm only a few weeks along, but everything is good with her."

Steve makes a wet, heavy sound.

"I dunno. It kinda. Feels like one," Billy rubs a palm over his belly, quick as lightning, "I think it's a girl."

"Billy, please look at me."

Billy does, horrified but swallowing it, one bitter mouthful at a time. He plants his feet and everything bubbles up inside him. This is his life, his body, his baby, and he's going to to this for himself. Steve doesn't have to worry or fork out any cash or put his life on hold just because he knocked up some desperate omega--

Steve's crying. "We're having a baby."

Billy didn't expect this. He falters, mouth working in shocked silence.

But then Steve moves.

He pulls Billy to him, chest heaving as he laughs, high and bright. "Holy, shit we're gonna be parents," Steve twirls them, hooping and hollering like they just won the NBA championship. "Goddamn, your pussy really is magic!"

Billy giggles, in spite of himself. All the other shit melts away, for now, shadows receding under the blinding light of Steve Harrington.

"I can't fucking believe this," Steve says, pulling back to hunt over Billy's face, full of wonder. "Do you think she's gonna have your eyes?"

"I. I don't--"

"I feel like in high school science class we learned something about the brown eyes gene kicking the blue eyes gene's ass? But I would fucking die if our baby comes out looking like you."

"You're not," Billy swallows, choking on tears. "You're not mad at me? Or disappointed?"

"Disappointed?" Steve repeats, his face falling. "Billy, are you serious? No. No, I've fucking. Ever since I met you I've been sitting in this room every night twirling my hair around one finger and kicking my feet because, I--"

Steve's thumb rubs soft, soothing circles against Billy's cheek.

"Billy, I love you," He says gently, "I love everything about you. You're smart and you're hilarious and you're so beautiful--"

"--Steve--"

"--You make my heart feel like it's gonna beat out of my chest. I can't believe you let a loser like me climb on top of you, much less--"

Billy kisses him, eating up Steve's next words.

They don't matter, when Steve leads them back to the mattress. He eats every soft, gooey whimper out of Billy's lungs, swallowing them down and tasting the damp running between Billy's legs.

Makes love to him, while they talk about the future.

Steve only makes one joke about his dick hurting the baby's head, and Billy thinks they should sign up for a class or two.

[alazharuniversity]

Conversation in Arabic with Doctor 1st part, Learn Egyptian Conversation...

[starsarekind]

Marc Spector was not particularly skilled in the kitchen.

In the months he'd been without Layla, he'd grown accustomed to greasy gas station snacks — devoid of most proteins but enough to satisfy an empty stomach on a job for a moon god.

When Marc wasn't on a mission, Steven took care of himself. Jake, who they'd learned about more recently and whom he was still getting used to, deemed himself the chef of the system, which was more or less accurate and incredibly infuriating.

Marc had a recipe pulled up for fried rice, and only about half of the ingredients he needed. If Layla wasn't at the kitchen table, he'd give up and order something in. Maybe he wouldn't eat at all. But no, Marc was trying to ease back into mundane married life, and he had a lot of slack to pull and a lot of shit to make up for. He could make Layla some damned fried rice for dinner.

Layla played quiet music from her laptop. Realistically, she was not looking at the screen. Her eyes were focused on Marc — the familiar tensing of his jaw, the way he held his shoulders, the crease between his brow as he concentrated on the stove. She soaked in all of the things that made him her husband. On one hand, it relaxed her to see. On the other, more selfish hand, Layla wanted to be as equipped as possible in recognizing when a switch happened.

Even now, after slow weeks of getting accustomed to their new life after defeating Ammit, the flat was demonstrably Steven's. The floors were still littered with stacks of books that had no places on shelves. Books on Egypt and egyptian mythology and hieroglyphs were left open to certain pages on every desk and table, no matter how often Steven tidied up. Mug stains from old tea dotted every wooden surface in an almost admirable way.

