Copia X Reader - Blog Posts

Te lo meriti! (CopiaxReader)

Summary: A birthday present for my dearest @nocturnal-birb I did my best and hope you like it. This also goes out to all you folks who feel this way and need a Papa’s support and reassurance.

Copia x Reader || Papa Emeritus iv x Reader || Fluff || Comfort Fic || Established Relationship || Poorly Translated Italian || WC: 1716

You stand before Copia’s door with a manilla folder in hand full of official documents for him to sign off on. There’s a few about his next sermon, some to do with the next tour, and notices from the clergy.

You gently rapped your knuckles against his door, loud enough to get his attention while your other hand brushes invisible dust off your habit and straightens the small amount of wrinkles. You wish you had more time to tidy up. Your hair was being very uncooperative today and you had been in such a rush this morning that you had forgone makeup.

You hoped he wouldn’t mind that you didn’t look your best. However, knowing Copia, it’s not because of your makeup that he’s always staring at your face with his dopey lovesick eyes. You smile at imagining him getting distracted again in the midst of paperwork coercing you that neither of you get any work done.

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restroom detour - cardinal copia x female!reader

you're out with your friends at the new local hot spot: the pinnacle lounge. a trip to find the bathroom has you stumbling into something not for your eyes.

notes: 2.1k word count, mdni! 18+! there be smut here. also i just love me some sweet cardi. ao3 link.

You and your friends were chattering away at the bar, drinks in hand. It had been a long work week and you were happy to be out with friends to blow off some steam. The Pinnacle Lounge had seemingly popped up overnight in your town and quickly gained a reputation for being a unique, good time. 

The moment you stepped in earlier that night, you could see why. There were people dressed as nuns and priests, some wearing shiny masks and suspenders, mixed in with those dressed for a night out. The color scheme for the bar was black and gold while the lights shifted from neon green to a bright purple as the night wore on.

The music thumps and you all bop long with it. At this point, you are feeling pretty good as you finish up your second drink. 

“I gotta pee!” You chirp cheerfully, giving everyone a small wave as you walk away. You set your empty glass down on the bar and take a look around.

“Fuck.”

You realize you have absolutely no idea where you are going. A few people bump into you as you make your way around the perimeter of the bar before you come upon a dark hallway. There is a door that looks like it has some kind of fancy “G” on it and you assume it’s the women’s bathroom.

The moment you open the door and step inside no less than ten eyes are on you. They were all wearing cloaks, concealing their entire bodies and were peering out of their hoods at you. It was dark enough in the room that you couldn’t see their faces. You finally take in your surroundings, the low glow of black candles lining the room, the smell of incense flooding your nostrils. Your gaze settles on the black altar in front of you and you draw in a gasp.

A naked woman is spread atop it, a pentagram drawn in blood on her stomach. A man was between her legs, his fingers digging into her hips as he glares at you, his mismatched eyes sending chills down your spine. His face was painted like a skull and he wore a black robe with gold details, his dark hair hanging in his face.

“Uh…uh…sorry!” Your voice sounds incredibly high-pitched as you back out of the room.

You can feel your heart beating out of your chest as you slam the door shut behind you, your feet carrying you towards the end of the hall. A man exits one of the other doors, stepping out right in front of you and you collide with a thud. For the brief second you are touching, you can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Eh, mi dispiace, mi dispiace.” He mumbles, his hands moving to grip your arms to help you catch your balance.

You look up at him and the first thing you notice are his eyes – the same ones that you had seen in the room. A jolt of fear causes you to jump back from him and he releases your arms, his eyes widening. He is wearing a cassock and biretta and his dark paint around his eyes were somewhat smudged.

“Are you alright, cara?” Copia sounds genuinely concerned, his accent thick as he reaches his hand out to you. You stare at it for a moment then you take another step back. 

“T-there are people in one of the rooms doing weird stuff.” The words spill out of your mouth, your brain too rattled to describe exactly what you saw.

“Ah, yes… the ritual.” He sighs softly, sounding almost annoyed. “No need to be afraid, cara. They are just, eh, partaking in carnal pleasures.”

“But-but the candles and the cloaks and the blood!” 

“How can I explain this to you?” Copia ponders aloud, his white eye glowing in the darkness. He looks around the hallway, his gaze settling on a bench against the back wall of the hallway. “Come.” His hand finds yours, pulling at it gently as he moves toward the bench. You realize he is wearing leather gloves, your eyes falling to the one in your hand, noticing the “G” symbol on it.

You wobble after him, your platform boots clunking as you pull your dress down with your free hand. He settles on the bench, carefully pulling you close to him as your knees touch. His hand still held yours, his thumb brushing it as his free hand removed his biretta. Brown hair spills out from underneath and he smooths it neatly back. His eyes were soft, contrasting with the sharpness of his nose and his dramatic eye paint.

“So, you’ve seen the inverted crosses around the bar, correct?

“Y-yes.”

“Good. I am a member of the clergy that owns and operates this bar. It is meant as a safe space for everyone to come, have fun, be themselves and… partake in sin.” His lips curl into a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. You feel a blush creep up your cheeks.

“But not in a harmful way. The ritual you walked in on is very safe, very controlled. It is meant to represent, eh, the procreation of the antichrist.”

You stare at him dumbly, feeling that you are too drunk for this conversation. Copia smiles warmly at you, letting go of your hand and bringing his up to your cheek to caress it gently. “The things  you saw that frightened you are merely decoration to help establish the mood. It’s meant to be fun; it’s meant to be dramatic… it’s meant to be erotic.” 

You can feel heat start to rise between your legs by his words, causing you to squeeze your thighs together. Of course, he notices, and drops his finger to your chin, tilting your head up to look him in the eyes. Your lips part as you shiver from his touch, your wide eyes meeting his duochromatic gaze. 

“Does this make you feel better about what you saw, dolce?” He purrs, inching his face even closer to yours. His smile has turned from sweet to seductive, his eyes shining mischievously. You can only bring yourself to nod and your nose brushes against his as you do so. A shuddered breath leaves your lips as you find your hands find his chest.

Copia takes this as his opening and presses his lips to yours tenderly. You can taste the alcohol on his soft lips, your hands traveling up his chest to the back of his neck. He sighs against you, deepening the kiss as his tongue slips into your mouth as he pulls you in close. His hands start to wander down your sides, settling on your ass before he slips them under your dress. 

You moan softly as he starts to massage it, the feeling of his leather gloves on your sensitive skin sending shivers down your spine. His teeth tug at your bottom lip as he pulls away from you, giving you ass one last squeeze as his fingers drift to pull your dress down for you. Copia then grabs your legs and pulls them into his lap.

He is paying so much attention to you, despite the silence between you both. It’s a comfortable silence as he caresses your legs (and you are mentally patting yourself on the back for shaving them that day). The fear of the ritual you had witnessed is completely gone now, your mind and body at ease as you settle into Copia’s lap.

This was not how you thought your night was going to go but you are not complaining. This was the most you’ve been touched by someone in a long time, having given up on dating a while ago and you weren’t typically one to put yourself out there like this. Something about him, the way he gazed at you, the way he cared enough to explain away what you had seen… 

His fingers start to drift to your inner thighs, drawing small circles as they continue to move up. You swallow thickly, wide eyes looking back at him as your cheeks flush. Your legs spread ever so slightly, allowing him to continue further up your thigh. 

“Is this okay, dolce?” Copia whispers, brushing his fingers even higher. Your face is completely flushed now, the closer he gets to your cunt the more wet it becomes. There is some nervousness buzzing around in the back of your head – despite being hidden by the darkness of the hallways, you were still in a public place. But again… this bar was owned and operated by a satanic organization…

“Yes…please.” 

He pulls your underwear to the side, his fingers dipping into your wet folds. Copia hums in approval, then presses one his fingers against your entrance. You shudder, grabbing on to his cassock and pulling him close. His nose brushes against your cheek before settling his face in your neck, breathing you in deeply. 

“Such a naughty girl.” He growls against you, his finger curling upward, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you. Your hips buck at the feeling, squeezing your lips shut as a moan bumbles up your throat. You feel him chuckle against your neck then presses a kiss to it as he slips another finger inside.

He starts to kiss, bite and suck at your neck, and by now you are feeling drunk off of him. You can tell by how roughly he’s moving his mouth on your neck that he’s leaving marks all over you. Your lips are quivering now, trying desperately to hold in your sounds which is all but impossible now as he adds a third finger. 

Copia pumps his fingers in and out of you, quickening his pace as he relentlessly presses into your bundle of nerves. Your entire body is trembling, your hips jerking wildly against his fingers. At this point, you’re over being discreet as breathy moans spill from your lips. 

Your hands move to grip at his shoulders, nails digging into them as you squeeze your eyes shut. He’s growling against you now and you can feel the vibration rumble of them down through your chest. Your muscles start to spasm and tense as the rest of your body trembles, a sharp cry rising from your lungs as your orgasm falls over you.

Your chest heaves as you start to come down from the high, feeling even more hazy than before. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips, hovering there for a moment as you feel his warm breath on you before he pulls away. “I am very glad we ran into each other tonight, dolce.” He purrs, bringing his fingers up to taste them. You’re still recovering as your mouth drops open, watching him. “Ehm… why did you walk into that room in the first place?”

“Oh, well…” You feel a pang of embarrassment in your chest as you chuckle quietly. “I was looking for the bathroom.” 

He breaks out into a brilliant, toothy smile. “Tesoro, it’s right behind you — eh, if you still have to go.” 

“I probably should now.” You grin as you swing your legs off of his lap, your boots clunking to the floor. He pulls your dress down for you as you stand and you can feel yourself start to blush again. “Thank you.” You squeak before scurrying to the bathroom. 

Once inside, you do your business while your mind is exploding, thinking about what just happened. What did just happen? You got finger fucked by a stranger in a bar after witnessing a satanic ritual simulating the procreation of the antichrist. Maybe this was a typical Friday night for The Pinnacle Lounge.

Your legs are still trembling from the intensity of the orgasm, wobbling as you make your way to the mirror. There are very obvious red marks all along your neck as well as some black smudges from his eye paint. You think about trying to wipe some of it off, or at least try to make some of the marks less noticeable for a second before you decide… fuck it.

