#reformatted some shit

[soleilsketches]

scribbly doodly haikavehs (+ a bunch of alhaithams bc he’s really funny) (blood cw:)

[anachronistic-falsehood]

bitb fic tomorrow king???? 👀 bitb fic posted tomorrow perhaps???

[saintajax]

Bats my lashes at you Hi

[crimmson]

between my computer deciding to rebel, and work, and life, and I feel like I have a perpetual minor cold with that kinda slightly stuffy feel and that taste in the back of my throat,

I am kindly requesting someone to just Old Yeller me at this point

[5-pp-man]

helppp this was still in my drafts. ill add the original date later but we finished this game months ago.

-

WE'RE FINALLY DONE WITH TACTICAAAA AGHAGHHS took us around 56 hours. which is between what i expected. 50/60 hours. we're just glad its over and done with (for now. we'll revisit the dlc once we finish royal) its honestly such a shame that it ended up being the way it was.

it was like. ok the entire first area feels like a way too long tutorial. and then the 2nd area had some fun stuff but also felt like a drag cause they kept repeating themselves over and over again in typical p5 fashion…

the third area was easily the best because it finally had good pacing between story and battle amount and then the last area was like the last area in s frontiers were it was clear that they just. sort of ran out of time and just decided to recolour some shit from previous areas to throw at you

the final boss battle was kinda nice though but unfortunately we were way too overpowered on hard mode…? without grinding ever. ok then.

anyways shoutout to brigantine blitzkrieg. the only voltage move we ever used. used it like 8 times in that final battle. shoutout to ryuji in general btw he was almost always in our team. along w yusuke and ann. they were the dreamteam.

also fun fact. whenever lavenza would talk with spoken dialogue we would straight up cut her off because she talks terribly slow and we hate her <3

also i like the style of this game. sure. but i feel like it actively worked against itself whenever it would get really serious the boss designs in this game though? fucking phenomenal like they really knocked it outta the park w those and every p5 game should've used the offwhite in the menus of this one instead of the bright white. my eyes thank the designer of this game

and no way in hell ppl finished this game in 25 hours. shut the hell up no you didn't. i think its barely worth its price at 60 hours, but if people seriously did completionist in only 37 hours... then it for sure isn't

AND ANOTHER THING. Toshiro's audio was fucking abysmal. We seriously turned down EVERY other sound in the game just so we could hear him talk. Who is in charge of the audio mixing for atlus' eng dub. cause i don't even think they have someone for that. either that or they're sleeping on the job. Scramble had this same exact problem but that game didn't let you change volume levels so we just couldn't hear what some characters were saying for like 40% of their dialogue.

The music is this game was also... very unremarkable. Like the opening was nice. besides that, nothing really stood out. Which is a shame because we LOVED the music in Scramble, it was one of the things we got super hyped about.

[almadelsur]

💋 The Secrets One Keeps

summary: You're in love with jj but he's with kie, so in moments of pure desperation you often find yourself turning to the person he hates the most...rafe

warnings: some good old angsty pining, very very slight smut if you squint, fem!reader, one or two uses of y/n, plz let me know if I missed anything

a/n: SHE'S BACKKKK, so I've decided to completely reformat and re-post this fic with a few tweaks and editing considering i first wrote this like 3 years ago, and yes for those of you who have been asking, I fully intend to finallly continue this fic....more info on that later ;)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

JJ’s eyes change the moment Kiara steps into any room. Immediately his presence is ripped away from your immediate atmosphere, popping the little bubble you'd spent all afternoon crafting as he sprung up to greet the olive-skinned enigma that captured his affections.

“Kie!” The joy in his tone was incomparable to anything he’d directed at anybody else. Nothing could draw out such happiness from the blonde. You hated that about her.

In an attempt at self-defense, your brain shut itself off. Shielding you from processing the scene in front of you, your emotions ran cold like cement pouring down and across your neurons. It was the only way you could survive such a beating to your heart.

You figured that by distancing yourself mentally, you wouldn’t have to raise suspicion and distance yourself physically. In reality, you knew the real reasoning was your inability to stay away from JJ but the facade helped you cope.

“Hey J” she embraced him and his body relaxed around her as if she was the only source of his happiness. The only way he’d find alleviation from what he perceived as a shitty life being through her. “Sorry I’m late my parents had me running like crazy at the wreck today.”

Scattered greetings filled the air from the rest of the pogues, yet you could only focus on the way his eyes fixated on her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Here come sit baby” he offered her the seat he had just previously been place holding. What you thought had been quality time with your best friend, presented itself to you now as momentary attention to pass the time until his actual desire arrived.

Settling herself down and offering you a wide smile, her shoulder bumped against yours gently as a sign of acknowledgment.

“Hey dude” she directed at you, but you didn’t reply. You just couldn’t bring yourself to pretend. Not today anyway. Instead, you offered her a small smile, it was minimal but it was the best you could do under the circumstances.

“Yo" A crumpled tissue paper flew at your head, jj attempting to refocus your attention on him, "didn’t you say you were gonna get some water or something?” He spoke up, the scheme evident in his tone.

“um yeah I guess” You lifted yourself up and took a few steps before jj used the opportunity to slump himself down where you had been sat and sprawled his arms across his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“snooze ya loose sucker” he joked as he turned to Kiara to start up some mindless conversation. Leaving you behind in the dust.

Your teeth gritted as you focused on making your way to the kitchen hoping the distance from the scene unfolding would lift the iron grip on your heart.

You made the fatal mistake of glancing back and you were met with the image of jj nuzzling up to kiara in a picturesque display of love. The lump building at the base of your throat indicated that it was your time to get the hell out of there before you broke down in front of everyone. 

“Shit guys, y’know what I just realized I gotta go” You spoke quickly, your tone matching your pace as you rushed to the exit of the chateau. 

“You’re still coming to the party later though right?” John B asked, not tearing his eyes away from the screen in front of him. 

“Mhm yeah sure” you opened the door ready to depart. 

“Shit I forgot about that! Me and jj are gonna be late, we got dinner at the wreck tonight.” kiara added as you stepped out, unable to control the escape of a rogue tear.

“Date night babyyyy” You heard JJ cheer before you slammed the door behind you. 

“Is Y/N okay? She seemed a bit off.” Kie nudged JJ as she questioned. 

JJ furrowed his eyebrows momentarily. Glancing out the window, he saw you jog away from the house, and a brief flash of worry flashed through his mind. As quick as it came, it dissipated. He shook his head figuring that if there had been something wrong, he’d have been the first to know. 

“Nah she’s okay don't worry.” he offered to kie.

Boy was he mistaken. 

——————————————————————

“Fuuuck me” you moaned out, sinking into him one last time. You were hot, sweaty, and heaving as you pulled him out of you.

“I thought I just did” Rafe taunted leaning back to lie down, arms crossed behind his head causing his taut abdomen to flex.

You scrambled off the bed, picking up your garments and shoving them back on your body forcefully.

“What, no pillow talk?” He tried again.

“Rafe..” you trailed off. Whenever you’d finish fucking, you’d struggle to even look at him. The self-hatred flooded your body as soon as the orgasm poured out.

“Hey you called me” he eyed you intently but you knew he didn’t actually care. To rafe cameron everything was just a game. At this point it was pretty much common knowledge. “In fact” he moved closer to you so that he could speak directly into your ear “It’s always you that calls me.”

“Don’t be a dick” you stood up and eyed your heels contemplating whether you could face the walk back in them. “You know it makes me feel like shit.” It might have sounded brutal but that’s how things were with rafe.

“Yeah, it’s like you punctuate your orgasms with self-hate.”

“I'm a pogue, rafe.” You argued back as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“So? Kooks and pogues can fuck you know.” You couldn’t comprehend why you were even having this conversation. Why now, why tonight.

“Yeah maybe, not you though.” You didn’t want to tell him the reason explicitly.

“I fuck pogues.”

“You fuck anyone.” The words came out almost instantly and without thinking, yet rafe took no offense.

“Exactly so what’s the issue?”

“The issue is, rafe.” You paused trying to find the words without actually having to say the words. “The issue is that if my friends found out they’d hate me, probably more than I already hate myself.”

He just chuckled, the look in his eyes changing as he figured you out.

“What's funny?” You challenged.

“You don’t have to bullshit me princess.” He looked up at you with a devilish glint in his eye. “You just don’t want jj knowing about your little escapades huh?” Bingo.

“He’s with Kiara.” You shrugged him off.

“Uh huh, you like him but you can’t have him.” Every word he spoke striking a nerve deep within you. “So you’re fucking me to fuck him over.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You grabbed your heels and shoved them on, wincing as you buckled them up.

“Don’t I?” He threw his joggers on lazily as he stood, the level dynamics changing significantly. The older boy towered over you. “Where are they tonight?”

“Back at John B’s, we had a little get-together.” You crossed your arms. More often than not you usually called rafe after a few drinks left you feeling lonely. “Sorry, your invite must have gotten lost in the mail.” You attempted to jab at him with sarcasm yet he clearly held the upper hand with his line of questioning. 

“So all of them are there now?” He stepped towards you.

“Mhm,” You lied.

“Even jj?” Moving closer until your neck was craned upwards to meet his eyes.

Taking your silence as an answer, he reached up and ran his palms across your upper arms, prompting you to uncross them.

“He was uh- him and kie should be getting there soon” You mumbled.

“So would i be wrong in guessing, that might have prompted your call then?” You let yourself be guided by his movements leaning your neck further back as his hand trailed up to your jawbone.

“rafe…” you called out insignificantly.

He leaned in and pressed his lips against your neck, right over where he could feel your pulse, and pressed down.

You couldn’t help the gasp that left your mouth. Because as much as your heart belonged to jj, rafe was just so fucking good at raising your temperature.

“Round two?” He mumbled against your neck.

“Yeah..” you attempted yet it came out as a whisper. He grabbed you swiftly and lifted you, moving you across the room and throwing you down onto his bed, crawling on top of you in a predatory manner as he did so. As your back hit the bed, the ringing of your phone brought you back from the haze he had you under. 

“Wait rafe stop stop” you pushed him off and grabbed the screeching mobile, pressing it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“Dude, where are you?” The sound of jj’s voice came through over the pumping sound of music and party chatter. “Me and Kie just got back and John B says no one’s seen you for like over an hour.”

“Oh I’m uh, I had to go do something for my mom” The lie pouring out of your mouth caused rafe to chuckle which was of course met by a slap from you signaling for him to be quiet.

“Oh well, when are you getting back? I have to tell you about this date. You’re gonna be so proud of me I actually think I’m ready to tell Kie I love her” you screwed your eyes shut as he spoke.

“Yeah I- you know what I can’t make it back my mom needs me to stay and help out but uh I’ll see you tomorrow or something.” You hung up before he could even reply, throwing your phone down uncaring of its state.

“What’s wrong? They getting hitched?” Rafe spoke up from behind you.

You turned to Rafe, the fire in your veins pushing your arms to grab him, roughly pulling him back onto you.

“Just shut up and fuck me rafe.”

And fuck you he did.

——————————————————————

The next morning you woke up to the sight of rafe’s bare back. Not much of a cuddler, you figured.

Quietly you pushed the covers off and began to dress yourself back up. As you got to your shoes you sighed and shook your head, as if there was any way in hell you were going to walk home in heels. You scooped up your shoes and your now-cracked phone shaking your head, slightly ashamed at your outburst.

Without even a second glance at the sleeping body you were leaving behind, you made your way over to the door. As you turned the knob and stepped out to leave, a husky voice spoke up.