There were small signs that Marc lived here, too. The bed was made in a rigid and practical way, with no margin for error. A wedding photo of him and Layla now hung by the bed. But otherwise? This space had not been meant for Marc.

Zoning back in, Layla saw Marc murmuring under his breath, getting frustrated. Layla could practically see the steam coming from his ears. She moved to his side in a second, assessing the situation and scanning the recipe.

"Oh, baby, you'd better--"

"I don't need all these comments from everyone." Marc replied, before Layla could even finish her sentence.

It startled her for a moment. Not the tone, or the defensiveness, but the language — the word: everyone. The air felt thick when she realized she was not the only other person in the room.

"Is it Jake?" She asked, softly but without room for avoidance.

Marc's jaw tensed again. He didn't meet Layla's eyes, but he nodded. "He won't cook, but he'll make fun of me for doing it wrong."

His head tilted to the side, and Layla recognized a conversation she was not privy to. As Marc was distracted, Layla was careful to nudge him away from the stove. She wasn't the greatest cook either, but she was better than Marc, especially when he was starting to dissociate.

Layla was still working on getting used to the blank look in Marc's eyes as he looked past her, never sure if he was pulling back into his own head, or if he'd be right back. She busied herself with the recipe.

The flat fell into comfortable silence, save for the faint music from the laptop on the table, and the sizzle of the pan, as Layla finished cooking dinner.

"Cheers, love," Steven smiled over to her, blinking a bit to gain his bearings. "Oh! You made dinner, yeah? Lovely. I'll set the table."

She noted, quietly, the way Steven stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, like standing up straight would make him too much of a focal point. His eyes were wider, too, and somehow the creases that always made Marc look so tired seemed to subside.

Layla's heart ached. She didn't mind the intrusion, knowing that if Marc's gone away, it was for good reason. And, in fact, she was quite fond of Steven, and even warming up to Jake.

This did not change the fact that sometimes she wanted to eat dinner with her husband, and that sometimes it was difficult to see his face and know it did not belong to him.

Despite this, she smiled.

"Thanks, Steven."

[fairuzfan]

hello!! firstly, you have an amazing blog. i have been able to learn a lot (and be introduced to a lot of resources) thanks to you as well as other palestinians!

out of curiousity, do you happen to have any favorite songs made my palestinian musicians? im not sure if you've already answered this, but i would like to learn some songs so i can sing them :)

hello, thanks for sending this and for your kind words. I've actually received a few questions on this.

Something in arab music culture in general (like Fairuz) is that sometimes there are writers different than singers who are sought out by singers and vice versa. This isn't always the case, of course, but something to consider is if you like a song by a specific singer, I'd suggest looking into who the composer/writer of the song is.

A well known example is Egyptian singer Abdel Halim Hafez who sung Nizar Qabbani's (widely considered the Syrian National Poet) poem, the song titled "Qariat El Fengan" or "The Cup Reading". This was a whole concert. My dad said whenever it snowed in his town, they would play the entire concert on the radio and everyone would sit around and listen to it, even if it was an hour long.

But you did ask about Palestinian singers! So I will provide some singers who are Palestinian as well as those who aren't Palestinian but their songs are written for/by Palestinians.

Sol Band in Gaza

They're currently located in Gaza and if you visit their facebook, you can see that they hold singalongs for the kids of Gaza amongst the rubble. Right now, they're holding a campaign to help rebuild their band which you can take a look and donate to here (click).

Reem Albanna is Palestinian (the singer) and the writer is Tawfik Ziad who was a Palestinian:

"Min Sijin Akkah" by Firqat Al-Ashiqeen

The backstory to this is really important — back during British colonization, there were three Palestinian revolutionary fighters who were hung by the British. Their names were Fouad Hijazi, Mohammad Jamjoum, and Attah Azeer. Apparently, they were discussing amongst themselves in their prison cells before they were hung about what they would say to their loved ones and if any of them saw their loved ones to tell them not to worry. The conversation was written on the walls of the prison cell and we don't know who wrote it... but people have been singing it ever since.