As you wash your hands, you start to panic, thinking that maybe he won’t be out there waiting for you. It wouldn’t be the end of the world but — you really wanted him to be there. There was something about him that just drew you to him. Again, your mind turns back to how sweet he was with you and how handsome he was.

When you leave the bathroom, he is standing near the bench, waiting for you. He looks like he is almost nervous, his cheeks flushed as he turns his biretta over in his hands.

“Dolce, I’ve realized we have, ehm, kind of done things a bit backwards tonight.” His lips twitch into a small smile, reaching for your hand. You immediately place your hand in his and he presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I’m Cardinal Copia… ehm, will you allow me to buy you a drink?”

Hi can you pleaaaaassse do HCs about Copias corruption kink I’ll literally die

Have a little short nonny.

Who does Papa turn to for confession with all his predecessors dead?

Copia has to try hard to convince himself once in a while. He’s a good man. He’s an honest man, well, sure, there's a little white lie once in a while, but he’s never hurt anybody with it. He’s never stolen, and he’s worked hard to get where he is now. (Even though he’s almost certain his name was drawn from a hat.) He keeps everything tidy. He’s frank. He’s polite. He’s a good man.

But his eyes are on you.

You’re new to the sisterhood and still wet behind the ears, with your habit on proper and not a hair out of place. You’re bright, you’re shiny, you’re fresh. You have a soft voice, a shy smile, and despite being a Sister of Sin, you have innocent eyes. He always sees you working, helping someone with their tasks or chores, volunteering to do more. You’re wonderful with the children, compassionate with the ghouls, and come up with fun games for both of them. You’re full of energy, your kind, you have such a sweet smile and give it to everyone, including him, you light up like a festive float anytime you cross someone in the halls. You're just so…pure.

And he wants to see you absolutely destroyed. He wants to see your mascara running with tears down your flushed cheeks. He wants to see your lipstick smeared and your lips puffy and kiss swollen. He was to see your neck decorated with a choker of bruises. He wants to see your tits suckled with bite marks. He wants to see your pussy, puffy and gummed with his leaking cum. He wants to take this pure ray of sunshine and turn it into the dirtiest fucking poster whore he can. He wants to wreck you in every way possible. Stain you in such a way nobody else will want you.

He’s a good man. He swears.

But any time he gets alone in his office, he imagines you and his cock throbs. He imagines you in his office dressed in all manner of skimpy things. Sometimes, it's your habit. Sometimes, it's a cute little plaid skirt. But more often, it's something white. Whatever it is he's flipping up your dress to slide off your cute panties (polka-dot, soft little clouds, even kittens) and stuffing his face between your thighs until your legs are quivering and you can barely stand. He imagines fingering your tight cunt and curling his digits until you sob his name just right and licks his lips at the thought of getting you to squelch.

He wonders if you’ve ever sucked cock before. He wraps a hand around his dick as it jumps at the thought that he’d be your first. Your eyes wide in alarm as he reveals to you his thick fat member and guides your hands down to wrap around it and get a feel for just how large he is. He’s the thickest you’ve ever had.

He imagines you swallowing nervously and looking up at him with a hint of fear.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” He promises. Oh don’t worry, he will. He’ll be gentle up until he manages to get half of it down your throat and then shoves in the other half without remorse. He’ll apologize. ‘An accident.’ He swears. But after that first gag and those first tracks of tears down your cheeks you’ll get the idea. You’ll try your hardest to get all of him down your throat, your pretty pink lips stretched around his cock and shiny with precum, spit, and your cherry chapstick.

He’d shower you with compliments and praise. You’d love it. He’ll help you discover your kink for it.

“Doing so good, taking me so well.” Your face would flush, and your thighs would rub together. You gag, you try your hardest to take him but your jaw hurts and he pulls you off gently by your chin and slaps your cheek with his wet, spit slick cock.

“Look at what you're doing to me. All that is for you. You're making me feel so good. Look how hard and wet I am for you." And you're wet and frustrated before he guides you to the bed and has you lay down. He pulls your legs apart and lines himself up.

Belial, you would be so tight, or perhaps it’s just been too long for you. Either way, you grip him like a vice and whimper when he stuffs you with his cock, he can feel your walls sucking him in and flexing around him as he pushes further and further into you and-

Copia grunts as the band in his lower stomach snaps and cum jets from his cock. He tightens his hand over his dick and squeezes before slowly gliding his fist over his shaft and milks himself of his release.

He sighs, slouching on his bed pillows, and lets his orgasm rumble through him. Then he reaches the nightstand and takes a few tissues, and cleans himself up.

This is always where the fantasy ends. He simply can’t help himself.

Satanas, what he would give for the real thing.

He's in the midst of cleaning up for the night when he hears a knock from his door and goes to answer only to finding you there with a flush on your face, that same flush he had been fantasizing about mere minutes ago. You're wearing a simple but thin tee-shirt with cartoon characters and a pair of shorts.

"Hello Papa...do you have a minute to talk?" And you're shifting your thighs just so, and he can't help but glance at your cleavage so obviously pronounced in your shirt. There, he sees a ruby red fabric with white circles, just barrly oeaking out from the low collar of your shirt.

Polka-dots.

And well...

...He does try very hard to be a good man.

Satan’s Toy Box

Hello anon!  Thank you for the prompt and I hope you enjoy what I came up with!  

~ As the owner of the local sex toy shop you find yourself developing a crush on a Cardinal from the local Satanic church ~

The prompt was: attempting to find out if they are single/available

Cardinal Copia x GN Reader (nsfw, 18+, mdni)

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Today was going to be the day.

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started working on a copia comfort thingy but im so anxious to do the line art because i know it will fuck it up

<3

V became papa and now that's all I see on my dash. Where's my pookie, Copia??! 😭😭😭

Ghost band headcanons

Terzo ~ Sfw

Terzo listens to early 2000s pop when he's alone in his office, he's a Katy Perry and lady Gaga stan.

Terzo likes to stare people down when he knows it unnerves them.

~ Nsfw

Terzo completely forgets english when he cums, he'll start to quietly ramble in Italian.

Copia ~ Sfw

Copia uses Duolingo in hopes of understanding english slang.

Copia has a collection of EVERYTHING he's gotten from fans, he feels bad getting rid of things, so they stay in a large box in the corner if his room.

~ Nsfw

While copia isn't very experienced, he knows how to use his mouth, and well, he'll have you coming apart in less than 5 minutes.

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 6

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: Even though you have finally begun to translate Elizabeth's diary, you still need context. A visit from the archivist answers some questions but raises even more.

Word count: 4.6k

A/N: Helloooooo! Thank you all again for your extraordinary patience in the long wait for this chapter. It isn't the most eventful (nor am I the proudest of it) but things are definitely happening, and I think you all will enjoy where it's going!

P.s., the identity of the archivist was inspired by the lovely @writingjourney <3

Warnings: Nihil being a bad dad (again), descriptions of anxiety/panic, descriptions of afab people being seen as objects

AO3 / Chapter 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Secondo thinks that abdicating the position of Papa might be the best thing to ever happen to him. 

That’s not to say he disliked being Papa. Quite the opposite, really—holding the scepter, wearing the crown, and hearing the title were all a generous ego boost. But the aspect he loved the most was that he could promote the tenets of the Lord Below how he wanted, how he felt was most effective. He was the mouthpiece of Satan, the proprietor of His word and the bridge between his unholy flock and the fires of Hell. 

But that’s about it. He loved the glory, sure. He did not like the man that the Ministry molded him into. Once he stepped down, it was hard to look himself in the eye without cringing. He was supposed to hold the power for Satan, not the Clergy, and certainly not for Sister Imperator. 

Just about the only thing he has to thank that woman for is the time he’s gotten back after “stepping down.”

Secondo has always been interested in the archives, ever since he was a boy. He would sneak around the Abbey in Rome into places he shouldn’t have been and see things he probably shouldn’t have seen, and keep everything he saw to himself. Having the knowledge of secrets he wasn’t supposed to know made him feel important, like he held some power over the Clergy if he decided to open his mouth. 

So when he'd stumbled upon a dim room towards the back of the library at the tender age of eight, he thought he’d found the Library of Alexandria. Wall-to-wall shelves of thick leather bound books, stacks of tightly-rolled parchment and linens depicting unholy scenes. An old wooden table holding a desk lamp and a magnifying glass. A single lone lamp that, when he’d pulled the chain to illuminate it, had emanated a click so loud that he thought he’d be caught for sure. 

He’d been so disappointed when he realized he couldn’t understand any of the books or scrolls or linens. They were all written in a language unfamiliar, which he knows now to be Latin. But at eight years old, his primary focus was to learn the unholy scripture, to serve Satan in his duties as an altar boy, and to make his father proud. 

That last point… he never did accomplish. 

But he did eventually learn Latin, so that he could read what was in that dim room. He’d learned to shimmy the lock open (the Roman Abbey is ancient, it wasn’t a difficult task) and sneak in, absorbing as much information as he could. 

Secondo learned about rituals that haven’t been done in centuries. He read prayers and psalms that had been forgotten with time. He found drawings of long lost artifacts and relics shrouded in mystery. Each new bit of knowledge gave him that rush of adrenaline that could only come from forbidden things. 

When he was old enough, he was allowed into the archive room. Of course, no one had known he’d already spent countless hours there. His father wanted him to know his family history if he were to take up the helm of Papa one day. You need to know what is in your blood, his father had said. Just as Primo does, and just as Terzo will. 

Secondo had wanted to ask, what about Copia? But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want his archive privileges revoked as soon as he’d gotten them. 

The first thing he’d done was find his family tree. Who came before him? Who was Papa before his father, and before his father’s father? How far back did the Emeritus bloodline really go?

It was in the family tome that he first discovered the words Primus Motor. Up until a specific time, every Emeritus heir had been conceived by a woman with the title Prime Mover. Then the women proceeding them had lost that title, with seemingly no pomp or circumstance. Nearly a thousand years ago, the title had been dropped and forgotten. The final Prime Mover, it seems, had been a woman named Elizabeth. 