“I’ll keep my ringer on for you babe.”

You rolled your eyes looking back at him, “Fuck you rafe.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on.” He didn’t even open his eyes as he answered, instead just rustling around in the bed and turning to the other side, once again facing his back to you.

You scoffed as you exited. Your internal rant clouded your vision, body on autopilot with an excellent self-navigation of the Cameron house from the countless times you’d made this exit.

“Y/N?” The gentle voice wiped your thoughts clean as the shock stilled you dead in your tracks, slowly turning to come face to face with none other than Sarah.

“Sarah” you drawled out. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my house?” Her head was cocked to the side, equally shocked to see you.

“No I just mean- I thought you were spending the night at John B’s.” You forced the small talk, avoiding the topic of why you were here, sneaking out at 8 in the morning.

“He had to work today, did you spend the night here?” She glanced up at the door of rafe’s bedroom.

“Umm-“ There had only been two other instances where you had been at a complete loss for words. The day jj told you he and Kiara were dating, the morning after your first sexual encounter with rafe, and now this.

“Are you sleeping with my brother?!” She whisper-shouted, eyes wide as the realization hit her. Busted.

“No?”

“Oh my god!” She grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you to her room, slamming the door as soon as you were both inside. “How long has this been going on?!” Her tone was loud and her hands wild as she interrogated you.

“Just a little under a year.” You sat on her bed and looked at your lap as you spoke. Reminiscent of a child being scolded.

“A year?! Oh my god!” She repeated. “Who knows about this?!”

With that, you looked up at her desperately. “No one. No one knows so please don’t tell them.” You didn’t have to name names for her to know who you were referring to.

“Are you two like” she paused “together?” She scrunched her nose up, disgusted at the thought of her bully of an older brother dating anyone.

“No god no. It’s just sex” you were just as uncomfortable as Sarah was, having to tell her about boning her older brother.

“Disgusting.” She turned away from you with her arms crossed, looking out the window.

“Look I’m not proud of it okay? Just-“ You sighed “Just please don’t tell anyone” pleading again.

Sarah let out a long sigh and uncrossed her arms. She walked over to you and joined you on the bed, her eyes showing concern mixed with something you couldn’t quite place your finger on.

“I thought you were into jj” she spoke softly, there it was. Pity.

“Yeah well, jj is with kie and instead of sitting around wallowing in self-pity, I decided to do something about it.” As the words left your mouth, you realized how weak the explanation was.

“So you just use rafe to bang the jj out of you.”

“It’s not like Rafe cares, if anything he’s also using me.” You tried to reason.

“I don’t doubt that. But I mean, that’s- It’s not healthy, you’ll never move on if you don’t actually process your emotio-“

“Look Sarah, I don’t need to do any of that shit okay? What I have here works, when I fu- when I’m with rafe, I don’t think about jj.” Tears began to swell in your eyes “Sleeping with rafe helps me forget about everything, even if it’s only for a little while he uh- he makes me feel good.” To an extent, there was truth behind your words, while you and rafe fucked the rest of the world went away. It was only after, that the crippling self-hatred hit you along with the return of your immense feelings for jj. 

Sarah shuffled over and threw her arm around you. “That’s not good for you, it’s just momentary. It’s easy and it's a cycle, you’re never going to get better going down this path. Especially not with rafe.”

“Rafe he’s- he’s not that bad.”

“Yes he is. But i bet it gives you satisfaction fucking him knowing jj hates him. Feels like revenge right?” She’d always been so perceptive your Sarah, you hated how she could see right through you.

Tears ran down your cheek silently. “You’re not gonna tell anyone right?” You sniffled.

She gave you one of those classic salt-of-the-earth Sarah Cameron smiles, the kinda smile that would light up any room she walked into. “Takin' it to the grave babe.”

A loud beeping caused both your heads to whip towards the window. “Shit, I completely forgot I was supposed to go on the HMS with pope and jj, we were gonna chill there until John B and Kie finished work.” She rose to her feet and extended an arm towards you. “Wanna come? Or we could drop you home if you’re not up for it.”

With a sigh you took her hand and pulled yourself up, walking beside her as you mentally prepped yourself to face the blonde you desperately pined for.

“Well rise and shine campers.” jj yelled out of the window of the drivers seat.

“Y/N! Where you been dude? you totally bailed last night.” Pope was next to speak as you and Sarah filed into the Twinkie. As JJ began to drive you avoided any form of eye contact in his general direction.

“I had to go help my mom out, blackout at mine again.” You didn’t even look at pope either, instead focusing your attention on the blur of trees and houses pacing by the window as JJ sped down the winding roads.

“Isn’t that what you were wearing last night?” pope, observant as always, pointed out.

“Uh yeah, I didn’t really get any time to change cause…”

“I called her last night when I got home, I was so drunk I don’t think I was ready to stop the party.” Sarah covered for you.

“Yeah I wrapped up helping my mom out and then this one calls me talkin bout a sleepover or something so I didn’t exactly have much time to change.” 

Thankfully pope had lost interest as soon as he had asked the question, otherwise, your overcompensating ass would have been caught out straight away. You always had to add to the lie until you felt like you had sold it completely.

Keeping your eyes trained on the outside meant that jj’s frown directed at you through the windscreen mirror went completely undetected. He always knew whenever there was something up with you and right there and then he knew something definitely was.

“Hey, you okay?” He didn’t need to address you explicitly for you to know he was talking to you.

“Yeah just tired.” You shrugged him off in an attempt to distance yourself from him yet again.

He knew you were lying but he didn’t understand why, you never lied to each other. Apart from John B, the pair of you were closer to each other than with anybody else in the group. You’d been best friends since kindergarten, and since then you’d sworn 3 things to each other.

1- You’d always share your snacks.

2-You’d always be best friends even if you argued.

 3- You would never ever lie or keep secrets from each other.

Of course, as the both of you grew older the rules became more and more lax. The snack sharing was limited only to when you felt nice enough and sometimes you’d go for days without making up if you had argued particularly badly. Having kept two friendship-breaking secrets from him, the childhood rules seemed pretty insignificant by now.

“Mhm,” he responded, flickering his eyes between you and the road. “Are we taking you home to change first?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll join you guys afterward though.” You chewed down on your nail anxiously as the tension from being in the same space as jj paired with the guilt from having fucked rafe prior, suffocated you.

JJ made a face as he focused on the road, something was wrong with you and he’d be dammed if he wasn’t going to put his everything into finding out what that was.

[bmpmp3]

and sorry to be in the visual culture field on main again but every day i have to figure out how to cite the most random shit in chicago format

[e-flo]

here it is y'all, i'm reposting, reformatting, and finishing (!) this behemoth of a fic i wrote back in 2017. the first 3 chapters will be uploaded this week, and then every monday i'll post the next one. the last of which will be posted on christmas day wowie

i wrote this back when i was Deep in the YeeHan sauce and wanted to challenge myself to writing something every day for a month. i did pretty well, and i'm actually still very happy with the content! unfortunately, a lot of overwhelming stuff happened at that time and i lost a lot of gumption to finish this. i'm using this opportunity to give this bad boy some closure, i'm ready for it to be complete!

thanks to anyone who read the original ficlets, those will be removed as i go along but i appreciate every kudos, comment, and bookmark. :)

[zeemczed]

Sniper: Will ask your pronouns, then talk shit about you. See above perfect illustration.

Demoman: Will talk shit about you with assumed pronouns, then check with you later, then (if he was incorrect) will correct himself with the proper pronouns by redoing the entire shit-talking rant.

Spy: Knows your pronouns long before he talks shit about you. Also knows your preferences, your kinks, and your secret fanfic account. Is judging you for your taste in comics and your ships.

Soldier: Assumes "he" if he can't figure out your pronouns at a glance. Requires a whack in the head to correct. Will then threaten to rocket-launch anyone who misgenders you in earshot.

Heavy: Rarely shit-talks anyone. Will get your pronouns right. May avoid referring to you with pronouns and instead use a nickname until he hears your pronouns in conversation.

Scout: Talks shit about you (although not in any serious way) with assumed pronouns. If you correct him he will pause mid-shit-talking to apologize, hit on you if it turns out you're a she/her, and then will go right back to shit-talking without missing a beat.

Engineer: Will not refer to you with gendered terms until he knows your pronouns. Will only talk shit about you if you find a way to insult his work in a way that matters.

Medic: Checks your medical paperwork before using pronouns at all, only talks shit about you to Archimedes.

Pyro: Changes which pronouns they talk about you with every single time they refer to you. Cannot even keep your name straight. Shit-talking game is utterly incomprehensible. Like. Literally, can you comprehend them? No? I did not think so.

[dinogoofymutated]

You asked for some smut suggestions for Logan, and I got one:

So like…I mean…Logan might be on the short side, but he’s still big! I mean, like,,,those hands 🫣 It would be nice to see a fic to do with Logan and a little manhandling. but not like in a BDSM way, more like a “I am very strong, and here’s a little reminder” type way. Might seem kinda silly but I’d enjoy a fic like that lol.

NSFW!Wolverine/AFAB!Reader Ask and you shall receive!! I've spent like the last four days working on this and atp I can't looks at it anymore lol. I'm not super happy with how the beginning is written, but I still think it's alright enough to post lol. It's a lot more tell than show compared to most of my other fics, and I was halfway tempted to reformat it into headcannons, but I didn't feel like it. Anyway, hope you like the way I included the manhandling lol! Hope it turned out okay :) Also, might or might not be tall logan. I'll leave it up to yall to assume, I'm just short af so there's not a single person in marvel who wouldn't have to look down at me lmao.

Edit:FUCK I FORGOT THE READ MORE! TWs: MDNI!!!!!! Seriously, you will be blocked. Masterbation, lil bit of a scent kink. Sexual frustration. Manhandling. Jealous Logan. Creampie. Logan calls you "sunshine" and pretty and shit. I'll add more if I can think of any.

    You had a problem. You’ve had a problem. And it really didn’t seem like it was getting any better. It didn’t help the fact that it was incredibly embarrassing, either.

    You couldn’t get off. It’s not like you ever struggled with it before, but lately, it felt like you were fighting a losing battle. At first, you didn’t realize why. Maybe it was because you moved into the X-Mansion. Nerves because you’re living somewhere new, right? So you change it up a little. You got comfortable, had a glass of wine or two, and picked up a raunchy book. Yet every time you slipped your hand between your thighs… Running circles around your own clit, trying your best to finger yourself to your finish, you just could never quite hit that peak. It was safe to say you were beyond frustrated.

    Lucky for you, most people didn’t notice. You try your best not to be too uptight or mean, but there are just some things that you can’t quite hide from certain people.

    Logan’s noticed that something is up with you. You can tell he has, seeing the looks on his face, nose scrunched up in a way he’s catching into something that he just can't quite place. You’re assuming it’s your own pheromones, but hey, as long as he doesn’t realize what it is you’ll be fine, right?

     Maybe not.

    Eventually, you finally realized why you were having so much trouble getting off. All it took was one training session with Wolverine, and you knew immediately. You weren’t sparring or anything like that, hell, you knew before you even hit the danger room floor. Logan was in a bit of a mood today, although not as grumpy as he can be- and he’s trying to be patient with you. You can tell. But you’re having trouble focusing today- and you have been for a while. He can tell you’re not at 100% just by the way you hold yourself, and spends about 5 minutes watching as you struggle to reset the Danger room panel before he’s finally fed up with it.