"Ya Falestiniyah" by Sheikh Imam

Sheikh Imam is not Palestinian but he is Egyptian. Palestinians really love him, though, and he has a lot of political music that many, many people love. I recommend checking out all of Sheikh Imam's songs tbh.

"Sheikh Assafeenah" sung by Palestinian singer Abdel Fattah Owainat and written by Palestinian Poet Miriam Alammoori:

I would check out both singer and songwriter for more of their songs.

Dammi Falestini by Mohammed Assaf

I don't think it requires an explanation LOL

"Taralelli" by Ens O Jam

It's a fun song, a love song. I usually sing this with my family on long car rides.

if anyone else has any recommendations, feel free to add on to this post by reblogging!

[ivystoryweaver]

Based on this request by @whatthefishh: “are you sure? once i start i don’t think i’m able to stop” + Steven Grant 🙈❤️

next | miniseries masterlist | my masterlist

In which you are a simpering mess for this adorkable man

Content: f!reader, Part 1: fluff, pining, bit suggestive, not beta'd - Part 1 can stand on its own, you do not have to read part 2 if you only want fluff

Word Count: 1.2k

Steven Grant is something else.

Apparently, he vandalized the toilets in the Egyptian wing of the museum.

And got sacked.

Disappeared for a month.

And is now in your office, asking for his job back.

He has some nerve.

The thing of it is, you feel for him.

That is to say, you feel badly for him. You also feel other things for him. Such as attraction. Really intense attraction.

Which is not okay, seeing how he is several steps below your pay grade, begging for your mercy (ahem, professionally) and you cannot show any favoritism in hiring...or re-hiring, in this case.

"I'll get on my knees and beg, if it helps," he lets out a jovial little laugh, his dark curls rustling against his forehead.

That sentence would have sounded absolutely pathetic coming out of any other man's mouth. But Steven Grant is something else. You almost ask him to repeat himself just to hear it again.

"You see...it's just that you're the only one who's ever really been kind to me," he earnestly explains, leaning toward your desk, elbows resting on his knees.

Dark eyebrows shift back and forth - his brown eyes wide and pleading.

"And...well, I'd hate to take advantage of your kindness - "

Please. Please take advantage. Ugh, your intrusive thoughts are not welcome at this meeting.

"But I'd thought you'd be most likely to listen - you see, I have a disorder - "

"Sleeping disorder, right?" You interrupt, glancing down at his file. As if you need his file. You remember every word he's ever said. One time, he inadvertently let it slip that he used an ankle restraint and that just sent you...

"Oh, that? Eh..." He chuckles nervously, straightening up and scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

This is the day you learn Steven is a system.

All intrusive thoughts and unprofessional desires aside, this is something you take seriously. Steven has a diagnosis now - one you cannot ignore, nor can the museum use it against him. True, the toilets have been vandalized...by his alter. Not by him.

"I'd tell you more about why it happened, but you'd think me absolutely mad," he concludes, willing to share with you about his alter, but not an ancient Egyptian deity. Not today.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," you respond, your eyes shining with sincerity and compassion.

There it is - the kindness you regard others with at all times - the dignity. Everyone has a fair shot with you, everyone deserves to be listened to. Sometimes Steven wonders if you would make a better therapist than a museum supervisor. Or perhaps he simply adores talking with you. And looking at you.

"Thank you," he breathlessly utters, his eyes glowing with gratitude, "for listening to me, I mean. Not many people do...listen to me, that is."

"I don't see why not," you return warmly. "I always enjoy our conversations, Steven."

That's not all you enjoy about him.

"Thank you," he repeats, blushing.

"So...which job is it that you're interested in?"

"Oh! Well, I'll take anything you'll give me. I'll do anything, really. Just say the word and I'm all yours."

Jesus.