When her diary had been found in some random basement room of the Abbey, Secondo immediately requested to be the archivist in charge. She was his ancestor, and the last Prime Mover on record. Her diary must have an explanation, or some insight as to what exactly a Prime Mover is. There were Prime Mover rituals outlined in those books he’d found as a boy, sure. But none ever explained what the significance was beyond “the chosen maternal body.” It all sounded rather dehumanizing.

But Sister Imperator had told him to keep that fact a secret. She’d brought in a translator to decipher the diary without telling her the whole story. So, he wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that you’d requested to speak to him, or that when he finds you in the restricted room, you look like a deer caught in headlights.

“Papa,” you say, standing to greet him formally. You bow your head out of respect and give him your name. “I can be out of your way, if you need—” 

Secondo simply puts a hand up to stop you. “No, sorella. I am here to speak to you about the diary, as you requested.” 

Your eyes go so wide that he almost laughs. “Wh-what?” You swallow. “Forgive me, Papa, I didn’t know that you are the archivist who evaluated Elizabeth’s diary…” 

“Is that going to be a problem?” Secondo asks. 

“No! No,” you scramble, shaking your head slightly to align your own thoughts. His intense gaze pins you to the spot, and not in a good way. Not a bad way, either, but… not in the way Copia’s gaze does. 

Determined not to make a fool of yourself, you steel your nerves. “It’s not a problem, Papa. I apologize. I have only… the highest member of the Clergy I have ever met until I arrived here was Bishop Beaumont. I still find myself a bit overwhelmed, sometimes.” 

The corners of Secondo’s painted lips tick up at your admission, but he makes no mention of it. “No matter. What is it you wished to discuss?” 

You sit and turn your notebook around so Secondo can read the translation of the first line. Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover. 

“I was wondering,” you begin, “if you might be able to tell me what a Prime Mover is.” 

After reading the translated line, Secondo leans back. “I do not know much,” he answers gruffly. “But I do know that it was an esteemed position. Something to do with continuing the bloodline. However the title of Prime Mover is no longer used.” 

“How come?” You ask. 

“I do not know.” 

You hum and look down at Elizabeth’s diary, like it might speak the answer to you itself. Something to do with continuing the bloodline? “Sister Imperator told me that you estimated this diary to be about five hundred years old,” you say. “Is there a reason you chose that number?”

At Secondo’s silence, you meet his eyes again to find that his brows are furrowed and his jaw is set. His lips form a tight line, deepening the clefts beside his mouth. “I only ask because it may help with context,” you offer, defending your question. Your chest flutters with nerves again. You hope you haven’t somehow angered him… he’s quite intimidating. 

Secondo’s mind turns. Sister Imperator hadn’t told you that he was the archivist, and she’d told you a different number than the one he’d estimated. She asked him to keep Elizabeth’s status as the last Prime Mover a secret. It seems odd, like she knows something that she wants neither you nor Secondo to. He finds himself annoyed that Sister wants to keep something shrouded in such unnecessary mystery. 

“Sister Imperator has given you the wrong number,” he says after a moment of tense silence. “I believe it is nearly a thousand years old.” 

“A thousand?” You gape. For a volume that’s a millennium old, it’s in remarkably good shape. You’d thought the same when you believed it was just five hundred years old. 

Secondo nods. Whatever reasons that Sister Imperator has for wanting to keep the diary a secret, he doesn’t know. But if he can do anything to learn about his family and its history, or if he can spite Sister… he’ll take that chance. “Elizabeth is the last Prime Mover on record. I do not know why the title was dropped, and I do not know why it is supposed to be such a secret.” 

Oh. Yes, you understand. Papa must have his reasons for disliking Sister, and you have your own. If you can contravene her in this small way, a secret kept between an archivist and a translator, you will. You’re slightly ashamed that the thought makes you a little giddy, but not ashamed enough to not do it. 

“So,” you guess, “you’re hoping that this diary answers that?” 

“Correct,” Papa nods again, and stands. “I ask that you keep me informed, sorella.” 

“Of course, Papa,” you say with a polite smile. 

He leaves the restricted room and you’re left alone with Elizabeth again. Only this time, there is a new clarity between you and your subject. Your gaze drops down to the pages of jumbled letters, wondering. 

Papa Secondo had said that the position of Prime Mover was esteemed. If it had been, why was it dissolved? Perhaps it wasn’t dissolved at all, and it was only forgotten? And… the position is related to the Papal bloodline, so surely these Prime Movers would have been the mothers, right? 

The answers lie in front of you, waiting to be translated. Elizabeth herself beckons you with her slanted script, saying, read me. Hear what I have to say. 

And how you want to focus. How you want to spend the next weeks painstakingly deciphering letter by letter, word by word until you find these answers which will sate your curiosity. But, damn it to Hell, all you want to do is find Copia and tell him what you’ve found out. You want to tell him that you’re still here, that Sister Imperator had agreed to let you stay after your dramatic, last-minute discovery. You want to ask him all sorts of questions about what he might know of Prime Movers or his ancestors. You want to watch the excitement bloom in his eyes as it always does when you speak about the diary. 

You have your reservations, though. Going to Copia on anything other than Ministry business feels like you’re overstepping your position. Who are you to assume that you’re important enough to him to just pop in? 