    “Jesus fuck. Here, let me do it.” Logan grabs you by the waist, pulling you to his chest with one arm as the other reaches around you to reset the panel. It’s not like you didn’t find him attractive before, but the close contact? The smell of his aftershave and the sound of his voice growling in your ear? 

    oh.

    Oh. 

    You were having trouble getting off because you had a thing for Logan.

    You’re practically stunned when he pulls away, standing there with a flushed face and something rather embarrassing pooling in your underwear for the first time in a while. You had to quickly excuse yourself before you ran the risk of him catching onto anything coming from you. He’s a little confused for a second, but you can hear the sound of his low chuckle as you scramble away.

    First thing you do? Go to the store.

    It's not a random errand. At least, not entirely. You had meant to go out with Storm to grocery shop later this afternoon, but you told her you could really use some time out of the house by yourself, which she completely understood. You had the list and everything, it was only a coincidence that you passed by the cologne section on your way to pick up some toothpaste. The sight made you stop for a minute, the gears grinding in your skull. You spent just a few minutes curiously sampling the bottles until you found one that smelled a bit familiar… Should you? No, that's a bit strange. But really, what was the harm, right? I mean, who would know? 

    So you bought it. You felt a bit embarrassed afterward, knowing what you bought it for, and ended up letting it sit in the drawer of your side table for a good while. Until another desperate attempt at fucking your own brains out, that is. 

    You were sweaty and uncomfortable in your bed, sleep shirt sticking to your skin as you struggled to pump your fingers in and out of your tight cunt. It’s been a while, and it shows. You couldn’t even get your favorite dildo to fit inside of you, only adding to your frustration. Touching your clit hardly helped much, leaving you as unsatisfied as ever. Eventually, you give up, lying there as you sigh to yourself. You turn over in your bed in a huff, halfway temped scream your lungs out into the pillow you bury your face in. Instead, you let out something that sounds more like a whisper than a yell, letting the air in your lungs deflate as you let your feelings out. You roll over onto your side when you’re done, halfway tempted to be done with it entirely and go back to bed when you catch sight of the nightstand drawer, slightly ajar. The amber bottle of liquid stares right at you. 

    You open the drawer some more, picking up the bottle and looking at it as you wonder if you’re actually going to do this. But you’re ridiculously horny, and tired, and you know you’re gonna have trouble falling asleep in the state you’re in- so you end up spraying the smallest amount on your pillow.

    It’s…nice. The pillow is warm from where you had been laying on it, and despite how strong men’s cologne could be, this one isn’t quite so striking. At least, not in the amount that you used. You relax back into your bed, pressing your face into the pillow and laying there for a moment. You start thinking about Logan… His calloused hands running across your skin. How his lips and tongue would feel against your own, trailing down your body to your breast. Your hand trails down to your clit as you imagine it as his own. You imagine him behind you, pressing you to the bed as he growls into your ear. You think about what his happy trail would feel like against you. What his cock would look like, feel like, pressing into you. Your legs twitch and shake as you see stars underneath your eyelids, the scent of Logan hitting all the right parts in your head and going straight to your cunt.

    Holy shit. 

    Your orgasm lasts what feels like forever. Your legs are still shaking as you whimper from oversensitivity and pull your hand away, panting as you try to catch your breath. You haven’t cum that hard since… ever. Maybe the cologne was worth it, after all.

    You felt really good the morning after. You found yourself humming in the shower, more energized at breakfast and morning drills. No one had said anything, but you knew there were a few who were relieved to see you back to your usual self. If anything, the only person you noticed acting very differently around you was Logan. He was more tense than normal. He scowled a lot, spending less time in your presence. You’d strike up a conversation that would only last a few minutes before he would make an excuse and leave. It made you a little disappointed. But you knew him and knew he had good and bad days, so you brushed it off at first. But a week, two weeks- almost a month went by, and still no change. You felt scorned almost, silently rejected by the guy you had finally realized you were practically in love with, and to be honest, the only man who could get you off just by thinking about him- and boy, did you get off while thinking about him. 

    You’ve almost resigned yourself to the fact that Logan wasn’t interested when he corners you one morning. He’s leaning up against the wall of the hallway,�� waiting for you when you step out of your room. It makes you jump a little, closing your door quickly behind you, knowing damn well you hadn’t washed your sheets after fucking yourself to the moon and back last night and fully not wanting the smell to hit his nose. All Logan does is narrow his eyes. Shit.

    “Who is he.” He asks you. The question completely derails your train of thought. And you furrow your brow, confused. What was that about?

    “Who is he? Your guy?” He asks again, but it does little to clear up your confusion. You’re halfway wondering if he’s being serious at this point, stepping away from your door as you cross your arms.

    “What?” You ask. Logan huffs when you respond to him, cocking his head at you in a way that's more sarcastic than curious. The way he’s looking at you is doing some things that you don’t think you’d like to admit, eyes narrow and scrutinizing as you struggle to keep eye contact with him.

    “What do you mean? What guy?” You repeat back to him, starting to get a little frustrated. He snorts, rolling his eyes as his scowl lingers. He steps closer, looking down at you from less than a foot away with that angry stare.

    “Don’t play stupid with me, sunshine. I can smell him on you.” You ignore the way the nickname makes you shiver a little bit, too busy shrinking into yourself when you process the extent of his words. Smell. He could smell someone on you. Something. Oh god, this was embarrassing. 

    “Oh! That- It’s not what you're thinking!” You say, face flushed red. You’re flustered beyond belief, doing your best to convince him to leave it be, and it’s not going so well for you.

    “Sure it’s not.” Logan huffs. He starts to take steps forward, closing in on your personal space.

    “It’s not. I can promise you that.” You’re anxiously fiddling with your fingers now, taking a step back for every step he takes. He looked predatory, unlike any time you’ve seen him before. You haven’t even seen him like this in the danger room, even less so on the battlefield. 

    “Just tell me who he is.” Logan is adamant about it, his scowl beginning to turn into a frown. Your back hits your door, kickstarting your heart in surprise. You hadn’t realized he had backed you up so far.

    “I can’t!” You say, in the beginning stages of becoming absolutely exasperated, and already incredibly embarrassed. 

    “Why not!?” Logan Snaps, stopping just inches away from you. You cover your heated face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you see shapes, wanting nothing more than to curl up and die right then and there.

    “Would you just leave it!” You shout, but Logan’s having none of it. 

    “No, I won't!” Logan grabs your wrists and moves them away from your face, holding them in front of your chest with a grip lighter than you might have thought. You groan in utter frustration and mortification, looking him dead in the eyes as your angry mouth starts speaking before your reasonable brain can fully catch up.

    “Jesus Christ Logan! Do you expect me to just whip out the silicone and show you?!” Your eyes widen as soon as you say it, slamming your mouth shut as you finally catch up with yourself. Logan is staring at you in absolute shock, jaw almost slack at the confession. 

    “...What?” He asks, slowly. You wince, looking off to the side before deciding it's a bit too late to get the cat back into the bag.

    “Its… Cologne. What you’re smelling. I use it to uh, help me…” You make a sort of gesture with your head, praying that you won’t actually have to spell it out for him. He’s still in shock as he looks at you, hands frozen with his fingers wrapped around your wrists. He clears his throat when he comes to, an unreadable expression on his face as he slowly steps forward again, close enough to press his forehead against your own as he presses you against your door.

    “You’re that pent up, you need cologne to help you get off?” He asks, and you don’t know what to say, cat catching your tongue as he leans forward. The side of his face brushes against your cheek as he leans down a little, the action making your skin prickle. One of his hands releases a wrist to slide up and across the back of your neck, tilting your head to the side as he takes a big sniff of your skin. He’s practically nuzzling you, angling his head so that he can smell the scent on the back of your head where you rest against your pillow at night. 

    He’d noticed it before, at night when most of his anger had worn off, sometime after he started to pick up the scent on you. The undertones, the top notes. But now with you this close, he can tell that it wasn’t another man he was smelling. No. It was just you. Your scent being drowned out by the smell of something that he could finally tell smelled rather suspiciously like his very own aftershave.

    “...Don’t tell me that you wanted it to smell like me.” He asks after a moment. You almost flinch at the sound of his deep rumble, turning your red face away from him. You swallow, feeling like you are absolutely burning up as you nod- right as Logan catches the unmistakable scent of arousal.

    “Fuck”

    You’re sure the sound was more animal than man as he cups your cheek rather aggressively, pressing his lips against your own in a rather desperate kiss. It takes you a second to return it, eyes wide as you process just what was happening. It didn't take long for you to melt into his desperate kisses though, every nip and brush of his teeth just like you imagined it would be. He presses his knee in between your thighs, finally releasing your other wrist to grab ahold of your hip instead. You accidentally let out a whine when he grinds your hips against him, your heart beating so fast you were sure it was going to explode. He curses again at the sound, both hands sliding around you to lift you against the door.

    You practically squeak in surprise, the noise caught by Logan’s mouth on your own one more time before he trails down to your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin. You gasp as he presses against you, his hips beginning to grind against your own. You’re having a hard time thinking, biting your lip as you do your best to stifle your sounds.

    “Logan-ah, can we… head inside, please?” He only grunts in response, shifting your weight as you both begin to fumble for the doorknob. He gets it before you do, hardly stumbling as the door behind you swings open. He’s kissing you again before the door is even closed, kicking it behind him. As preoccupied as you are, you at least have the common sense to reach over and try to lock the door before he carries you over to the bed. 

    He plops you down onto the mattress before he crawls over you, eyes half-lidded and just as lustful as your own. He pushes you down as you try to sit up. His breathing a little hard, pupils dilated to a size you had never seen.

    “Now I know why you closed the door so fast,” Logan smirks, having picked up the lingering scent of your sex on the sheets right away. You open your mouth to reply, but he cuts you off. His tongue snakes into your mouth, and you find that you can’t really remember what you were going to say anyway. He kisses you again and again, distracting you as he reaches above your head. He pulls away when he has the pillow in hand, and you know just by the look on his face that he knows exactly what he is holding.

    “Hate to break it to you, but this doesn’t exactly compare to the real thing.” He snarks. It makes you laugh, and for the first time in a while, you see a genuine smile spread across his face. 

    “Yeah.” You respond, taking the pillow from his hands and tossing it to a far-off corner. “I know.” You could revel in his smile for as long as he’d let you. Logan’s kisses start off sweeter this time, at least for a moment they did. They begin to become more and more rough as hands start to wander and clothes start to come off. His shirt is first to go, your hands running up and down the hair that spans his torso. Logan is quick to remove your shirt and bra in one go, one very small step away from cutting off your clothes entirely. He gives himself a minute to appreciate your breasts, pinching and teasing you by sliding a hand up the middle of your sternum, the back of his hand brushing the side of a tit as he watches you squirm underneath him, arching your back to push your chest out, practically begging him to finally touch you.

    “Patience is a virtue, Sunshine.” Logan says, causing you to scoff. You glare at him a little and all it does is make him chuckle a bit. 

    “Don’t be mean.” You whine. He laughs a bit harder as he finally lowers himself to your chest. He keeps his eyes locked on your own as he brushes the blunt ends of his teeth across the soft skin, but he’s never been the most patient man. It doesn't take him long to give in to you, sucking on each breast individually, massaging the soft skin of the opposite as he does so. 