Is it hot in here? Are you sweating? Oh god, you're staring. Are you staring?

Clearing your throat, you attempt to move this conversation along before you spontaneously combust.

"I think we have an opening for a tour guide," you inform. "Might be a little better suited to you than gift shop clerk. And it's not under Donna's purview."

"Oh god, really?" He gasps, his shoulders straightening from their typical, cute hunch. "You'd really let me interview - for a tour guide?"

"Of course," you sweetly reply. "We just need to set up a time for you to give me a private tour and I'll see what I can do."

The affection and adoration on Steven Grant's face is something you need to see again. Especially if you can be the cause for it.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

"Are you sure? Once I start I don’t think I'll be able to stop," Steven confesses, standing with you at the entrance of the museum's Egyptian wing.

Nearly every word out of his gorgeous, kissable lips drives you to distraction.

Feeling uneasy at your silence, he barrels on, "Just don't want to talk my way out of a job, is all."

"No, of course you won't. Please, go ahead."

So he does.

He talks and talks and talks about everything you pass by. And not just the major displays, but the tiniest bits of pottery, cracked and nearly forgotten. But not by him. His brown eyes glow with intrigue, his hands gesture animatedly.

He knows everything there is to know, even going so far as to point out that one of the name plates underneath one of the smallest, dullest, frankly most insignificant display items - is incorrect.

How has this man been stuck at the gift shop counter with Donna condescending to him daily?

He's actually managed to distract you from your desires - from your silly crush - and really impress you, professionally.

"Have I done it, then?" He sheepishly questions, pressing his palms together as if supplicating, then pulling them close to his chest. "Have I gone on too long?"

"No," you breathe, with heartfelt conviction. "It was amazing. You're amazing."

His eyebrows shoot up as he pushes up on his toes eagerly. "Wow, really?"

"Yes," you nod fervently, grinning at him. "You're hired. Congratulations, Steven."

Squeezing his hands into cute fists, he nearly shakes with excitement. "Thank you. Thank you so much!" And then, as if all his puppy energy bursts out of him, he pulls you into a quick, but strong embrace. The heat of his body electrifies you utterly.

"Oh, god, sorry. That wasn’t professional at all, was it? No. Please don't tell my boss," he laughs, attempting to joke his way out of his blunder.

You're reeling. Where others see an info-dumping nerd, you see a man so eager to please. And so handsome. And smart. How is he single?

"D-don't worry about it," you finally stammer, realizing he's withdrawn his fidgeting fingers to his chest. "No harm done."

"Sorry, I just get...passionate. I mean..." He gestures around him, his eyes sweeping over the ancient relics he knows so well - though his eyes ultimately land on you. "It's all so bloodly amazing, innit?"

"Yes," you laugh, although not mockingly. "I agree, it is. And I think this display is best left in your hands, I really do."

Taking you literally, he holds his hands up for inspection, turning them over adorably before thrusting them out toward you. "These hands won't let you down, boss."

Steven is still holding out his hands so you extend your own for a professional handshake. "Welcome to the team. Or - welcome back, rather."

The warmth of his palm enveloping your own sends a wave of desire surging through you.

Steven holds on a bit longer than most people would, his gaze falling on yours. "Thank you. Really. You don't know what this means to me. I don't know how I'll ever make it up to you."

You could think of a few ways.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

All my fluffy babes feel free to stop here and don't kill me for taking this suggestive prompt and making it fluffy! My NSFW fans, continue on to part 2 ->

IvyStoryWeaver's 500 Follower Celebration

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Steven Grant-Centric stories

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[simpforsix]

With all the stuff about the Titanic submarine I keep thinking about the tourism of sites of mass tragedy and human remains. It’s a really important conversation that I haven’t seen many people discuss outside of historical and final care provider circles.