In those moments in the gardens, and in the chapel, though… it sure felt like you were. He had looked at you like you were. In the gardens he was Copia, and you find within yourself that you’d rather be sent back to Liège than see Copia as only Papa again. 

~~~ 

It’s been two days since Copia has seen you. Two full days since he’d watched you half-waddle down the Sibling corridor, soaking wet and shivering and covered in mud from the knees down, and he can’t focus on anything whatsoever. 

There’s some official bulletin or another on his desk, awaiting his signature to distribute it out to the rest of the Ministry, but he can’t bring himself to pick up his pen and sign it. Not for a lack of caring—the bulletin is actually quite important—but because he’s conjured up this beautiful picture of you in his head, and he’s afraid that if he moves he’ll lose it. 

You must be busy. You’d told him you had an idea about the cipher on your way up the hill out of the gardens, and if he hasn’t so much as gotten a glimpse of you around the Abbey, it must have been a breakthrough. He knows how frustrated you’d been, how determined you were to figure it out, as you’d said. I want to stay and figure it out. 

Another part of Copia’s mind, the part he doesn’t want to listen to but that is so very loud, tells him that perhaps your idea had been wrong, and Sister Imperator had sent you home. Maybe the reason he hasn’t seen you is because you’re not even here anymore. 

So, he keeps still, his eyes unseeing as he stares into nothing but his own mental image of you. If you’re really gone, at least he has this. You might not be gone, but he’s almost scared to go looking for you because he might find that you are. As it stands, you are Schrödinger's Sister of Sin. Here, and not. 

His, and not. 

“Al diavolo questo,” Copia grumbles to himself, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounds his desk, sending a few loose papers (including the bulletin he’s supposed to sign by the end of the day) to the floor, and swings open the door to his office. He turns left, towards the library. If there’s a chance he can see you, rather than his limited mental image of you, he’d be foolish not to take it. 

His footsteps are determined, bringing him quickly down the stairs to the main artery of the Abbey, and across the wide hall towards the entrance to the library. His breath picks up and his heart pounds in his ears like he’s sprinting. By the end of this agonizing trek to the restricted room, he just might be. 

He takes the stairs to the right of the library entrance two at a time. Usually he would smile and wave to whichever Sibling is working the front desk, but not today. The guilt he feels is quickly squashed by the pressing need to either see you or not see you. It feels like it’s eating him up, not knowing. 

Copia has tried to be patient and give you time, if you are still here. He knows that what happened between the two of you in the chapel was a lot, all at once, and even if nothing had been said explicitly, you must know. You must. 

For a moment, when he reaches the top of the stairs, he wonders why it is that he feels so strongly for you, so quickly. It’s as if Satan himself deposited you on his doorstep, just for him. As if Satan had kept him from sleeping that night, so that you could run right into him outside the restricted room door. 

He rounds the corner to walk further into the library, into the shelves of romance books (which, he admits, is rather serendipitous placement). His heart thuds against his sternum when he sees the little square window in the door illuminated. Who else would be in that room with the door closed but you? Who else would have any reason to spend more than five minutes in there, aside from you, or Secondo?

Copia loves his brother. He really does. But he hopes to Lucifer that it isn’t Secondo behind that door, or he might punch him simply for the fact that he’s not you. 

He reaches the door, and pauses. His hand rests on the brass doorknob, but doesn’t turn, because what if you are gone? 

No, no. You aren’t gone. You can’t be gone. 

He turns the handle and pushes the door open on squeaky hinges. There you are, sitting at the desk you always do, head tilted up to see who is at the door. Your brows are slightly raised, your shoulders are hunched—you must be tense from sitting over your work all day—and your finger is placed against that grid of letters as if you had been in the middle of decoding a word when he walked in. The light of the desk lamp attached to your station casts your skin in a warm glow. 

If he thought his heart would calm when he saw that you’re still at the Abbey, he was mistaken. Just the sight of you here, that slight hint of heat in your face illuminated so plainly by the desk lamp has his chest vibrating with relief. At least his mind quiets, the tempest of thoughts and questions finally calming after a long, sleepless two days. 

“Papa?” You ask, after a long moment. You sit up a bit straighter and tilt your head. The slight crease between your brows returns, and Copia wishes he could kiss it smooth again. “Are you alright?”

Your voice seems to break Copia out of whatever reverie he’s stuck in, because he finally blinks and his jaw closes. “I— eh, yes, I’m alright.” 

You slowly stand from your desk and round it, but keep a respectable distance between you and Copia. “You don’t seem alright,” you say. “Copia… what’s wrong?” 

It feels like a weight off his shoulders to hear you call him by his name. With you, he’s not Papa. He doesn’t want to be Papa, not to you, not when you’re looking at him like that. “I thought you might have been gone,” Copia breathes, his voice just above a whisper. “I thought she might have sent you back.” 

“She didn’t.” 

“Good, that’s… good.”

You and Copia stare at one another for another moment. The air is thick with something unspoken. 

“I figured it out,” you say. Then you add, “the diary,” because you both know that there are two things you had to figure out. The diary, and… this. 

You’re still working on whatever this is, and Copia is still staring at you. 

“Copia,” you say with an awkward little smile, “why are you staring at me?” 

His own lips curve into a smile. “Sorry, cara mia. I’m just happy you’re not gone.” 

“Me, too.” 

“So, eh… what is it that you figured out?” Copia asks, blinking a few times in rapid succession. His heart still hammers in his ears. 

You round your desk again to turn your notebook over and show him. “She’s clever. Every word requires a new key, which is why we could only decipher one word using her name,” you explain. “Every decoded word is the key to the next one.”

Copia leans over to read the notebook. You have it flipped open to the complete translation of the first line, and his eyes scan the sentence a few times. “Prime Mover?” he asks, looking back up at you. 

“I don’t know, either,” you tell him. 

He hums in response, his gaze falling back towards the diary and your notebook. 

“When were you going to tell me that your brother is the archivist, you ass?” 

Copia’s head whips back up, afraid that you’d be actually angry at him. His mouth opens, prepared to defend himself because how would he know that you were planning on speaking to his brother? But he sees your wry grin, and the protest dies on his lips. Instead, he releases an airy laugh and his shoulders drop. “Ah, yes… I suppose I should have mentioned that.”

“Sweet Satan, I made myself look like a fool,” you laugh. “I’m not used to Papas and Cardinals walking around yet. Every time I see one I nearly fall over.” 

“You don’t seem so intimidated by me,” Copia says, half relieved and half worried. “What, am I not as scary as Secondo?” 

“Not nearly as scary, no! He could stare someone to death,” you say through a chuckle. “That, and when you and I first met, you were wearing sweatpants and rat slippers.” 

Copia smiles fondly, though you don’t catch it. “So you’re not starstruck by me, tesoro? I’m hurt.” 

“At first I was!” you defend yourself. “But somewhere after that I guess I just… forgot.” 

“Forgot to be starstruck?” 

“Forgot that you are Papa.” 

Oh. Oh, Copia could kiss you, you sweet thing. He doesn’t ever want to go this long without seeing you again. It’s all he can do to stop himself from walking over to you and sweeping you up in his arms and kissing you silly. His hands itch to hold you but you aren’t ready for that yet. So he says instead, “I don’t want to be Papa with you.”

Your heart rises to your throat. “You don’t?” 

“No,” Copia says softly. “I don’t.” 

You have to fight off the smile threatening to stretch your lips. You don’t want him to be Papa with you either, but you don’t know what you do want him to be to you. 

You do know that you want him to kiss you. You do know that the thought of leaving the Abbey without resolving whatever this is made your heart ache, but that talking about whatever this is would make it real and that terrifies you. You do know that falling in love with him means you have something to lose. It’s not quite that, not yet, but… it could be. 

Copia can see your mind working itself in circles. He knows that you’ll talk yourself out of it—whatever it is—if he doesn’t intervene. “Tesoro,” he calls to you, pulling your focus back out from inside your head. When he’s certain you can see him and not just through him, he takes a slow step forward and gently reaches for your hand. The white linen of your gloves, worn while you handle the diary, is a stark contrast to the black leather of his. It slips against his glove and settles into his palm like your hands were crafted for him to hold. Sathanas, your hands are perfect. You are perfect. “Please… tell me you know. Tell me you feel it.” 

Your eyes are wide when they meet his own. “I know,” you whisper. Your voice is shaky with the weight of speaking your feelings, making them real. “And I don’t.” 

His thumb rubs circles on your knuckles. “Cara… you know. You must.” 

“I…” you swallow dryly. “I do, but it’s… it’s scary, Copia. It’s happening and I have no control over it and…” 

“And?” Copia whispers. He takes your other hand, stepping just close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheeks. 

“And I will have to leave,” you respond. Your eyes burn with unshed tears that you desperately try to blink away. “As soon as the diary is done, I will have to go back.” 

Copia looks at you for a silent moment. His eyes search your face, noticing all the details he hadn’t noticed before. This is the closest he’s ever been to you. A tear rolls down your cheek and he reaches up to swipe it away with his thumb, but doesn’t return his hand to his side. It cradles your face like you’re something precious, and to him, you are. 

He gently tugs you closer and wraps his arms around you, holding you against him. You tuck your head under his chin, savoring the smell of him, the comfort of his embrace and the warmth of his body through his suit. “It will be alright, carissima mia.” 

You shut your eyes and two fat tears escape as you do. Your body shudders with a repressed sob. 

Copia simply holds you closer, fighting back tears of his own. 

He’d nearly forgotten. Of course you would have to leave again, once your project was done. Just because you’re here now, doesn’t mean you will always be here. 

Maybe there are ways to have you stay. Maybe if he asked Sister Imperator, she would find a place for you here, doing translation as your sole duty. But can he keep you away from your home, when it’s so obvious how fond you are of it? How could he ask you to stay, knowing you would miss Marseille the whole time? 

Copia squeezes you tighter. “Will you do something for me?” He asks so, so softly. One of his hands strokes the back of your head, drawing you closer into his embrace. “Come and work in my office with me, yes? Just for a little while. Or a day or two, maybe. I hate that you’re all alone up here.”

“I can do that,” you say, and draw away from him slightly so you can look at him. You’re sure you must look a mess with your eyes puffy and nose running. But standing this close to him, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it grounds you to the world, you can’t bring yourself to care. “But I need permission from Papa or Sister Imperator to remove the diary from this room.”

Copia smiles. “Well, I have good news, then,” he says with a quirk of his brow. “There’s a Papa right here. Perhaps you should ask him?”

“Right, yes, I forgot,” you laugh. “Papa, do I have your permission to take Elizabeth’s diary out of the restricted room?” 

Copia laughs back and his breath is warm on your cheek. “Yes, tesoro, you have my permission. Only if you bring it straight to my office.” 

“Of course, Papa,” you nod, smiling. 

“Bene! Let me help you with your things.” 

Copia steps away and releases you from his grasp to help you gather your materials. For a brief moment you’re disappointed, but your cheeks warm at the thought that maybe he might hold you again in the safety and comfort of his office. Maybe you might gather the courage to allow yourself to feel the feelings you’re desperately trying to suppress, and maybe he might feel them back. 

But, you chuckle at his charming urgency to help you. You work on wrapping Elizabeth’s diary in its linens, and placing it in a wooden box you retrieve from a small shelf in the corner of the room. You still wear your white gloves. 

“Shall we?” Copia gestures to the open door once you’re both done preparing to leave. His eyes shine with mirth and something you might think was affection if you weren’t doubtful to a fault. 

“We shall,” you reply. He lets you slip past him and out the door, then falls into step beside you as you make your way down the curved staircase. 

~~~

March 27

Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover. 

Mother said it is a gift from Satan to be chosen. I am to conceive the next Papa, and continue the bloodline with the blessing of the Olde One. 

Truthfully, I am frightened. Mother said that it is now my only duty. She said it is an extreme privilege to be a Prime Mover and to carry the blood of Emeritus inside me. But I did not get a say. I was chosen, and that was the end. Papa did not even tell me himself, it was Mother. She said it is better to hear the good news from the mouth of the fairer sex, from the woman who did her duty as I must. 

Fairer sex. I must laugh at that. Fairer sex, and yet I must be a vessel for Emeritus blood at the whim of Satan. Fairer sex because I am beautiful but better to be seen and not heard. And yet I am expected to carry and birth the most powerful man in the Ministry, a power that no one else has. To ‘fairer sex’ I bite my thumb. 

There is to be a ritual tomorrow night, to solidify my role as Papa’s Prime Mover. I am horrified. Mother said that a woman can only hope to be so lucky as to be Prime Mover. Must I pray to be a bred heifer? What of me? What of my own wishes? 

I believed the Dark Lord to be wiser than this. I believed he would not ordain any sex to be lesser than the other. I believed in his doctrine of free choice, of fairness and civility, after having been cast down for disobeying. My faith wavers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list: @bonelessghoul @gbatesx @the-did-i-ask @leah-halliwell92 @archive-obsess @rosacrose @nikkyatyourservice @sodoswitchimage @portaltothevoid @lightbluuestars @thesoundresoundsecho @stephnthangss @enchantedbunny @jackson5611-blog @copiasprincipessa @kadedoesthings @justheretoreadleavemealone @tiedyedghoulette @da-rulah

this is literally my favorite fic right now

I Knew Nothing But Shadows pt. 11

Chapter 11: No Going Back

>> Click here to read! :)

Story Summary:

Curious circumstances and a questionable curse from your childhood led you to becoming the resident artist of the local Satanic Church – and a sinister night you’d truly rather forget. Years later, you’re presented with another chance at proving your artistic worth. Only this time, you’re kind of falling for the awkward anti-pope who sits for you and he is oddly interested in the intricacies of your past that you’re so desperately trying to hide. (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary:

The tension between you and Copia is getting hard to fight, just like your feelings for each other, and not even work, meetings or a persistent roommate can distract you.

Chapter Content: 12k words, implied past trauma/past wounds, body issues/scars, there is SMUT in here, a lot of it (oral m and f receiving, p in v, emotional sex, body worship), MDNI, 18+

SIDE NOTE: If you want to be tagged in chapters in the future pls let me know!! :)

So yeah I guess this is happening :D This chapter gave me a LOT of trouble, I hope you all like it. Please let me know what you think ♡ (Also I'm sorry if there's some typos still in the second half, I did not have the energy today to edit everything twice. I'll go over it again later and change what needs changing, I hope it's not too bad)

okay but the symbolism behind removing his face paints i'm so normal about this i—

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 5

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: When it rains, it pours, but the drops wash away the uncertainty swimming in your mind.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Thank you all for your patience!! I usually try to keep updates going every 10 days or so, but this one's a little late, so I apologize. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!! <3 If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!!

Warnings: possible descriptions of anxiety, you and Copia being idiots, mutual pining.

AO3 / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

You hadn’t known it was supposed to rain this morning. But now that you tilt your face up towards the gray-blanketed sky, you remember that it had been rather dark when you and Copia stepped out of the kitchens. The breeze around you feels sharp and the birds have gone quiet since you emerged from the flower labyrinth. The leaves—small and sparse after having just budded for spring—turn over to reveal their pale undersides. A sure sign of a rainstorm. 