    “Careful.” He growls when your own hands begin to wander, touching him over the fabric of his jeans. He releases your nipple with a pop, bearing his teeth as he presses his face back into your neck. You don't pay much mind to that, rather enjoying the grunts and sounds he makes as you slowly stroke his covered hardness from base to tip. You can't imagine how restrained he must be feeling. You can’t help but smirk a little as your hands drift up and down, before oh So slowly unbuckling his belt. Logan is agitated, practically bucking his hips into your hands to get you to just get over with it. 

    “Patience is a virtue.” You quote, only earning a restraining hold on your hands once again.

    “Fuck that.” Logan growls. He holds you by your wrists, pushing them above your head as he uses his free hand to remove his belt and frantically unbuckle his pants. You'd be complaining if it weren't for the view of his straining cock, slapping against his abdomen as he pulls his pants down. 

    You don't get to stare for too long before he flips you on your stomach like you weigh nothing. He lets your wrists go to pull down your shorts and underwear, a sticky string of your slick thinning as he pulls the items down.

    “Fuck. You're this wet from just that?” Logan asks you, taking two fingers and sliding them through your lips from behind, spreading his fingers to let himself see the mess you've made of yourself already.

    “...shut up.” You mumble, more focused on the feeling of those very same fingers sliding back and forth across your cunt, the tips just barely brushing against your clit every time. Logan chuckles, sliding one hand under your lower stomach to lift your hips with ease. Your hips buck as he slides a thick finger inside of you without warning, slowly sinking down to his knuckle with ease.

    “Might not even need foreplay at this rate.” Logan rumbles behind you, eyes set squarely on the sight of your pretty pussy spread wide open for him. You can only moan in response as he pulls it back out again, plunging a second finger into you this time. Your hands clutch the sheets as Logan begins to finger fuck you to his content, curling those thick digits to hit that one spot juuust right. You try not to buck or squirm too bad, halfway wondering if this is all just some wet dream. 

    “Logan-” You call out for him through your moans. He only hums in reply, preoccupied at the moment.

    “I- god- I need your cock, please.” You're not sure if it was the phrase or the begging, but it makes Logan groan. You feel embarrassingly empty as he pulls his fingers out. You hear the sound of him stroking his hard cock with your slick, groaning and humming to himself before he picks you up. He leans over you, adjusting to you your hands and knees as you finally feel that thick, thick cock grinding against you. You gasp at the way it feels, feeling Logan smirk against your back.

    “Having second thoughts?” The tone of his voice is teasing, but you know there's more than that behind the words. You vehemently shake your head, grinding back against him a little as you protest. Logan swears under his breath, holding onto your hips to keep them still as he sits up.

    Both of you groan each time the head of his cock catches on your clit, Logan thrusting through your lips again and again as he lubes himself with the wetness you provide for him. You gasp when his head catches on your slot, notching just right. 

    Logan pushes into you so slowly, and you feel like he's thicker than you ever imagined he would be. You're impatient, desperate. You push back onto him in an attempt to take him in more, but his hands on your hips stop you.

    “Believe me sweetheart, you don't want that yet.” Logan tells you, straining himself with how tight you feel around him. He soothingly rubs his thumbs against your skin, pressing into you until you have him completely, balls deep inside you. 

    “Please, please. Logan, Please, I need you to move.” Your begging starts to sound like nonsense to your own ears, but it makes Logan gasp all the same, his cock twitching from where it's buried inside of you. You practically cry in relief when he finally begins to thrust Inside of you.

    His hip smack against your ass with every thrust, the sound of the slap mixed with the sounds of your love and the headboard hitting the wall a lewd and filthy symphony. Even better than your own moans were Logan's himself. Each and every groan and growl above you gave you a whole new array of things to imagine while fucking yourself- if you ever had to do so again. 

    You whine and whimper with every strong thrust, Logan slow and forceful with every movement. It felt like he wanted your insides to memorize exactly how his cock feels inside of you, and you doubt you'd ever mind it. He filled you perfectly, hitting every sweet spot inside of you.

    Your arms are shaking. Struggling to hold yourself up with each and every rock of the bed. You barely start to buckle when He catches hold of you, an arm snacking under your chest and pulling you towards him. His hand spans your collarbone as he holds your back against his chest, holding you up as he continues to fuck you like no one before. You're closing in on that sweet release when his hips stutter a moment. His teeth dig into your shoulder with a sharp bite, holding you there close to him without breaking the skin.

    “Are… are you -ah- close?” You ask. Logan only responds with a short and simple - “Fuck!” - before he pulls out of you.

    You don't have time to whine about the emptiness before he's flipping you around, kissing you again as he pushes your back to the bed rather aggressively. He's quick to sling your legs over his arms, folding you in half as he sides fully into you in a single thrust. He's hitting you so much deeper in this position, chest pressed against your own as his thrusts continue to stutter. 

    Logan kisses you again, a bit differently than the last ones have been. These kisses are tender, sweet. A stark difference between his needy, frantic thrusts. There's a line of spit between you two as he pulls away, half-lidded eyes meeting your own. You’re closing in on your peak, and you can tell he is too. The pleasure is too much for you to handle at once, and you can't help but squeeze your eyes shut.

    “Look at me.” Logan grabs a hold of your chin, your eyes flying open as he thumbs at your lip and holds your head still. “Don't look away.” His hips stutter some more, the both of you groaning as you clench around him, desperately trying to keep your eyes open as you finally cum around his cock. The fluttering of your walls are more than enough to send Logan over the edge, his cum warming your insides in thick spurts. Logan buries his face into your neck, groaning as you ride out both of your orgasms.

    The two of you lay there for a moment, trying to catch your breath. Logan lets go of your sore legs, massaging your thighs as he presses sweet, comforting kisses to your cheek and temple. His hands wander up and down your sides, doing his best to soothe your aches without you even having to ask. -not that he would ever admit to having a soft side. Who would believe you if you told them that The Wolverine was a cuddler after sex anyway?

    “Why didn't you just tell me?” You ask after a long moment. Logan hums, his Face tucked into the crook of your neck.

    “Tell you what?”

    “That you were jealous.” Logan only snorts at that, playfully pinching your side.

    “Jealous of what? Your cologne?” He returns. You slap him on the shoulder as he chuckles at you, unable to stop the playful smile on your face.

    “You mean the cologne that you thought was a whole-ass guy?” Logan stops at that, instead choosing to cover your mouth with his palm as he tucks his head closer.

    “You're a lot prettier when you're quiet. You know that?”

[euniexenoblade]

See, this is part of the problem with these forcemasc people. They think we need to address the misogyny and humiliation of forcefem so forcefem can be nicer to people, but like, then it wouldnt be forcefem. They can't comprehend that forcefem isn't just someone telling you you're cute in a skirt, it's an entire kink about "lowering" yourself to a girl and doing "girl" things. The whole idea is humiliation from a place of misogyny. This is why they don't understand why transfems reclaiming forcefem and revamping it to be 'forcing transition' is actually pushing against the grain. It's not just telling a transfem she's cute in a dress, it's taking a kink a lot of us found some weird acceptance in and stripping it of its misogyny and reformatting it for us, it's a fantasy, the older trans woman is here to help you find your way, whether you want it or not.

And, that's why forcemasc fails. They don't get that it's meant to play with *shame* and *force* or even *consent,* they don't understand that it's actually reclamation from misogyny, instead of trying to make their own thing they just badly copy us and make something that fundamentally doesn't make sense. I didn't say forcemasc is "stupid" cuz I don't think masc people should be supportive of each other, I'm saying forcemasc is stupid cuz their fantasies don't involve *force* or *shame* or *consent* it's just flowery shit.

[charliemwrites]

Mean Simon, Part 5

Another thing in the queue done 😎 also plan on reformatting this so it has a proper title and pretty dividers tonight.

Content: Established kidnapping situation, dub-con touching, Fear Play/Kink

Simon and Johnny come home from deployment to you snoozing in the den. The house is clean as always, smells like lemons and linen, but there are signs of you everywhere. A half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, a book on the arm of the couch, a cup left on the kitchen counter. Not the spick and span catalgouesque space they left.

Simon’s a little surprised to find he doesn’t mind. Something in his shoulders eases at the sight of you. A soft thing to come home to, nesting up in his and Johnny’s territory. A novelty that hasn't worn off.

“Oh, pretty girl,” Johnny coos, dropping his bags in the entry and beelining for you.

The sound of him startles you, fingers curling tight into the blankets. You make a nervous sound of protest, disoriented as you blink against the afternoon light. Not that he cares, smothering you beneath his weight and kissing your face.

“Johnny…?” you yawn, slow to release the fabric. Take a moment to calibrate and then nudge gently at his chest. “S’mon doesn’ like shoes on the carpet.”

“That’s right,” Simon rumbles, “so I’m having a hard time understanding why the fuck they’re there.”

Johnny jolts, shoots him a sheepish look over his shoulder. All it takes is a narrow glare for him to skitter away, mumbling apologies and excuses about missing you. Simon ignores him for the moment.

“Here, pet.”

It takes you an extra beat to realize he's talking to you, but then you’re up and padding over to him, rubbing at your eyes. You stop within arms reach (progress, he notes) and peer at him through your lashes.

“Hi, sir,” you chime.

Not quite what he had in mind, but it’s a start.

“Good while I was gone?”

You tilt your head. “Yes? Unless… there was something I was supposed to do…?”

He huffs in amusement. Such a nervous, sweet thing. He pats your head, smirks a bit at how you fluster, hands fidgeting.

“House looks fine,” he says by way of answer.

“Oh, I-I left some things out…” you mumble, glancing at the few unobtrusive items. “Sorry.”

“Just keep it under control, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

Johnny, just finished removing his boots and gear, wraps himself around you from behind. You place a hand slowly on his arm in return, hiding that you don’t melt into him the way he does to you.

“Are you hungry?” you ask.

Not especially, but Simon’s never hungry fresh off a mission, belly warm with more than his share of slaughter. But the thought of your cooking is appetizing.

“Make something.”

“Okay.” You wiggle a bit and tap at Johnny’s tight arm. “Johnny?”

Simon bites back a chuckle at the helpless look you shoot him.

“Shower, Sergeant. Now.”

“Yessir,” Johnny grumbles, slow to unwind from you. Petulant little shit.

As soon as you’re clear, Simon snatches him by the scruff. You jump, eyes rounding.

“Off to the kitchen, little one. The mutt needs one more run ‘round the yard I think.”

Johnny whines, but Simon’s watching your face, noting the fear that flickers across it while you inch away. Just as he suspected, even seeing Johnny disciplined is enough to shake you.

“Yes, sir,” you reply more fervently, turning on your heel and nearly bolting.

He lets out a breath. One thing at a time. For now, he’s got a spoiled pup to bring to heel.

Simon’s been busy these last two weeks.

Johnny on his own is nearly a full time job. Even after he got you, the pup is high energy and too clever for his own good. A working dog, that one. And finding “work” for him to do (especially since he’s been banned from entertaining himself with your pretty holes) has kept Simon rather occupied during this leave.

Add you to the mix and Simon’s bloodlust has been slower to boil over than usual - too busy to miss his guns.

He’s been acclimating you. The No Touching directive seems seared into your muscles, a good lesson to have, an important rule for your own safety as much as Simon’s preference. But it doesn’t serve him any longer. He’s trying to retrain you to Johnny’s rule, No Touching Without Permission - but of all your apprehensions, this one seems the worst.

You’ve gotten braver about speaking to him. Only stutter over every other sentence rather than every other word. You still pick and choose carefully, tune your voice to the notes of conciliation, but not silent unless spoken to anymore. Simon’s almost proud.