The Titanic is a grave. The only reason that submarines are even permitted to go through it is because it’s in international waters. Other shipwrecks, like in Lake Superior, are frequently declared grave sites and have restrictions or bans on exploration of their structure. At the very least, there should be incredibly strict restrictions on Titanic exploration. It should not be a tourist destination. There may be still be human remains in certain parts of the ship, and the mud around the ship is filled with corpses. Considering the tragedy only happened 100 years ago, this tourism is very disrespectful. Also, exploration of the Titanic could potentially damage the structure, which would hinder academic research as well as further disrespect the dead and those who remember them. The structure will not be around for much longer.

Tourism of sites of mass tragedy can also be very dangerous. Obviously we know why the Titanic is dangerous, but it goes beyond that. Oftentimes people are not aware of the danger, or are reassured by authority that it is safe. For instance, many people visit active volcanoes, and some have been injured or killed by eruptions. For some, the danger is a feature. There are people who visit Chernobyl, an even more recent site of mass tragedy than the Titanic, despite being aware of the danger of radiation. It’s thrill-seeking, but instead of a rollercoaster people are putting themselves in danger to walk through human remains.

Our natural fascination with mortality leads many to disrespect the dead. The viewing of human remains in museums is a big debate, and I personally don’t think that we should display human remains without previous consent from the person. Imagine how you would feel if yourself or a loved one was displayed in a museum, or had your resting place constantly disturbed by tourists. 

It’s also important to note that this type of tourism disproportionately impacts people of colour. Eurocentric society systematically dehumanizes the bodies of POC, and this becomes crystal clear in how we treat their remains. Egyptian mummies remain on display in museums despite the disapproval of many Egyptian people. Many black bodies, particularly of women, have been displayed in museums, such as Saartjie Baartman who was finally buried in 2002. Indigenous human remains are also frequently displayed, and ancient burial sites are viewed as cursed land and get destroyed by construction. The remains of people across Asia have been sold and displayed, with recent displays posing the human remains of Chinese prisoners. Most human bones being sold originated from graverobbing the graves of Asian and Indigenous people. None of these people consented to this treatment, and these communities are still being harmed by the commodification of their dead.

Engaging with sites of mass death needs to be done respectfully. The dead deserve our care. 

It’s natural to be curious about tragedy and death, and engaging with our own mortality can be healthy. There are ways to engage with these topics respectfully. Many online resources are available to learn about death, with my personal recommendation being the youtube channel Ask a Mortician. Visiting cemeteries is another great way to engage with death, so long as you abide by the rules and have good intentions. There are some great documentaries about instances of mass death, with many available for free on youtube. You can visit designated memorials of the sites. The Titanic itself has a section in a graveyard in Halifax. I also recommend donating to and supporting the efforts of communities to have their human remains and cultural artifacts repatriated.

Sites of mass death need to be treated with the same respect as cemeteries. They are important and full of education, but we need to remember that these are real people. The dead are not fantastical oddities; they are us.

[oddballwriter]

🙏 gn/fem reader who has a tattoo of an ahnk on her chest and arm tattoos of astrological symbols or like more egyptian tattoos who visits the museum with a group of friends and steven just drools at her existence lol

Living Art

Summary: Working in the gift shop doesn't really earn you any points in talking to people, that's something that Steven's learned the hard way. But that doesn't mean that there aren't some cases that happen once in a while.

Warnings: It's mentioned that the reader does some of their own tattoos using the stick-and-poke method. Steven is shy but very much into the reader. The reader's gender and pronouns are never mentioned but Steven does refer to the ready is pretty so take that as you will. Mention of alcohol and getting drunk but no consumption actually happens. If I'm missing something don't be afraid to tell me.

Author’s Snip: I'm sorry that this took such a long time. I've been out of motivation to write and also recently started my spring semester. So I hope you will still like it.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Word Count: 954

Working at the gift shop didn't really make way for meaningful talks with people. Steven has learned that through many one-way conversations with people who come in. But he'd be lying if he said that he ever really stopped wishing for a moment to chat with someone who would listen and talk back. Unfortunately, that person only exists in Steven's daydream it seems.