As you hold your finger in front of your face to observe the rain drop that had landed on your nose, another falls on the top of your head. Beside you, Copia also lifts his head to look at the sky. He squints and flinches a bit when a drop lands in the middle of his forehead. “Ah, cazzo,” he mumbles, and uses his free hand to swipe it off. The raindrops are fat and heavy, and they scatter the tiny stones of the gravel path under your shoes when they fall. 

Another drop lands on your shoulder. “Should we go inside?” you ask. Immediately you realize that it is a stupid question. Of course you should go inside, crétin. It’s about to rain and you have no idea how long you’ve been outside for. 

That nagging thought tugs at the back of your awareness. The thought that you shouldn’t be taking up so much of Copia’s—Papa’s—time. He’s a busy man, and he probably doesn’t have time to walk the entire garden path during working hours. 

But… he had offered. And if you could, you’d walk the entire loop just to spend more time talking with him. 

“Yes… that is probably a good idea,” Copia answers with a small smile. 

He doesn’t want to go inside. He wants to keep holding your hand, keep walking on the secluded garden path until the sun goes down and it grows too cold to stay outside. And even then, he wants to take you back to his office, light a fire, and share a kettle of tea with you and talk some more. Maybe kiss you once or twice, if you’d be willing. Satan knows he would be. 

But you can’t spend what could very well be your last full day at the Abbey just killing time. He knows he should take you back and walk with you to the library. Copia knows he should encourage you to keep trying with Elizabeth’s diary until Sister Imperator is literally pushing you out the door, but he wants more time. He needs more time with you. This can’t be over yet, it can’t. It hasn’t even started, this thing that exists between you. 

The trees begin to shift a little more, a soft whooshing sound blowing with the breeze as the leaves and coniferous needles brush together. 

You blink once, twice, and then it’s pouring. 

“Diable ci-dessous!” you curse, swiping your free hand over your face as if that would help keep the water out of your eyes. The rain very quickly soaks through your habit and the wind bites at your skin. 

Copia squeezes your hand. “Sorella, come, come!” He tugs you into a run along the path. The gravel crunches and moves under your feet, making you both stumble every few steps. Your hands clutch together like a lifeline. 

Through the sound of the ever-growing rainstorm, you can hear the shouts of Siblings working in the garden who had also been caught in the weather. You can’t discern any words. The wind and the rain and the sound of your soaked shoes drowns out anything else, except for the bright laughter bubbling up from the man beside you. 

The rain falls in sheets, and you find yourself laughing with Copia. It’s ridiculous, this situation you’ve found yourself in. Like the sky had heard you speak to each other about your less-than-ideal childhoods, and decided to provide you with the clouds over your heads in a more literal sense. 

It takes you a moment to realize that Copia isn’t leading you back up the path towards the Abbey. You’re still running on the gravel past the greenhouses, which are teeming with Siblings hiding from the storm. Looking up through rain-soaked lashes you see the approaching silhouette of the tiny, sort-of-abandoned chapel in the far corner of the Abbey grounds. You can’t make out any details through the rain except for the small spire with its inverted cross. 

Your heart jumps at the thought of being cooped up in the small space with Copia until the rain subsides.

“Here!” Copia calls. He surges forward to the door of the chapel and almost loses your hand in the process. It takes him two tries before he can shoulder the door open, and then he’s practically dragging you over the threshold. His leather gloves are soaked and slippery, but his grip on you tightens until you’re both inside and safe from the rain. He closes the door behind you and it slams against the threshold with a creak and a loud rap of the ancient brass knocker. 

Then, you’re alone. It’s quiet inside the chapel, save for the storm pelting against the old, warped panels of stained glass along the side walls and the frantic beating of your heart in your ears. 

You wonder why a chapel has a knocker. 

You also wonder why such a pretty, quaint little chapel isn’t used anymore. The inside is lined with dark wood pews on either side of a carpeted aisle. The door is made of the same wood, as is the modest pulpit stationed at the front of the room. It stands on a raised platform, and behind it is another, higher platform with what looks to be a long table sheathed in a black cloth which reaches down to the floor. On either side of the pulpit are elaborate iron candelabras empty of any candles. 

The windows on either side of the chapel aren’t elaborate like that of the main Abbey. They each depict a single inverted cross of clear glass, with red stained glass filling the negative space of the arched windows. The walls are thick and built of stone, and each window lines up with a pew. Several books, which you infer are unholy prayer or hymn books, are perched on each windowsill, and you’re very suddenly reminded of Marseille. The stone walls, the tall, narrow windows, the old wood, the books on the sill. 

For a moment, you’re home and you’re very near to tears. 

“Cara,” Copia says softly from behind you. In your reverie you’d turned around to take in every little detail and your back is now facing him. His hand still holds yours, although you’re sure the soggy leather must be making your (and his) fingertips prune. 

Copia had watched you, watched your eyes flit around the chapel as you turned on the spot. He remembers what you told him about your home and realizes that this little building must remind you of it. He had watched your face alight in unrealized comfort and he had watched as your eyes grew glassy when you made the connection. He calls out to you. Cara, he says, and he means it. You are dear to him and it surprises him just how quickly you’d managed to become that way. 

You turn back to him, trying very hard not to let the tears building in the corners of your eyes slip down your already-wet cheeks. But then you see his face. Oh, your poor Papa, his face. 

One might think, for a Ministry with worldwide influence and many, many resources, they might be able to afford waterproof, smudge-proof paints for their esteemed leader, but they hadn’t. 

“Oh, no,” you giggle. It bubbles up in your chest and escapes your lips without your intent. And then your giggle turns into a rather unattractive snort and a full laugh, because your poor Papa looks like Hell. His paints are running down his face and dripping onto his leather vest. The black rings around his eyes have been tracked down his cheeks so that he looks like an overdramatic actress with terrible mascara. The pigment on his lips and beside his mouth have smudged so badly with the rain that he looks as if he’d drank a gallon of black paint. The white paint has almost completely run off, except for where it settles in the creases beside his mouth and between his brows. 

All together, he looks like a rather soggy zebra. 

Copia pouts at you. “What?”

You wish you had a mirror to show him. Part of you feels horrible for laughing at Papa, but you know that the man behind the paint will also find it rather funny. Slightly embarrassing at worst. “Your–” you try to stifle your giggles. “Your paints, they’re…” 

Copia’s eyes widen in realization. “They’re… not waterproof, no,” he says flatly. “Satana, devo sembrare uno stupido.”

He peels his sodden gloves off his hands and stuffs them in the front pocket of his pants. He swipes a finger under his eye and brings it back to find that his fingertip is gray and patchy. 

“No, you don’t look like an idiot,” you try to soothe him, although you’re still slightly laughing. “You simply… look like a man who was caught in a rainstorm with a full face of paints.” “Sì, so, like an idiot.” 

Copia begins trying to wipe his face with his sleeve. It does nothing to actually remove the paint, instead just smudging around his damp skin. Though, you’re beginning to see that his cheeks burn a pretty red through the streaks of whitish-gray paint, and his ears are nearly completely red. You guess that his face might feel just as hot as your own. 

He huffs in frustration, flicking his wet sleeve and causing water droplets to smack against the stone floor. “Dannazione,” he mutters to himself. “Shitty paints making me look like a…”

You remove your veil and bandeau—which are nearly plastered to your head from the torrential downpour—and wring them out. “Sit,” you command gently. Gesturing to one of the pews nearby, you fold your veil into a neat square. 

When Copia continues mumbling to himself and fruitlessly wiping his face, you reach out and tug his sleeve away. “Copia,” you say again, “Asseyez-vous.”

Copia reluctantly obeys. He knows his face is completely red now, for multiple reasons. It’s cold, for one—the rain had felt like tiny daggers of ice even through his shirt, and now that the two of you are in a drafty little chapel with soaked clothes, the air feels even colder. He’d also made a complete and total ass of himself, thanks to the rain. He’d spent so long this morning leaning against his mirror, going over and over the black paints to make sure each line was crisp and clean and perfect in the off-chance he might see you today. It had made him late arriving at his office, but it had led him to bump into you just minutes after his paints had dried, which is when they look their best, in his opinion. 

But the primary reason his face is practically glowing is because you’d commanded him in French. The language sounds sinful on your tongue. And spoken in that gentle but insistent tone… oh, he could come apart from just your words. You could string him along forever if you only speak like that. 

He sits on the edge of a pew with a sigh. Copia knows he’s being ridiculous—it’s only paint—but he’d spent an embarrassingly long time on it in the hopes it might impress you, and here he is, looking like an idiot. 

You approach him. You’re taller than him like this, so he has to tilt his face up to meet your eyes. Before you can overthink, before you can begin to question yourself, you gently reach out to place a finger under his chin and lift his head up a bit more. “Let me,” you say, almost a whisper. Your finger remains on his chin, keeping his head in place as you place your damp veil against his brow and begin to wipe. 

Surprisingly, the fabric of your veil is much more effective than his shirt, and the paint comes off easily. “Oh,” you say, lifting your brows in mild surprise. “It’s working.” 

You notice that Copia’s eyes slid closed at some point. “It feels nice,” he tells you softly. 

“It’s French,” you say with a little huff of laughter, which Copia echoes. 

Yes, he had meant that the fabric of your veil feels nice against his skin. But mostly he had meant that your finger gently tipping his head back feels like so much, all at once, and he doesn’t have words for any of it. It feels like it belongs there. He wants to touch you back, but where? And would you be okay with it, his hands on your hips or your waist or the backs of your thighs? 

So, he settles for shutting his eyes and clenching his hands on his knees to resist pulling you closer. You’re standing between his knees, which are spread wide enough to accommodate you without touching the sides of your legs.

He wants something. Something innocent, not presumptuous, because he really doesn’t know how you feel about him at all. He lets his legs fall closed a bit more, until the bends of his knees just barely brush against your legs. His pants and your habit are absolutely soaked but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric, and oh, he’d never guess that leg-to-leg contact could feel so intimate. 

Copia opens his eyes when you gently drag your finger over his hairline to brush back the hair stuck to his forehead. You’re so focused on your task, as you always are. Your hands are cold and gentle as you wipe away his ruined paints. He wants to take your hands and kiss every finger until they’re warm again. 