But the touching issue. That’s what he really wants to break.

You can at least share space with him now without startling at every little thing. Curled up on the couch, you’re folding laundry. Johnny’s gone off to shower, busy in the garden all afternoon. The telly is on, a sci-fi movie that Simon isn’t interested in but you seem to enjoy.

You're cross-legged in a loose pair of shorts and the jumper Johnny stuffed you into (with his own name across the back, the little shit). Quiet, calm. He likes the way you fold clothes - imprecise, a little messy. Not the perfect squares he and Johnny make.

“Pet.”

You turn to him, expression curious. Much better.

“C’mere.”

You pause. “Can I finish this shirt?”

He nods. There’s only a tiny shake in your hands as you do. Then you stand and shuffle to close the small distance.

Still not touching.

Lazily, he spreads his knees apart, feet planted wide and beckons you closer with a finger. This time you do hesitate, knee bent to step forward for one beat… two… then you finally force yourself to squeeze between his legs. You don’t even brush against him. It’s almost impressive.

“Told you to c’mere, didn’t I?” he drawls.

You brow furrows, confusion turning your plush lips into a cute little pout.

“I - am I not… here?” you ask.

He practically purrs. “No.” He gestures again. “Here.”

You suck in a tiny breath as it seems to click. “Y-your lap?”

He hums. You open your mouth, close it. Fidget and then open your mouth again. Nothing comes out.

“Not gonna say again, pet,” he rumbles.

You inhale deeply. And then, as if he’s a bear trap about to snap closed, you start to climb over him. Slowly, so slowly, you ease each of your legs over his, hands hovering until you nearly lose your balance and have to use his shoulders for support. You’re straddling him, but none of your weight is on his thighs; you’re up on your knees and trembling.

He meets your eyes. Waits.

“Sir… I…”

“All the way.”

Embarrassed heat radiates off you as you lower slowly, until your soft ass is pillowed on his broad thighs.

“Good girl,” he soothes. “See, that’s not so bad, is it?”

You shake your head, but you’re not able to meet his eyes. He’s starting to see why Johnny fawns over you so much. You make such precious expressions.

“Eyes up.”

You drag your gaze to his - and this time he does coo. You’re all teary and overwhelmed, nearly holding your breath, fingers twitching on his shoulders.

“You’re doing so well, lamb.”

You’re struggling to maintain eye contact, so he takes pity, appreciating the entirety of you on him instead. Admires the round pudge of your thighs and bent hips, the curve of your spine staying upright. He thumbs your ribs, feels your heart rabbiting against them.

“Breathe,” he coaxes.

You inhale sharply, blinking hard. His cock jumps against the waistband of his joggers.

“I-is there…?” You stop. He nods for you to try again. “W-why, um… this?”

“Think you ‘n I could use some exposure to each other, eh?”

You blink. “E-exposure?”

“Mm.” He raises a hand, gradually so you can see it coming. Twists a strand of your hair around his trigger finger - lets it bounce back. Does it again. “Can’t have you skitterin’ about like a kicked dog.”

“Oh.” You blink. “I-I thought…”

He waits for you to finish the sentence, but you just press your lips together nervously. Still a work in progress, then.

“‘F I wanted that, you wouldn’t be up here.”

Never mind the months he spent ignoring your presence and scowling when you got too close. Or the week he made a game of spooking you just before this all began. He doesn’t want that anymore.

You may be Johnny’s toy, but Johnny belongs to Simon. Besides, he got you for Johnny. Only right that he plays with you too.

“Alright, little one. Off you go before the pup comes back and makes a fuss.”

You scramble as quickly and carefully as you can back to your end of the couch. Simon turns back to the telly and lets you be.

Johnny, bless him, doesn’t notice that you’re any quieter than usual.

The next time he has you climb into his lap, he’s drinking bourbon. You’ve cast him one too many glances from your side of the couch, keep losing your place in your book.

When Johnny eventually shuffles off to shower and prep his pretty ass, Simon calls you over again. You crawl across the couch and sit back on your heels at his side, more curious than frightened for once.

“You want a sip?” he asks, tilting the glass towards you.

“…please?” you ask.

He hums. “Tilt your head.”

You only jolt a little when he cups the nape of your neck, urging your head back. Understanding, you part your lips - though you must be expecting the glass. You squeak a little as he seals his mouth over yours, golden drops of bourbon sliding off his tongue onto yours.

He lingers, the taste of you mixing with the alcohol into something heady. Your mouth is so sweet and yielding, tongue shy as it grazes his. He licks across your dull canines, relishes in the noise trapped in the back of your throat, before pulling away.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It burns,” you mumble, a bit high-pitched.

“You’ll get used to it.”

With liquid courage in your tummy, you make the journey into his lap a little quicker this time.

“What’re you lookin’ at, huh?” he asks, leaning back to watch you through lidded eyes.

“You, um… your jaw. You usually wear the mask,” you explain, flushing.

“Pull it up to eat,” he points out.

“‘M usually eating too, though.”

He snorts in amusement. “Nosy little thing.”

You must hear that he doesn’t mean it because your voice isn’t especially sincere when you mumble, “sorry.”

Your eyes keep roaming what little of his face is available, though. And your twitchy little fingers keep flexing in his shirt.

“Ask.”

“Can I touch?”

He hums. “Ask nicer.”

You blink, consider. “May I please touch your face, sir?”

He grunts the affirmative, mouth dried by the honeyed lilt to your voice. Sugar would taste bitter in comparison.

Your fingers brush featherlight across the point of his jaw. Follow the line of it until you reach a nasty scar from a hunting knife. Trace it twice before creeping along to his chin. You repeat it for the mark there, all the way up to the corner of his lips. He snaps his teeth, making you yelp and jerk back.

“That was mean,” you complain quietly.

“Poor dear,” he croons, flashing his canines again.

“D-don’t bite… please.”

He makes a noncommittal noise, but you still take the chance of skimming those gentle fingers across his mangled cheek. It’s a strange sensation, charged. Sends odd prickles across his entire face, down his spine. Not even Johnny touches him this softly.

Simon’s teeth and jaw ache with the urge to sink in and shake. You’d give like a ripe peach, he just knows it. Would taste just as good. His mouth waters.

“Enough.”

You instantly pull away. Not even a squeak of protest. He flutters his eyes open; you’ve got both hands clearly visible and to yourself. Smart thing.

“You scared ‘o me?” he wonders.

You don’t answer, but the indent your teeth press into your bottom lip is answer enough.

“Good. Should be.”

You swallow, start to lower your hands, intending to get off his lap. He snatches up one of your wrists before you get far, the bones so delicate in his grasp. You gasp quietly, but know better than to try to escape.

“Didn’t tell you to go yet.”

“O-okay,” you breathe.

Eyes on yours, he drags your hand closer, brushes his lips across the tender meat of your thumb. Your fingers stay lax, but your pupils are blown out. Slowly, deliberately, he presses his teeth into the flesh and closes his jaw until you twitch, expression tightening with discomfort. There.

He stays like that for the count of three, then lets go.

There’s a perfect imprint of his teeth in your skin. Might even bruise. Pretty.

He twists his wrist, flattens your palm against his. So much smaller than his, more elegant. More delicate. A much different animal from him, but still you belong in his den.

“Breathe,” he reminds without looking away.

You inhale shakily. Practically squirming now. He drops his hand and presses the bourbon glass into yours.

“One more for the road.”

You take the tiniest of sips. He chuckles at the face you make as you hand it back.

You don’t like the taste as much as from his lips.

First | Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[feyburner]

I’m the bravest guy in the world bc every time I see a “writing advice” post on tumblr with just the most dogshit fanfic-brained advice you could ever read, I keep my mouth shut and continue scrolling. Instead of commenting some shit like “Hey this is super wrong, longer paragraphs are not bad actually, a dramatic pause does NOT necessarily = a new paragraph, please step away from the line breaks and read a real book where paragraphs go on for longer than 2 sentences and see how the writer has a learned grasp of rhythm and style and dramatic pacing and wields paragraph breaks in support of the narrative as a whole, rather than with the goal of ??? making every page as breathlessly dramatic and rhythmically staccato as possible” “Hey in that example you gave, the paragraph that you reformatted to have like 7 line breaks in 10 sentences was demonstrably worse than the original, please go read Giovanni’s Room and maybe that will fix you” “Hey stop walking away HEYYYY the more paragraph breaks you add, the less impactful they are as a literary device!!! Are you listening!! HAAAAANK”

[dingodoodles]

🎉 CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT!🎉 Hey! Soooo To celebrate the Fool's Gold: Into the Bellowing Wilds campaign setting arriving in people’s hands

We got a contest to make some Post cards advertising the Bellowing Wilds A hard sell, I know lmao😬 You win cool shit too from us and Hit Point Press! So this is what we got going on: The Bellowing Wilds needs your help! Many adventurers are soon to experience our…..EXCITING (and very questionable) creatures and locals, and may not live to tell the tale. Let’s tell it for them!

ENTRY 📩 Using your powers of persuasion, create a postcard promoting a visit to the Bellowing Wilds. Come up with a slogan, or draw an adventurer’s picture, or write a small excerpt from an adventurer’s point of view on the postcard. Either way, it should try to convince the reader to visit in any way possible! Then either:

1) Post it in our Discord in ⁠postcard-contest , to enter for the community award. Winner will be determined by most ❤️ reactions. or 2) Post it on social media with #VisitFoolsGold (Twitter/Insta/Tumblr/Bluesky), to enter for the crew choice award. Winner will be randomly chosen from eligible posts. or Both! (But you can only win one)

REWARDS FOR EACH WINNER 🏅 - 1 copy of the "Heckna! Box Set"!! 🤡 (Provided by Hit Point Press!) - The winning postcards will also be PRINTED and SIGNED by Dingo, Felix, and Avery - A chosen sticker sheet of Fool's Gold stickers!

RULES ✅ Using and/or reformatting provided images from the digital Bellowing Wilds PDF (The one given is just 1 example of what can be. Feel free to use it if you wanna) ✅ Drawing your own artwork ✅ Using clip art text ✅ You may submit to both discord & social media. Your choice. ✅ Maximum of 3 entries per person (On either/both platforms) ❌ No AI art

IMPORTANT Discord: Upvote your favorite submission with a ❤️ emoji (No other emoji / heart colors count) Social Media: You have to include the hashtag and like the contest post. Contest will end Sept 26 @ 11pm PST 🗓️ Kickstarter Backers: It's arriving! 👀 For those who have pre-ordered the Fool's Gold campaign setting, make sure you keep an eye on your mailboxes! Orders have been shipping out for a few weeks now, so if you haven't received yours yet, you should very soon! For help or tracking info, you can contact Hit Point Press at kickstarter@hitpointpress.com

I apologies for the big wall of text :'3

[skaboycowboy]

THROAM PRINT GUIDE!

This ones for the 20 people who liked my last post🫵lots of love☝️🙏🙏🙏🙏

I printed these using LULU , the quality of the print is pretty nice, and the site was SO easy to use. Like. Seriously. The books need to be flattened a bit more, but that’s presumably because of shipping? Nothing i cant fix though.

Speaking of, that shit was QUICK! Books took 3 days to print and only one to ship because they came from somewhere about 3 hours from my house.

Price wise— these were the price of typical books, individually cheaper actually. In total they were $60 CAD, shipping being the worst at $15, but in all honesty, $60 is the amount you would pay for books at a bookstore over here.