That is until one day a group of museum-goers come walking in chattering amongst themselves. Steven looks at them for a brief moment just to get a count of them before looking off somewhere else until he hears a voice go "Oh..." in a disappointed cringing manner. Steven glances back and sees you staring at a mug on display. He knows which one it is. It's that one mug that has hieroglyphics on it that are random and translate to literal gibberish. He remembers himself cringing at its existence.

Your friends join in and laugh at your explanation of why this mug has you scrunching your nose in disapproval. "Does it say something dumb?" one of them asks, to which you respond with "No. It doesn't say anything. That's why I hate it.". Your friends laugh some more and move on with their browsing around while one stays with you for a moment to say "You should buy it and put it in your collection of stupid stuff.". You nod but say "I'm thinking about it but in all honestly this thing is kinda ugly.". It is, the graphics look horrible and Steven is so happy that some else can see that.

After a while of walking around, and grabbing a plush that also got a chuckle out of you, you make your way to Steven at the counter. Now that he's getting a closer look at you, you're very pretty. As he looks you over quickly so as to not be caught by you he notices something else.

The shirt you have on gives a sensible show of your chest and arms and along them are various Egyptian and astrological symbols tattooed on your skin. Steven can name practically all of them with his brief scan of your body. He manages to catch you saying something to him.

"How's your day going?" you ask. He blinks off his stun and answers with a shrugged "Alright. Same work day as all the others. You know?". You nod in response. "I bet you get kids in here all the time." you say, "They always want to leave a shop with something." you laugh. Steven gives a small laugh back as he thinks about all the times a kid came in begging for something. "They usually leave with a toy or one of those little books for kids," Steven says before glancing at the little plush you're buying, "This one is actually really popular. They're usually all gone by the end of the day." he mentions as he takes a look at it himself. "They are pretty cute." you reply, "They're also kind of silly. These figures in Egyptian mythos just being little stuffed dolls that you just have around.". Steven laughs at the thought.

Steven starts to scan the items and he can't help but instinctively cringe a little when holding and looking at the mug. You seem to notice and snicker. "Sorry," Steven apologizes, "But as someone who knows hieroglyphics this thing is awful," he explains.

"It doesn't even translate to anything." you both say in unison. You both smile at the commonality in your opinions on the mug, with Steven maybe feeling a little flutter in his stomach.

"The only reason I'm getting it is because I like to collect novelties that are dumb," you explain. "What about the plush?" Steven questions having thought that the plush was quite endearing. "The plush is dumb in a cute way. The mug is just dumb and I feel like it will fit right in with all the other stupid things I have." you explain. "Well, I'd love to see that collection," Steven comments. "It's actually a really nice talking piece. People like hearing about all the stuff in it." you mention.

Steven nods and as he does he takes a look at a few of your tattoos. You catch it this time and smile, "Do you like them?" you ask. "I think they're lovely," Steven confirms, "Where do you get them done?" Steven questions. There's no reason for him to ask, it's not like he has the guts to get a tattoo himself but he's finally getting that conversation that he's been yearning for. "My friend actually does them. She's a tattoo artist and she secretly give me a discount for some favors like getting her food or doing something for her." you mention, "Some of these are by me though. Sometimes I get drunk and bored at home and just grab a needle and pen ink." you add as you point to a few.

"You tattoo yourself?" Steven gasps. "Don't worry. I'm drunk enough to not really feel anything but still sober enough to clean the area and not have it look terrible," you tell him. "If you ever want a tattoo but not the whole commitment, give me a call. I'll give you as much alcohol as you need." you say with a wink. Steven blushes and bites back an ear-to-ear smile.

You both hear the clearing of a throat behind you. When you both take a look you see your friends standing in line right behind you looking on with looks varying between smug and done with overhearing the back and forth. "Just give him your number already so we can buy our shit." one of them speaks up.

Taglist:

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction (applications open)