Slowly, carefully, you uncover new expanses of Copia’s face with each pass of your veil. You press a little firmer into the lines along his forehead and between his brows to completely clear his skin. His eyes are closed again, and you’re partially grateful because if he had looked at you like that any longer, you might have leaned down and kissed him. His freckled cheeks or his strong nose or his lips, you don’t know. 

Somewhere between wiping the paint from his mustache and chuffing your veil under his chin, you begin to shake. 

“Tesoro.”

“Hm?”

“You are cold,” Copia says, his voice barely above a whisper. You can feel his warm breath on your fingers as you drag your paint-ruined veil over a spot of white you’d missed. 

“I’m alright,” you say. It’s partially true. Yes, you’re cold, but you don’t want to think about it or else you’ll really be cold and there’s nothing here to warm you up. Realistically you know it’s your habit; it’s soaked through and so are your socks and shoes. But it’s also the realization coursing through you that you have feelings for this man. 

Lucifer, they had developed quickly. It had been so easy for him to push past the barriers you’d set up around your heart and mind. He’d just walked right in, lit a cozy fire within your soul and asked you to call him Copia. And you let him. He’s carving a place in your life that you’d gladly have him occupy, and it scares you. 

He makes you forget why you try not to get attached. He looks at you and you forget the pain of leaving everything behind when you were eleven, which you are deathly afraid of having to do again. 

You’re brought out of your thoughts when Copia’s ungloved hand gently takes yours. You cringe at how clammy your hands must be compared to his warm ones, but you don’t pull away. “Sathanas, tesoro, your hands are like ice,” he says. His other hand comes atop yours to sandwich it between his own. 

You feel like you need to run. Your heart kicks against your sternum as your eyes meet his own. 

Copia’s face is bare now. His freckles stretch across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, with a few scattered on his forehead and chin. You want to rip your hand out from between his own and tumble out the door into the rain. You want to bring him closer and trace little patterns into his freckles. Satan, you don’t know what you want. 

You want to protect yourself from hurting again. 

Copia, on the other hand, knows exactly what he wants. But he can practically see your mind working, churning back and forth between whatever turmoil is going on inside your head. As he sits in front of you, he can see the exact moment when you begin to panic. He can feel your hand begin to shake in his. He knows you’re not blind, or ignorant. He knows that you both know there is something happening, that it has been happening since you met, that it’s big. And he knows you’re scared of it, what it could become, what it could mean. Darling, he knows.

So, he stays silent. If he says anything or does anything, you’ll flee. This thing between the two of you is delicate, so delicate and new and foreign that any sudden movement will shatter the careful balance you hold in the little chapel. Anything but silence will cave the roof in and drench you all over again. Copia stays silent and holds your hand through your own tempest, and lets your eyes explore his face in search of answers he hopes you’ll find.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper after another moment. “I want to stay and figure it out.” 

Copia doesn’t know if you’re talking about Elizabeth’s diary, or this thing between you and him, or both. Honestly, neither do you. 

He squeezes your hand tenderly. “Let’s get you back to the Abbey then, eh?” 