(Ignore the fact that I MISSPELLED THROAM??? These names don’t mean shit, it really doesn’t matter…)

As for the books: they’re bigger then i like personally, but they were pre-formatted to be 6 x 9in (US trade,) and as i took the files directly from Anna Green’s blog, they should be the same size as the OG books.

A kind soul on reddit gave me scans of the covers, as far as im aware there aren’t ANY HD copies of them anywhere online? So i had to reformat these bad boys by myself.

I tried to keep them as close to the original books as possible, this was my first time using lulu and i had really no idea how they were gonna turn out— so PLEASE TAKE SOME TIME AND REFORMAT THEM!!

The print would look wayy better if the resolution was higher, theres nothing i can do about the actual drawings, as those are straight from the scan, but the text is a tad blurred and would look a ton crisper if you upped the size.

(Okay so my cameras pretty shitty, but hopefully you can tell that it’s far from perfect. I have no idea what to do about that aside from redrawing the art, so you’re on your own for that one.)

Another problem is the size of the back cover, it just looks big and not even at all. So just size it down, It’ll look SOOO much nicer.

The last problem you should fix is the side bleeding onto the front. I put the cover together on lulu’s site on my ipad, so i couldn’t really tell, but it should be pretty easy to fix up.

This is where i leave you!

THESE are the files

and can do the rest….this wasn’t like. A complete guide. But. Um. This is my contribution to the fandom. I love these books so bad and im absolutely psyched about having physical copies. So spread your yaoi wings and FLY LITTLE BIRD!! FLY!!!!!!!

If you do end up reforming the covers, please send them my way to add to the drive! Also, dm me if anythings off or u need help! ^_^

[the-lisechen]

~6.7k. gen. copia/f!oc. the cardinal has a cigarette with a fan. from there, it gets a little weird. (or: copia gets into a fist fight at 3am in a denny's parking lot over theology. metaphorically speaking.)

header by the divine @enjoy-my-swearing

(the fic that started it all and has eaten my brain ever since. don't mind me, i just wanted to reformat this one and also have it on my tumblr for posterity)

some kind of cosmic rearrangement - ao3

(full series here)

religious discussion, catholic character that isn't an asshole, unresolved sexual tension. tw: catholicism

Copia stepped out into the night, face paint mostly cleaned off, save for the black around his eyes. He couldn't even remember the name of the town they were in. Somewhere in the American South, the air warm and heavy with humidity that felt like silk against his skin. He settled his shoulders against the brick of the alleyway, and sighed, his blood still fizzing from the ritual. The comedown from the adrenaline dump always left him a little hollowed out and shaky.

As he passed a hand over his face, the car in front of him trilled out like a bird and flashed its lights. He turned to the sound of boots up the wet pavement. A small figure, female, dishwater blonde hair, head down, hands stuffed into black skinny jeans. Humming something he could recognize as one of his songs, and that never got old.

He watched her approach, curious. When she at last stepped into the light, she looked up at him, and startled like a deer. Her hands flew up to her mouth, and she squeaked out a breathless “Oh shit!” It took her a moment to recover, and my, wasn't that an interesting shade of pink. He’d seen people blush, of course, but this was remarkable, that red, that quickly.

He had to smile, even bowing a little. “Bunoasera, signora."

"Um! Hi! You are very good at your job!"

Her purse plopped next to her feet, and she knelt down to recollect it, the blush deepening to the color of late spring roses. "Sorry, I'm sorry--" she said, hands shaking as she scooped spilled detritus back into her purse, pens and lip balm spilling from her fingers.

He bent over to help her, smiling. "It is no trouble, signora. Not the worst I've seen." He paused, sitting back on his heels, and picked up a battered paperback the color of burnt orange. "'The Liberation of Theology.'" He looked up at her, mismatched eyes sharp, assessing. "This is what you read? At my show?"

The girl-- woman, really-- went still. She got to her feet and took half a step back, widening her stance, her shoulders squared. "Yeah." She tilted her chin up. "Is it really that strange?"

He flipped it to read the back cover, and her spine relaxed a fraction, with his focus off of her. "Perhaps... somewhat unexpected." An understatement. He stood, slow, putting himself further into her personal space, eyes still on the text in his hand. He read the subtitle. "'An instrument in human liberation.' Has it been?" He looked down at her, not exactly trying to loom, but not exactly going out of his way not to. "In your experience."

The woman folded her arms, leaning back against her car. Keeping her distance. "It can be. It should be." She flipped her keyring, once. "And in my experience? Yes, actually. But I am fully aware my experience may be-- atypical."

"In what way?"

"Well." She looked up, exposing the long pale line of her throat, and her Southern accent became gradually more apparent as she spoke. "I converted to Catholicism. Not really from anything, you understand, unless you count the vaguely agnostic Protestant background noise in America. And I did my catechism classes with a Capuchin Franciscan. A lot of mysticism. And a lot of social action to offset the navel-gazing that comes with that. The culture was-- it's different. I mean, how much do you know about liberation theology?"

"For the purposes of this conversation?" He idly tapped her book against his thigh. "Let us say... not much."

"In simple terms: feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Like the guy said in the book, right? It's both defending the poor and taking aim at the structural issues that are actively oppressing people. Real basic."

"You need a God to tell you this?"

He saw her warming to the subject, eyes alight and not quite on his. "Of course not, but it's a useful framework. And some people do! Whatever provides incentive. Besides that, it works on a practical level, if the Church is your primary social apparatus, that's a structure in place to distribute resources if the state is failing. I mean, the Jesuit approach in South America is not quite the same as the Black church in the Civil Rights movement in the USA in the Sixties, but it's not too far off, either. It's like--" and she cut herself off, the blush coming back, eyes cast downward. "It's just what's supposed to happen. What it says on the tin."

He ruffled the pages with a gloved hand a few times, watching her. "Incentive." He gestured at her with the book, halfway to accusatory. "If someone is doing something in expectation of divine reward, then they are, I'm afraid, an asshole."

"Man, I truly do not care about the motive. I care about the effect it has on the world. But faith without works is dead."

"You believe this."

"Yeah."

"You are this passionate about it, and yet you came to see me. My songs are nothing but blasphemy. Why?"

"Look, as blasphemy goes-- and I'm not trying to denigrate anything you're doing here-- this is just not that big a deal."

He stared at her. "I am literally praising the devil. Literal songs about, literally, devil worship."

"Yeah, and it slaps. Can I have my book back?"

He held it out carefully, as if it was a chunk of meat and she was a strange animal. One that might bite. "What is it, then, that qualifies as blasphemy? In your opinion."

She took it, opened the backseat door to her car, and tossed it in, careful not to turn her back on him. "I dunno. Start with that 'prosperity gospel' bullshit. 'If you're rich, it's because Jesus wants you to be rich!' Joel Osteen can bite the fucking curb. It's lazy exegesis, is what it is." Again, he saw her restrain herself, and she ran a hand through her hair, embarrassed. "I can go on. Obviously. But I think if you're getting bent out of shape about this kind of thing, you need to reassess your priorities."

"No, this is-- at least amusing. You haven't chased us out with torches and pitchforks yet, so I will continue to assume good faith." He smiled. "So to speak."

"Trust me, I am leaving a lot of stuff out." She fished around in her purse, picked out a brilliantly blue pack of cigarettes, and tapped them rhythmically on the heel of her hand. "So what's your deal? I don't know a lot about theistic Satanism. Pop the hood on it, man, tell me how it works."

"In simple terms?"

"Sure." She cracked a smile, thumbing a cigarette out of the pack.

"We honor the serpent that brought knowledge to Eve, as a liberator from the oppression of the corrupted demiurge that you call God."

"The snake, this was one of those gnostic things, right? That was, what, the Ophites? I thought they found it at Nag Hammadi."

"Fragments. References. But we have had the Syntagma for centuries. This was Hippolytus, yes? We borrowed a few things from Marcion of Sinope, as well. From those texts, and other pieces of what you would call apocrypha, we solidified a doctrine. Eventually. These things take time, no? Remind me, when did your people decide on the canon?"

"Council of Rome. I wanna say three..." she tapped the unlit cigarette, "...eighty seven? Somewhere in there. Fourth century, anyway."

"Just so. As a, you'd say-- distinct movement, yes? I would say sometime around the twelfth century that we came together."

"Hold on, twelfth century, evil demiurge-- what was this, like a splinter of the Cathars?"

"Not unrelated. When it came to that kind of dualism, we merely decided to side with the physical world."

"By running straight to the devil."

"Eh. No half measures."

"I'm just kinda surprised it got traction in that environment."

"Mostly on the-- margins, you would say? We had solidified the clerical structure some time before, modeled on the Catholic church. Camouflage, yes? But it was with the obvious corruption of the fourteenth century that we started to gain momentum. Acolytes. A whisper network of proselytization."

"That is neat. Like, what, a Dark Reformation kind of thing?"

"...That is, perhaps, somewhat reductive. But not inaccurate."

"Oh that is so cool. It's like finding a whole new life form in the Marianas Trench. No, I can see a kind of sense to it. Get far enough away from Rome, look as close as you can to the actual Church, you might get away with it."

"They did burn us. Your people did do that."

"I am sure that they did," she said, with a certain blithe amicability. "Burnt a lot of Cathars, too, makes sense. Sir-- Father-- I'm sorry. What is the title?"

"Cardinal."

A blink, barely perceptible. "Cardinal, then. Your Eminence, if you want me to stand here and apologize for every atrocity the Church committed, we're gonna be here all night, and it'll get boring quick. And, forgive me, at what point have I attached a moral judgment over your faith?"

He spread his hands, smiling a little. "Very well, I concede the point. You can understand if I am somewhat-- defensive."

"Yeah, of course." She grinned, mostly to herself. "And here I am, a good Catholic girl. Everything you rail against."

"Eh. It could be worse. You could be a Baptist."

She let out a laugh at that, an entirely inelegant sound, and Copia felt as if he'd won something.

"Oh. No. No, I couldn't. Too diffuse. A million different opinions going every which way. I'm also not into sola fide--"

"'By faith alone.'"

"Yeah. Not my bag. If it doesn't inspire you to help your fellow human beings and not just focus on your own salvation, it's probably bullshit." Finally she put the cigarette she'd been fidgeting with into her mouth. "Man. Cathars and gnostics." The woman brought out a burnished zippo and flipped the lid, a faintly musical sound. She didn't light her cigarette, but shot him a sidelong look, eyes alight. "Sounds more like heresy than outright blasphemy."

"Oh, now I'm offended." He was not, in fact, offended. He was fascinated. He wanted to study her under a microscope. "Certainly, that's the first time I've heard that. Maybe I should send you to talk to the-- ehh, how is it? The protestors. What do you call, the evangelicals, yes?"

"They don't like Catholics, either. The veneration of Mary, y'know? Idolatry." Finally she sparked the lighter, her face turning to alabaster in the light of the flame. "We're both going to hell in their lights. Just different neighborhoods." She bent her head to the light. A long drag on the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke upwards. "So no, I don't think going to a concert counts as a sin. There's just some songs I can't sing along to, is all."

Copia leaned back against the wall, arms folded, considering her. "You know that your Church would call this blasphemy. What is it, then, that you think I'm doing, if not spreading the word of Satan?"

A long drag of her cigarette. "Sick tunes, man," she said, around the smoke. Shrugged. "It's fun. And fun is underrated, as a concept."

"Signora, I don't think 'fun' is what brought you here." He leveled her with his mismatched stare, and she dropped her eyes.