“It’s—” your eyes dart to a window, “it’s still pouring, Copia.” Copia simply smiles at you, leaning in as if to tell you a secret. “What’s a little rain going to do, cara? Ruin my paints?” 

~~~

By the time you make it back up the hill, to your dorm, to the shower, and into dry clothes, the lunch hour is long gone. You hadn’t realized how long you’d spent with Copia that morning. It had been just past nine when you left Sister Imperator’s office, and now it is well past two in the afternoon. Somehow it felt like only minutes had passed in the cozy little chapel, and in that chapel you made the terrifying realization that no matter how long you spend with him, it will never be enough. 

You can’t think about that right now. 

Right now, you need to get to the restricted room. You’re halfway out the door of your temporary dormitory, slipping on your only spare pair of shoes as you desperately hold onto the idea you had when you and Copia were about halfway up the hill. 

With your shoes already soaked through, you and Copia had struggled to find traction on the sodden grass. With each step you found yourself slipping backwards, hands flying through the air until you regained your balance, or until Copia firmly grasped it in his own and didn’t let go. The two of you trekked your way up the hill, slipping and sliding and giggling at the absurdity of it all. Your hand would find his own whenever it would slip from his grasp, like they were magnetized. It felt natural, seeking his hand. Even if it was only for balance. 

As you slowly made your way up the hill, soaked and shivering, one thought prevailed in your mind. You only have today, you kept thinking. If you don’t figure out the diary, you’ll only have today. 

It was true of two situations. You have one word of the diary—Today—and you have only today if you can’t decipher the rest. 

You took a step forward, and slid back slightly. Copia’s hand steadied you. 

Only today. Elizabeth. Today. Copia. Today. 

Today. 

You’d stopped completely, just standing in the near-freezing rain. Copia had looked back at you like you were insane (which you might be), and tugged on your hand again. “What is it?” He’d shouted over the rain. 

You’d begun to climb the hill with a renewed vigor. “Today!” 

Copia had no idea what you’d meant by today, but he couldn’t question it when you were pulling him up the hill. It was like you’d suddenly found your footing in the wet grass, and he was glad of it. His shoes were completely drenched and he was shivering nearly as violently as you were. He didn’t need to understand what you were talking about right now. All that mattered was getting you (and himself) out of the cold. He can ask you later. 

Later, he’d thought. Would there be a later?

Yes, there would. As he watched you climb the hill towards the kitchen door, still clinging to his hand and helping him up, he’d decided there would be a later. Sister Imperator may control every other aspect of the Abbey and his life, but not this one. Not you. 

The Siblings working in the kitchen had looked at the two of you like you were crazy when you burst through the door, sopping wet and dripping onto the tile. Perhaps it was a mix of confusion and surprise—you’d wager that none of them had seen Copia without his paints before. You feel immensely privileged that you’d been the first, that you’d been the one to take them off. You’d been the one to strip away Papa. 

“Eh,” Copia had said, looking back and forth between you and the Brother who had smiled at you earlier, “We— I— sorry. We’ll be going, yes—”

He’d grabbed your hand again and pulled you through the kitchens the way you came that morning. Once you both had stepped out into the refectory, which was thankfully empty at this time of day, Copia stopped again. The sounds of his ruffled shirt and your habit dripping on the floor echoed in the large room. “Be honest with me, cara. How bad is it?” 

You’d struggled to hold in a laugh. “It’s… not as bad as you think,” you’d told him. In truth, it wasn’t. But you realized then that you’d missed a spot of paint in his hairline, which now trailed down his forehead in a distinct white line. Without thinking twice, you reached up to swipe it away with your thumb. “I can’t imagine I look any better.” 

Copia huffed a laugh through his nose. “We… should probably go get cleaned up,” he’d said. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” 

“You either, Papa,” you said, and Copia had mourned the loss of his name on your lips. He understands—within the walls of the Abbey, he is Papa and you are Sorella. But perhaps he could make an exception for you. 

You and Copia had parted ways then, to wash up and resume your duties. All the way back to your dorm and through the time it took to shower and change, you’d recited the word today in your head like a prayer. Even now, as you quickly walk through the corridors on the path you've taken every day for the past week, you repeat today, today, today as if you would lose the thought if you didn’t.

If Elizabeth is the key to the first word, perhaps today is the key to the second. Two steps forward, one step back. The hill in the rain. You must look back before you can forge ahead.

With practiced ease, you open the diary’s lockbox and place it onto your usual desk. Having donned the pristine white gloves again, you unfold the linen and the gold embossment on the cover catches your eye. You smile. Soon, you promise to Elizabeth, you will live again in these pages.

The familiar string of letters greets you as you open to the first page of writing. You write the sequence again on a blank sheet in your notebook, the letters flowing from your pen with ease after having written them hundreds of times already. 

LzlhelzhkxbgwfqmnJkcfolBfbalBoiovtsheq.

You already know that the first five letters translate to today, so you cross them out. Underneath the next letters, you write hodie again and again, as you’d done with the word Elizabeth the first time. Your hands are shaking. Please, please, please…

You trace your finger over the letter grid, quickly mapping each letter of the cipher to its partner in the key. L of the cipher and the H of the key map to an E on the grid. You jot down a messy E. Z of the cipher, o of the key, l on the grid. And so on, until you’re confident you’ve found the next word when the deciphered letters stop making sense. 

The second word in the line reads electus. Chosen. 

Without translating the whole sentence, hodie electus could mean a number of things. Word order does not matter in Latin—hodie could be the subject of the sentence, or the object, or an arbitrary time frame. 

Your heart is beating hard in your ears. You continue, using electus as the new cipher key. 

The next word is sum. The Latin word for self, or I. 

Hodie electus sum. Today I was chosen. 

Sweet Satan, you think. Your breath comes shallow and quick. Holy Hell, I’ve figured it out.

You continue, your hands flying back and forth between the corresponding letters of each new key and the grid, double and triple checking to make sure you map the correct letters. Your head feels light, your chest heavy. Like if you dared to look away from the diary or your notebook or the grid, you’d find that you were wrong. You must translate this first sentence before it shifts and your idea doesn’t fit anymore. 

It’s easy to find where the first sentence ends, because it is isolated in its own paragraph in the diary. That also tells you that it’s an important statement; important enough to be separate from the rest of the text, which is a continuous flow of letters down the page. 

The final word of the cipher confirms your suspicions that Elizabeth wanted to keep her diary a secret for a long time. The final word deciphers as Papae, the Latin possessive form of Papa. 

Hodie electus sum ut Primus Motor Papae.

Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list: @bonelessghoul @gbatesx @the-did-i-ask @leah-halliwell92 @archive-obsess @rosacrose @nikkyatyourservice @sodoswitchimage @portaltothevoid @lightbluuestars @thesoundresoundsecho @stephnthangss @enchantedbunny @jackson5611-blog @copiasprincipessa @kadedoesthings @justheretoreadleavemealone

one more? | cardinal copia x gn!reader

Inspired by all the kiss prompts. This is for @leezlelatch ♡

content: 750 words, gn!reader, some suggestiveness and spice but nothing explicit, lots of kissing going on here, we get a little frisky

Masterlist – Ao3 link

✦ ✧ ✦

Lunch breaks are invariably too short. They feel even shorter since you spend them wrapped up in Copia’s cassocked arms, hidden away in an empty corner behind the entrance to the library. Your back is pressed against the cool stone walls, your habit disheveled from his wandering hands, leaving half of your leg exposed to the chill draft haunting this part of the abbey.

The cool air feels heavenly against your heated skin where Copia’s fingertips are trailing up to your hip and back down in a steady dance. It’s oddly tender compared to the way his mouth is so insistent on devouring you. You can only imagine the purple discolorations blooming on your neck right now, the smears of lipstick and bite marks he left in his impatient fervor after he’d pinned you to the wall.

The bells have long since chimed to announce the passing of lunch hour. He should be back in his office and you should be back behind the reception desk. And yet your arms are still tightly slung around his shoulders as his tongue licks into your hungry mouth.

“I have to go back,” he mumbles for the fifth time as he breaks away for air, trying to step back but you don’t let go of his neck. “Amore…”

With your hand in his hair, you press your mouth to his once again, ignoring his complaints. His biretta has long since fallen off his head and you make use of the easy access, dragging your nails over his scalp in the way that he loves so much. He moans loudly and kisses back for a moment, moving his swollen lips against yours just almost chastely now. With the kiss distracting you, his gloved fingers wrap around your wrists and he pulls them off of him, pretending to pin you to the wall. With your hands off, he tries to tear himself away once more, but your fingers grasp his pellegrina at the last second. You yank him back, bringing your mouth to his ear as he stumbles into you. “One more kiss? Please?”

“You want your Cardinal to be late?” he whispers, bracing himself against the wall behind you.

“Yes, if it means I get another kiss.”

“I will get in trouble, amore.” He drags his nose along your cheek before nuzzling yours. “Do you have no compassion for me?”

“No.”

He tsks, pulling back slightly when you try to capture his lips again. “So cruel. So cruel to your Cardinal and you claim to love me.”

“I do love you. That’s why I want another one, silly.” You try to pull at his robes again but he won’t budge. “Please please please.”

He whimpers softly. “You know what begging does to me, dolce.”

“Please. Please, Cardinal, I need one more.”

“One more, then you will let me go?”

“Mhm.”

He leans in, kissing you as softly as he can muster. You trap his full bottom lip between your teeth for a second and he groans, pressing in harder until the back of your head hits the wall again.  He pulls away with a desperate sigh and you whine at the loss of him.

“One more,” you beg, tugging at his robes.

“Amore,” he groans. “You are getting greedy now.”

“Isn’t greed a virtue?”

“I think you are mixing that up, no?”

He gives you another peck before he fully pulls away. You allow it this time, conceding in favor of your own reputation. Someone is going to want something from you any second now and you still have to get presentable.

Copia straightens his rumpled cassock before glancing at your ruined face with a smirk. “We continue this tonight, amore,” he promises. “You will bring the same hunger, yes?”

You nod, smiling like a fool when he winks at you. He almost stumbles over his own feet as he turns back around, still drunk on endorphins and your taste. A few deep breaths and you gather your wits before your eyes get caught by a red blob of color on the floor.

You pick up his biretta and put it on your head. He’s already halfway down the hall when you call out to him. “Looks like you forgot something, Cardinal.”

He spins around, the skirt of his cassock whirling around his legs. “Don’t even say it, amore.”

“You’re lucky,” you say with a grin. “Payment is very cheap today.”

 Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

okay but I literally loved this

Confessional - Cardinal Copia x F!Reader

Summary: As a sister of sin, it was your duty to confess at least once a month, to have your sins praised by a higher up member of the clergy. But you only ever chose Thursday nights, when you knew he was on duty. And tonight, you were working up the courage to confess your darkest sin - the dreams you had been having...

Rating: Explicit, 18+ Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Mutual masturbation, graphic description of oral sex and penetrative sex, corruption kink, shame kink, obviously sacrilegious themes (hello?? It’s ghost…), some nastiness akin to panty-sniffing… (you’ll see what I mean lol) PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

Your shoes clacked on the solid flooring of the ministry, resonating on the marble to fill the silence. It was already late, the sun long gone and no longer illuminating the stained glass of the windows as you passed them.

You couldn’t help your hands nervously wringing as you walked towards the chapel, pace quicker than normal. Perhaps rushing there was doing nothing for your current nervous state, but idly walking was closer to torture, and any slower, you might miss him…

There were only a few minutes left of confessional, and whilst you knew it would be incredibly quiet this late into the evening, you had left it as long as possible for fear of running into anybody else.

Thursday night confessional was the quietest – after all, it was his night, and he wasn’t a Papa. Your siblings favoured their Papas, any chance for a one-to-one conversation with them but not you… You only wanted to speak to him.

The doors to the chapel at the end of the hall stood before you, your mind still toying with the idea of turning and running, maybe trying again next Thursday… It had taken you weeks to muster the courage to confess this evening, and the chapel doors were the furthest you had ever got without retreating to the safety of your dorm. Tonight, you were determined – you had to confess.

With a deep breath, your hands – which you had adorned in some very pretty black lace gloves – opened the doors to the chapel. The creak echoed along the intricate stone architecture, and with it you heard a smaller creak of a wooden door, followed by a tiny slam. Had you not been looking dead ahead at the confessional booth as you entered, you perhaps wouldn’t have noticed it was in fact the confessional door closing very quickly.

On his side.

‘He thought he was done for the evening’, you thought.

You stayed put for a moment, contemplating just running back to your dorm and allowing his evening to end here – maybe he was disappointed that a sibling had come to confessional at the very last moment.

“Sh-should I come back next week?” you asked to the open room.

“Oh, uh… no, no. Please, sister. I was just, uh… stretching my legs. Por favore, come. Sit,” he invited.

You couldn’t help but smile a little at his sheepishness, like a child being caught with his hand in the cookie jar, protesting his innocence.

Quickly, you shut the chapel doors behind you and clacked your way over to the confessional, taking a seat across from his side and sitting awkwardly on the plush leather bench. The screen between the two of you kept a comfortable separation, forbidding you from having to look him in his wonderfully mismatched eyes.

You weren’t sure you could do this without that luxury…

“When you’re ready, Sorella.”

You took a deep breath, your hands playing with the fabric of your habit at the knees.

“Cardinal, I… I have sinned,” you began.  

“Which of the sins have you committed, Sorella?”

This was harder than you had anticipated, the fear of judgement so prevalent in your mind you thought of making up something far less than that you had planned to express.

Of course, you would not be judged for your sins – but praised. Confessional was not to be absolved of your sins, rather to celebrate them. You were supposed to sin, and at least one confessional per month was mandatory as a Sibling of Sin at the ministry. But this one felt like one you perhaps should have kept to yourself…

“Sorella?” he urged again, gently attempting to coax your sins from you.