"No," she said, studying the cherry on her cigarette. "No, fun would not be enough."

He took a step closer, not quite edging into her personal space. "What, then? What could possibly bring you to deny your programming, when you clearly believe with such conviction?"

The back of her shoulders hit the top of her car, but she tilted her head up at him in challenge. "Call it joy, then." A defiant kind of vulnerability. "That's what I hear in your songs. And that's a rarer thing."

"What a monstrous thing, to deny joy. To yourself, to others. That sounds to me like blasphemy. What abnegation of the self. We are not hurting anyone. I am not hurting anyone. Why not do as you like?"

"'An it harm none, do as thou wilt.'"

"Precisely."

"Isn't that, what, Louÿs by way of Crowley? Nineteenth century. I thought your stuff was older than that."

"That is beside the point and you know it. Answer me."

"Because that's where it falls apart for me! To begin and end with 'do no harm' does not work. You cannot always do exactly as you like, you have an obligation in society! Feed the hungry. 'Do what you want, whatever,' that's too passive. And being passive in the face of oppression is oppression! Come on, man, you must know this. You're too smart not to know this."

"I'm sorry, you want to talk about oppression? With the literal Catholic Church? With the colonialism and the forced conversion and the actual literal Inquisition? Even laying that aside, the harm it's doing now, how can you still stay with it?"

"Because that's not all it is! Not all it could be. Because it can be just, it can be equitable, and it can be used as a tool for liberation. I believe that, I do. And if if I'm in it-- and oh boy you would not believe how much I'm in it-- then I have a moral obligation to try to shape it towards those ends. Because those people--" she flung a hand out, gesturing towards what, he couldn't say, and he took a step back. "Those bullshit assholes that want to strip people of healthcare and gut the social safety net-- they're in my house! And they don't get to fucking win."

"You must see that this is about control. You are too smart not to know this."

The woman slumped back against her car, and took another long drag on her cigarette, before dropping it and crushing it under her boot, an oddly fussy swiveling motion. "I dunno, man. For me it's about service. You just don't fix something by walking away. And anyway I'm committed."

"I think you are tilting at windmills." He watched her, the last tendrils of cigarette smoke from her exhale the same blue-grey of her eyes, letting the silence linger until the smoke cleared entirely. "What is your name?"

She flicked her eyes back up at him, and then away, coming to a decision. "Sophia Turner." She bit her lip. "Sophie."

"Sophie. That's lovely."

"Thank you. And what do I call you? Feels a little weird, saying 'Your Eminence' to a guy whose faith you don't subscribe to."

He tilted his head in the faintest approximation of a bow, biting back a smile. "Copia."

"Well. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." Her accent more pronounced with the formality, a distinctly Southern drawl.

"You say you're committed. How? You don't have to stay anywhere forever."

"Oh. Oh boy. Um." She looked down at her hands, picked at the edge of a painted nail, and then turned to him, watching his mismatched eyes for a long moment. She smiled, a little rueful. "I am taking my vows in a few months." And to his blank look-- "The Maryknoll Sisters of St. Dominic." He blinked, recoiled a little, and she flinched, turning to look down the street, not seeing the rain on the asphalt, the streetlight shining on the fire escape. "I still don't think it's a sin. But it's-- maybe a little harder to square. After that. Wanted to see you while I could."

Her face composed. No-color hair hanging in grey eyes. He wanted to reach out, to brush it away, to see her clear, to make her look at him. A gulf between them, on the narrow sidewalk. Something twisted in his chest, at the waste of it, the thought of a fire like that locked in a cloister. And yet: "I could never fault someone for devotion to their faith. The discipline is admirable. Truly. But I would-- Are you allowed? To fraternize with the enemy?"

"Well. Maybe in the spirit of friendly ecumenical dialogue." She looked up at the streetlights, shoulders tensed. She chewed at her lip. "We are allowed to have friends, you know."

He had to drop his gaze, at that, a sharp inhalation. "Ah." And again: "Ah. Hm." He looked back up at her, at the tense muscle in her jaw, her face still resolutely turned away from him. "I wonder--?"

She darted a quick look at him, not quite daring to look at him full-on, yet, and made a motion for him to continue.

He had to smile, even if it was with a little trepidation. "Do you have another cigarette?"

That rough bark of a laugh again, and yes, it felt like a victory. "Yeah. Yeah, man, sure." She pulled out the cigarette pack and extracted one, holding it out with the slightest self-deprecating hint of ceremony. He took it between his gloved fingers, careful not to touch her. When he put it to his lips she leaned in to light it in a movement that seemed both courtly and instinctual, an ingrained habit. He couldn't quite look at her when she did it, shocked by the casual intimacy of the gesture. The warmth of the flame through his gloves, the first rough hit of smoke at the back of his throat and the head-swimming nicotine rush. An awful taste, and completely satisfying. He closed his eyes at it and drew in deep, amazed all over again at how much tension dissipated on the exhale.

When the initial wave of the nicotine high had passed, the fatigue settled in, and he tilted his head back against the bricks, eyes still closed, too tired to be on guard. "Where are we? I confess, I lost track."

"...Asheville, honey." A pause."D'jeet yet?"

Well, that certainly got him to look at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, that was very pronounced, wasn't it? My apologies. Have you eaten?"

His brain felt like static. It was all the answer she needed. "What I figured. C'mon, I know a spot."

"I should--" He stopped, inexplicably stricken. "We're leaving in the morning. I don't remember where's next. Charleston, perhaps?"

"I'll have you home before bedtime, scout's honor." He hesitated. Gently: "I don't have designs on your virtue, Cardinal."

He was tired, and sore, and his head was starting to hurt somewhere behind his right eye. He could feel the dried sweat on himself, like a film, absolutely revolting.

"Alright," he said.

She led and he followed, falling into step at her left elbow, almost without thought. "This is the South, yes? We won't-- we might attract. Attention."

"Mm. I might would worry about it somewhere wasn't Asheville. Here'd probably be fine."

"That seems to be an awful lot of weight to put on 'probably.'"

"More worried about someone from your show running into us and losing their minds, be honest with you."

"As in, dropping their purse and squealing?" Was he enjoying this? He was.

"Oh you think you're funny. And I did not squeal."

"Heh. It was a little bit of a squeal."

"Ain't gonna argue the point with you."

The nicotine felt wonderful. He grinned up at the streetlight filtering through a magnolia tree, the orange light reflecting on the leaves, the faint citrus scent hanging in the thick air. He couldn't restrain himself. "You are not, I hope, leading me into temptation?"

"Oh, foul! Foul. Get thee behind me."

"Equally terrible, signora."

They lapsed into silence for a while. Copia came to the last quarter inch of his cigarette, pinching off one more drag before dropping it down a storm drain. The smell would linger, but it had been blissful in the moment. "So."

"So."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Barbecue joint, open all night. Just up here, actually. You had barbecue yet?"

"I have not."

"You in for a treat, then."

They rounded the corner, heading into the jaundiced sodium light of a patchy parking lot, under a flickering red neon sign. 'Little Pigs Genuine Pit BBQ.' It seemed somehow ominous, but the set of her shoulders reassured him. Somewhat. She pushed open the door with its small jangling bell to red vinyl booths, formica tabletops, wood paneling. Vinegar and roasting meat.

He could feel the eyes on them as she ordered for them both, in a dialect so thick it was almost incomprehensible to him. He stepped closer to murmur, "Coffee for me, please, signora," while he surveilled the crowd. Not outright hostile, had seen stranger things, maybe, but a collective flicker of curiosity before sliding off of them. That flat and unsympathetic gaze. Her accent helped. His obvious manners did as well. Still, he was on edge.

He stayed on edge until he slid into a booth opposite her with his back to the wall, and even then it only let up slightly, a background hum to go along with the labored air conditioning. The barbecue was very nearly worth it, salt and sweet and vinegar and umami, along with the blunt force animal pleasure at hot food after a long time without. He looked up at her, making an inarticulate noise of shocked delight through the sandwich, and she nodded in eager agreement with her mouth full. Swallowed. "I know, right?"

"You cannot convert me."

"Okay. Wasn't trying."

"If you could, this might do it."

"Welcome to the South. It's got problems, but there are compensations."

"So I see."

They lost themselves in the food for a little while, and Copia, a usually fastidious man, found that it was actually impossible to eat a barbecue sandwich neatly. After a while he gave up trying, grateful for the strange softness of American paper napkins. It made sense, if the food was like this. He eyed her iced tea, wondering about it, if that was also an American custom, or if it only applied to the region.

She caught him looking after half a second, and passed it over with barely an eyeblink of thought, the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, and you've lost me. This is an obscene amount of sugar."

"They do call it 'sweet tea' for a reason."

"Are you sure that this isn't just colored sugar water?"

"Reasonably so. Might be accentual, brings out the depth of flavor, like. Least it isn't corn syrup."

"This is a nightmare dystopia you live in."

"Could be. Try one of them hush puppies, then you get back to me."

"Mm." Then, after following instructions, "I will concede on the food."

"Yeah. There's nowhere and nothing that's bad all the way through."

"Perhaps." He took another sip of her tea, pleased at her sputter of mock-indignation. "This brings me to where it falls apart for me. An omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent God."

"That is the doctrine."

"Why, then, evil? Why suffering?"

"We going with theodicy, then?"

He motioned for her to continue, a little gleeful.

"Which answer would you like, from the, oh, four-five thousand years that this has been a question?" She tossed the rolled-up sleeve of her straw in his general direction, smiling. "Why you coming at me with this shit, man?"

"Ehh. I want to know what you think. You, not your Church."

She nodded, and poked at the ice in her tea with her straw while she gave the question the consideration it was due. Finally: "I like Simone Weil for this. You read any Simone Weil?"

"Let us say that I haven't."

"Okay." The vinyl booth squeaked as she leaned back. "This isn't necessarily unique to her, it's got a lot of similarities with-- a Jewish creation story, yeah? But creation is where God withdrew. If God is everything, for creation to exist, there has to be places where God is not. If there's places that God is not, then almost by definition they are not, inherently, holy. It's apophatic, unknowable, like John of the Cross or Kierkegaard or what have you-- I'm getting into the weeds here. Evil is the form which God's mercy takes in the world. Affliction-- she's got a specific term for this, she's talking about spiritual affliction more than physical affliction-- doesn't create human misery, so much as reveals it. And it drives us towards God."

"That sounds, if you will pardon me, fucking horrific. The act of a sadist."

"I don't know that I'm explaining this well. We are created matter, and with affliction we are consumed by God. In the Incarnation, God suffers affliction, is made matter, and consumed by us. It's reciprocal. And if you can go through affliction and still love, and recognize your fellow human being as someone else who has suffered like you, then your duty is to help."

"No, still terrible."

"How do your people explain it, then?"

"By not having an omnipotent deity, to start."

"...I walked right into that one. I surely did. Evil demiurge, again?"

"All about control," he replied, amiable.

"Fair enough. I'm not a Jesuit, I could maybe get at this better if I was. My whole thing with it is, there's a difference between affliction-- which is personal-- and, say, generalized oppression, right? The personal makes you more empathetic with the collective."

"I can see the logic there, yes. I do not know if I agree, but I can see it. But do you truly need to suffer to sympathize with another's suffering?"

She turned her glass around in her hands, focusing hard on the ridged plastic edges. "I'unno. Some things you don't understand till you've been through them. Difference between empathy and sympathy, I guess."

"This is, what. You say, 'the personal is political?'"

She cracked a grin at that. "Oh, you done a lot of reading on second-wave feminism, then?"

"Condescending and uncalled for," he said, wagging a finger at her, mock-stern.

She held up a hand. "Fair point, apologies."

"Te absolvo."

"Thank you." She turned her glass in her hands, trailing through the condensation with a chipped fingernail. "My point being. For me. Affliction leads to empathy, and empathy leads you to act. What's the quote. 'Misery as a collective fact expresses itself as an injustice that cries to the heavens.' That's Oscar Romero, I think? Yeah. Oscar Romero. Anyway the thing he gets at-- Saint Oscar Romero, excuse me, did a lot of stuff in El Salvador in the the seventies, but the idea being: turning people into commodities for economic oppression, that's sin. The idolatry of wealth, of 'national security systems,' that's sin. Divine love should be mediated through justice. Gloria dei vivens homo--"

"'The glory of God is the living person.'"

"Yeah, exactly. Romero was on some-- gloria dei vivens pauper, which I think is probably about right."

"'The glory of God is in the poor.' Hm. And how well did that work out for him?"

"Well. They shot the guy during Mass in nineteen eighty."

"A martyr's death. Isn't that what your people aspire to?"

"Not me, man. I wanna live. But yes, he did lean in hard after his friend was killed. That was an inciting incident. I won't deny it."

"So, what, it is acceptable for one death, if it spurs on 'the greater good?'" He made air quotes at her, and she frowned.

"Not gonna debate the very concept of martyrdom with you, but I'm gonna say no, of course not. But like. Me personally? Rather that than have it go to waste. Some right wing fascist chucklefuck takes me out, I'd sure hope my people'd leverage it for all it's worth."

He sat back and tipped his coffee at her. "Bleak."

"Maybe. We each owe a death. And I mean, despite the guy being beatified, he isn't even necessarily the main dude in Latin America. None of these are exactly new concepts, you understand. But as a modern movement, really, it starts in nineteen sixty-eight, with the Medellín conference in Colombia, kind of as a response to Vatican Two, and from there--" she stopped herself, and raised her glass of tea at him in mock-salute. "Minutiae. The point, and I think I'm cribbing from Ernesto Cardenal here, is that while God is love, love can only exist in accordance with equality and justice."

He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in total skepticism. "I can only say that this has been-- the opposite of my experience. To put it in the most, eh, diplomatic terms possible."

"The Church has done horrible, fucked up things. Continues to do horrible fucked up things. In a space that big, though, there are always going to be practices that are inherently contradictory. This one is mine. And I have the benefit of being fucking right."

"You do see, don't you, how that-- attitude? Mentality, yes? Is dangerous. Even you! Even if I happen to think that you're right. Which I actually do. The benefit of Satanism, I find, is that we do have room for differences. It is, you would say, I think, built in? There is no wrong way to approach. You find your own way. Nobody will lead you, nobody will control you."

"And how far has that kind of rugged individualism progressed the reduction of human suffering?" she snapped.

"At least it doesn't perpetuate it!" he shot back.

They glared at each other over the formica, not quite snarling, equally frustrated.

The diner had gone quiet. Blank suntanned faces, the lone clink of a spoon in a coffee cup, the somehow awful bubbling of the deep fryer. A lot of people, for one in the morning, he thought. They looked at each other in mutual alarm for one tensed breath, and went for their wallets at the same time.

"No," he said, firm, fishing past Euros for American dollars. "You are taking a vow of poverty and I am an actual rockstar." He shot a stern glance at her opened mouth and felt a stab of immense satisfaction when she shut it, apparently- miraculously, even- chastised. He threw down enough to cover the bill and the tip and reached to drag her out, stopping short of actually touching her elbow at the last moment. "Come."

She went.

They escaped with the perversely jaunty ring of the bell over the door into the thick warmth of the night, and she brayed a laugh again, not quite on the edge of hysterics.

"Go, go, this could get ugly." But he was laughing, too. Madness. He'd seen these exact sort of people outside of a venue, enraged, faces red, carrying hateful picket signs. One small woman and one man frankly built like a noodle could be in real danger. Still, their laughter echoed down the gravel-lined drive they had ducked into, their boots crunching in a staccato rhythm in the stones. This was far too much adrenaline for one night, he thought.

While they slowed to a walk, he watched the fireflies darting upwards in the undergrowth, the ascending dashes of yellow-green light seeming fantastical to him, otherworldly. You heard of great masses of them, in America, but in such quantity it was like seeing a fairytale with your own eyes. They thinned out as the landscape started to shift, from residential suburbs to side streets.

"This was-- good. It was good, to get out. To talk. A lot of this, it is, ehh." He waved a hand in the general direction they were moving, to the venue, the concert, the tour. "Movement. Instinct. There is, by definition, no quiet. And that is fantastic, I enjoy it, I love what I do, I am fortunate in that. But it is not often that I get to speak about these things." The thud of their boots, and the high monotonous drone of a cicada somewhere off in the distance, blending with the faraway hiss of a car on the damp streets. "Thank you," he said, soft. "For this."

Her eyes forward, mouth closed tight. It took her a few steps before she spoke. "You are very welcome." She cleared her throat. "And I appreciate the outside perspective."

"Interesting thing, is it not? Having a vocation."

"Being called. Yes."

"What I do not understand-- and I do not wish to, as you said, litigate the very idea of martyrdom, of course--"

"Of course. That's above my pay grade anyhow."

"But the denial inherent in your practice. The self-denial. It seems to me a, hm. Turning away from joy. You say your God is love, very well. This is removed from my experience with Christians, but I do understand that it should be the intent. To claim that divinity is love and then to willingly cut yourself off from the experience of love seems to me contradictory. Not merely the physical, although that alone seems hideous. Some people of course are not interested, but this cannot be true of all your monsastics, your clergy, your unmarried."

"This is also an old question."

"You cannot tell me it is not vital. Few people are physically martyred, and I can see the value there, even if I think it grotesque. But this seems to me a martyrdom, and willing. And pointless. Everyone should be loved, yes? Is that not your very doctrine?"

"It is, but there's different kinds of love--"

"You are dissembling. Do me the courtesy, Miss Turner, of your honesty."

Copia heard her sharp intake of breath. He had stung her, and he very nearly regretted it.

"Discourtesy wasn't my aim, Cardinal. It's an old question, and people struggle. It's maybe the struggle, for most people, the stumbling block. How can I answer you? It's kind of a personal question, y'know?"

"I can see how it would be. I do not wish to intrude, but come now. What, you offer your suffering up to God? What kind of God would ask you to give up love in the very name of love? It's monstrous!"

"The standard answer is that one becomes the bride of Christ. My thinking is, in turning away from the singular, you're better able to focus on the collective. To focus, to pay attention. And attention in its highest form is prayer."

"You deny yourself. In denial, you turn away knowledge. You said this yourself, how can you understand suffering if you have not suffered? You should know joy, or else how can you understand joy? You should be free to do that, to be in the world, and the world is here! You are here, and while you are here you should be here fully. You should allow yourself to be loved!"

He had actually raised his voice, and his words hung in the thick air, almost suspended with the humidity. He couldn't take it back, and he fell silent, mortified. They had fallen to a stop.

"It's discipline," she said, helpless. She couldn't look at him, and he had to look away at her expression.

"In any case." He cleared his throat, and resumed walking. "Discipline I understand. There is discipline in my practice, you know."

"I can see that. Dedication, certainly. Seems like the whole world's against you. The dominant social climate is not accommodating to being that outspoken about, well, anything to do with sincere belief, really, but especially in your case."

"No. And in this situation, it is easy to-- tend to isolate. To stay in one's own community. Safer. Especially in a hostile environment. Anger is easy, you would say."

"Don't I know it. You do have to live in the world. I think you and I both have cause to be angry. Hell, we're probably angry at a lot of the same things. Coming at it from opposite directions, is all."

"The hypocrisy is galling," he agreed. "If I am a monster in the eyes of these people, let me be an honest monster. They feed their children poison and tell them it is virtue, to hate, to fear, I do not--" he cut himself off, blew out a laugh. "We are angry about the same things. The work is the same. We are both called to liberate, yes?"

"Yeah, I would allow that's fairly definitional."

"Here, you take that side, I will take this one, and we will meet in the middle and cast off all oppression," he said, grandly, sweeping out an arm as if he were back on stage. He echoed her smile on pure reflex.

"And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

"Julian of Norwich. An anchoress." Something in the concept, and in the simultaneous hope and resignation in her face, pierced his heart all the way through. She was remote, and lost to him, a marble statue of a saint. The nature of his ministry was to encourage pleasure, of mind and of body, and he did want to break her out of the cell she'd walled herself off into. Perhaps merely for his own satisfaction, when freedom was the whole of his law. Even her freedom to walk into her own cage. "Not so much to be consoled as to console," he said, halfway to himself, watching her.

"Francis of Assisi. But I think you knew that."

"I did."

"You are something else, aren't you?" She looked at him, pleased and reassessing. He felt seen, almost entire.

It was not an entirely comfortable feeling. "Ah," he said. "Perhaps."

He recognized, now, the alleyway they had walked down, the venue shuttered for the night. The only lights inside were deep in the back, distant. Likely everything had been packed away, or near enough. Likely the ghouls were wondering where he was. And she was small, and faith alone would not protect her.

It was too much for him. "It is very late. And I do not know if-- do you have a place to stay? This is not, I think, your home."

"I don't and it's not." She waved him off. "Was planning on just sleeping in the car. The seats fold down, I got a pillow, it's fine."

"I don't like it."

"Ain't about what you like." She dropped her head. "I apologize, that was rude."

"No, it is only--." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I do have a hotel room."

"No." It seemed reflexive. But he could see the split second flash of her face cracking open with sheer want. Watched her snatch her composure together just as quick, even as the afterimage lingered in his brain like the echo of a lightning strike. "No, I-- I do not think that would be a good idea."

"There is a couch, even. I could take the couch."

"Copia." Oh, and it was costing her. Painful to watch. That wretched self denial. "Please." A brittle little laugh, accent creeping back in as she forced herself to sound brighter. "I seen you bounce around that stage, you gonna need a mattress."

"Nothing you do not wish, Miss Turner. Never that," he said, as gently as he could. A breath of silence strung out in the thick air, the space of a heartbeat. "Anyways." He considered his position, took a breath, and made the leap. "It would be good to-- I would like to continue this argument. You have some time, no? Before you are-- fully committed. Come to Charleston. My guest. In the spirit of, eh, ecumenical dialogue."

That got a smile out of her. "I'll think about it."

"Please. Do."

"I will. I will think about it."

"In that case." He straightened his spine by three degrees, took the smallest step forward, and picked up her hand in both of his. Even though the gloves it made something catch behind his sternum, the stutter of some cog in engineering. He bowed over it as deeply as he ever had on stage, registered the barest breath of the smell of her, leather and nicotine and something like amber, a clean animal scent. It was only an instant, and he straightened with some regret. "I have enjoyed your company, Sophie."

"I--. Yes. Yeah. Me too." She squeezed his hand, once. "Very much. Be well, Cardinal." And then she slipped away.

He watched her carefully measured walk to her car, head held up with the dignity of the condemned. She opened her door and looked back for the space of one brief inhalation. Orpheus, he thought, nonsensically. He stared at her taillights, the red glow like eyes, the dragon's breath curl of exhaust, long after it had faded into the wide restless night.

It was another twenty minutes before one of the ghouls dragged him back inside.