“I’m sorry, Cardinal, this is… embarrassing.”

“Take your time, but know that no matter what, the dark lord will be pleased with y-“ “Lust, Cardinal. It’s… it’s lust,” you interrupted.

“Oh…” he seemed taken aback, almost awkward himself. “Well, uhh… In your own time, eh?”

You looked up from your hands where you had been staring at the lace that adorned them, taking a look through the lattice screen and barely seeing his outline across from you. You could only just make out the red of his cassock, not so bright in the dim lighting of the booth. The red was your favourite…

“Cardinal, I’ve been having these dreams…” you began, “well, the same dream. Always the same… and it follows me. I can’t think straight anymore, it’s… affecting my days, my work. My siblings are starting to notice my mind wanders and I can’t explain it to them. I’m trying to continue my duties, but I find it so hard to focus after having this dream.”

In the booth beside you, Cardinal Copia listened intently. “Sorella, is this a… dream of a, uh… sexual nature?” he asked tentatively, shy himself.

Copia was perhaps the most awkward of the higher ups, nothing like his brothers in their blatant sexuality and charm with women. Perhaps that had been where this started; a curiosity of sorts. Perhaps his somewhat goofy persona is what had caught your eye, made your thoughts wander during seminars and Black Mass.

Whatever had sparked this, it had only grown.

“Yes, Cardinal… They are,” you shuffled on the bench, the leather squeaking beneath you, “I dream I’m studying late, in a seminar room and… well, I’m not alone. One thing leads to another, and… I’m sure you can imagine what happens next.” You hurried to finish your sentence, praying to Satan himself the Cardinal didn’t press the subject of your dream much further and this may be enough of a confession to please the dark lord.

But imagine is exactly what the Cardinal was doing.

Had he not seen it was you who opened the chapel doors at 10:56pm on a Thursday evening as his confessional duties were coming to an end, perhaps he could have remained professional, listened to your confession without issue.

But you were exactly the issue. His sweet, most innocent Sorella…

The Sorella who smiled at him in the hallways, no matter who she was walking with.

The Sorella who never misses a seminar he’s hosting.

The Sorella who only ever confesses on a Thursday, during his duty.

The Sorella who keeps stealing glances at him as his brothers perform Black Mass.

His heart ached a little at the prospect you were dreaming of someone, of anyone other than him. But whilst his heart ached, his crotch twitched… Already, the picture you had painted for him was enough to be the focus of his imagination long into the night.

Copia coughed once to rid the thought from his mind as best he could.

“And these are dreams, you say?” he asked, hoping to drag your confession out just a little longer, to see if you would let any more information slip.

“Well, they started that way…”

The Cardinal’s head snapped to look at the screen between you both as if he were looking directly in your eyes, but he could only see the silhouette of your side profile in the dark.

“Please, explain...”

Heat crept onto your cheeks, a blush spreading as you recounted the dreams in vivid detail that had turned into daydreams.

“My mind wanders during the day… I can’t help myself.”

The Cardinal hadn’t realised he was squeezing his own knees with his hands until he heard the leather of his gloves squeak from the pressure. He quickly shook them out, ridding his mind of the thoughts you had placed there without intention.

“The subject of these desires – is it always the same person, mio cara?” he asked bravely.

“Yes, Cardinal…”

He took a deep breath, a part of him so hoping this wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“Do you wish to tell me who, mio cara?” He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t praying to Satan himself that the subject of your fantasies was him. He wouldn’t know what to do with the information if he had it, but he needed to know, he had to pry…

“This is why I’m embarrassed, Cardinal… I-“ you paused. Were you really about to do this? Were you going to confess to this?

“This is a safe place, Sorella. Speak your truth, tell me your sins…” he urged, verging on desperate as he tried to keep his voice composed.

In your booth, your mind swam with the images of your dreams… Slow touches over your habit, gentle caresses of your cheek turning into ravenous kisses and manhandling until you were bent over your dear Cardinal’s desk with your rear on display and core soiling your panties. Just the images were enough to make you squeeze your knees together in an attempt to still the pulsing you felt between your legs…

“Cardinal…” you almost whined in a hushed voice. The poor man beside you had to bite into his leather-clad fist to stop himself from reacting. That whine; it sent a shiver down his spine that rippled across his whole body, the blood seeming to drain from the top of his head to one focal point below his waist… It took all the strength he had not to palm himself through his cassock.

Instead, he remained quiet. The only sound was the noise his leather gloves made as he squeezed his hands into fists. But he needed to give you the chance to speak, he wasn’t going to force you into admission…

“I-I’m sorry, Cardinal… but… it’s you.”

And there it was. Two little words that put his mind in a tailspin.

It’s you.

“Sweet sorella…” he whispered, “don’t apologise…”

But how could you not? You had been mortified the second the admission left your lips. You didn’t have to tell him it was him, but something had forced it out of you, some tiny little bit of hope that he would show an interest, or at the very least, that he wouldn’t chastise you for such dirty thoughts of him.

“Do you think less of me, Cardinal?” you asked in a hushed tone, tears almost threatening to creep up on you.

“Mio cara, as if I ever could… Your sins are celebrated here, you know this, eh?” The cardinal sounded as if he was pleading with you, begging you not to be disgusted or angry at yourself. Truly, that was exactly what he was doing; because he was more aroused by your admission than anything he had ever seen, heard or felt before.

Because it was you.

“But...” “No, Sorella, I won’t hear it. You are free to sin, we… we encourage sin,” he stumbled a little over his words, trying to be decent and professional but his resolve was quickly crumbling.

A beat of silence passed between the two of you, the only sound the creak of the wooden booth as the Cardinal shifted on his bench. The mere thought that the Cardinal might encourage this behaviour, that he might encourage your filthy thoughts about him had you biting your lip to save the whimper that had crept up your throat.

“May I ask something, Sorella? A question you don’t have to answer,” he asked, leaning slightly closer to the lattice between you and lowering his voice as if others could hear.

“Mm-hmm,” was all you could manage, still holding back that whimper as your thighs squeezed together a little tighter.

“Do you ever… act on those dreams?”

It was unprofessional, and he knew it. It was invasive, and he knew it. But he could never forgive himself if he didn’t at least ask.

In the tiniest voice, barely audible even in the silence of the chapel, you replied, “Once…”

But he heard you. Oh, he heard you loud and clear.

And the thought of his cara, his sweetest sorella fantasising about him to a point of arousal where she simply cannot help herself but to reach under her habit and… Well, it was driving him wild. His already wildly engorged erection was almost painful, begging to be touched. In a battle between his mind and his body, his body had won – his palm pushed against himself, slowly as to evade suspicion from just his shadow alone.

The guilt he felt as he crumbled… If you knew how filthy the old man was being, how he couldn’t help himself when it came to you, how he just had to touch himself as you confessed in confidence to him, you would surely despise him. He knew that.

And yet, at this point he was close to risking it all for just one moment of bliss.

“Cardinal, I’m so sorry… this was too much. I shouldn’t have come tonight, should never have said anything,” you panicked. He’d been quiet for a beat too long, and it was driving you insane. You needed to go, to run back to your dorm and lock yourself away to take care of yourself and the heat pooling between your legs whilst simultaneously avoiding any and all encounters with the Cardinal for the foreseeable future.

You stood up to leave when…

“No, no, wait, per favore…”

His tone stopped you in your tracks – the distress, as if he were the one in the wrong out of the two of you, as if he were the pervert.

“Mio cara, I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. And I don’t want you to feel like what you have thought or done is wrong.”

At least, not wrong enough that you should feel any shame. Sin was indeed the point, after all...

“And I certainly wouldn’t want you to leave without a sense of climax, eh?”

His chosen words felt cryptic, as if he himself were testing the waters but you couldn’t be sure. Yet the slight possibility was enough to make you sit back down and wait for him to continue.

Did he mean confessional? That you hadn’t heard his usual ‘celebration of sin’ speech he did for every confession before you had left? Or did he mean it in the literal sense?

Oh, Satan, you hoped for the literal sense. The one and only climax you had ever allowed yourself with thoughts of him running rabid in your mind had been the single most religious experience you’d had since joining the ministry.

“Dolcezza,” he began, “If… if you so wish, you can tell me about your dreams. I’ll think no less of you, te lo prometto (I promise you)…”

His tone was so soothing, as if he had morphed into the very serpent that tempted Eve to the apple. Was that what he was doing? Tempting you? You had no time to ponder the thought, your mouth betraying your mind as you began to recount the parts of the dream you had hidden from him before.

“I’m studying… Latin translation, Cardinal – your specialty,” you spoke with admiration, “you offer to help me, standing beside the desk as I translate a text for you. It’s about… sins of the flesh, and how they can be used as an offering to Lucifer.”

The Cardinal beside you listened intently, his palm slowly resuming the pressure he’d put on his length over his cassock before.

“I… tell you I’d never committed that sin before. At least, not with another… that’s when you crouch down beside me, and tell me it’s the most wonderful feeling. How… important the female orgasm is, and how… I should try it sometime. With someone I trusted, of course. And then, I…” just thinking of what you say to him in the dream had you squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment, cringing at yourself but your cardinal beside you… he was so desperate to hear what you do next.

“I tell you I trust you… And you tell me you’ll take good care of me,” you divulged.

Oh, he would take good care of you, he thought, gripping his cock through his cassock hard to stifle the groan that rumbled deep in his chest. The shame that washed over him as he gave in to his own selfish desperation weighed heavy on his shoulders, and had it been anybody but you he wouldn’t even dare to indulge. But it was you – his sweetest sorella…  

“Sorella, I would take good care of you...” Copia tested the waters, relieved to hear the tiniest of whimpers from your side of the booth as his words settled in the air. You squeezed your thighs tightly together, your knees raising as you twisted in your seat to feel as much friction as possible without having to reach down between your thighs.

“Please, continue mio cara…”

You took a deep breath, “you lean in to kiss me, gently at first but… your hands push my veil back from my hairline until it drops, and wind their way into my hair. I just… I can’t help myself then. Before I know what overcomes me, I’m gripping onto your cassock and pulling you as close as possible, Cardinal. I get… so desperate,” you breathed, your hand snaking to cup yourself between your legs, unable to stand the lack of pressure any longer.

“Tesoro…” he moans beside you. His hand effortlessly unbuttons his cassock, pushing its way past the waistband of his pants to grip himself bare underneath.  He’s too far gone to worry about you catching on. Hell, he almost wished you would.

Like a bolt of electricity, a shock shot through your body to your core at the sound of his moan. It was better than you had dreamed, far deeper, the timbre of his voice vibrating through you. It only served to push you into confessing more…

“You lift me to sit on the desk and stand between my knees, your hands disappearing from my hair to under my habit,” your hand began to rub against your core, the other bunching your habit up around your knees, pulling it higher and higher to expose your legs beneath.

You felt utterly mortified at yourself, so eager to relieve yourself beside your cardinal. But you wouldn’t dare stop, not when you could still hear his breath deepening, slowing as if trying to control himself also.

“You touch me, and… it feels incredible,” you whine, your own fingers replicating his in your dream, now able to push your panties to the side and slowly drag through your soaked core, the lace of your gloves dampening. Copia could barely drag his fist over his length from under his pants but it sure as hell didn’t stop him as he envisioned getting to push his gloved fingers into your beautifully glistening pussy…

You don’t wait for any kind of response, your fight or flight instincts kicking in. To give him an opportunity to interrupt and scold you for your dreams would be a grave mistake on your part and one you may not recover from – so you just continued…

“Your fingers, they… slide into me. The leather feels cold – I like it, it’s… nice,” you whine, pushing your own laced fingers into you as you spoke, slowly… “But you take them out again, and you taste them…”

“Merda,” he hissed, squeezing himself. The picture in his mind was so perfect, he could practically hear your moans, hear the way his fingers sounded gliding through your slick…

No, wait…

He really could hear that…

His eye shot open – he hadn’t even realised they were shut this whole time – and he sat bolt upright, the hand in his pants slipping back out. He stilled, listening out for that tell-tale sound again, the quiet, wet squelch of what he prayed to Satanas was your fingers gliding through your slick.

And he heard it again.

His heart weighed so heavy in his chest, shame washing over him. You were part of his congregation. He was someone you looked up to, turned to for guidance and teachings and yet here he was – letting himself paint the filthiest picture of the two of you. You trusted him, and here he was having to force his hand away from his cock as you confessed your sin.

‘Copia, you pathetic old pervert’, he thought to himself.

“C-Cardinal…” you whined, and that was enough for him. Perhaps he was a disgusting, perverted old man who was hopelessly in love with a member of his congregation, and he just had to live with that – because there wasn’t a single circle of hell vile enough to deter him from unlacing the front of his pants to let his thick cock spring free and chase the pleasure he denied himself after hearing his name spill from your lips like that.

On your side, your mind couldn’t string together any form of coherency aside from recounting the details of your dream aloud. The lace of your glove was sodden with slick, fingers delving as deep as possible as you slumped against the back of the booth, legs spread and habit bunched around your hips.

“Y-you get to your knees in front of me, and… and you use your mouth,” you sob, clenching around your own fingers. “Your tongue, it… feels… ohh,” you moaned wantonly, catching yourself in what you were doing and suddenly realising you were no longer being remotely subtle.

Your eyes widened, fear rushing through you as you looked to your left at the figure behind the lattice. What would he think of you? He would be so ashamed of you… how could you ever look him in the eye again? Your mind raced with panic, until movement in your peripheral caught your attention.

A slow, rhythmic shadow… where his lap should be…

Paired with the short, sharp breaths he tried to hush that followed each movement of that shadow, you could surely draw only one conclusion.

And the thought had a fresh wave of heat sweeping through your core…

“S-sometimes this part, it’s… different…” you began again, slowly resuming your self-pleasure.

“Mmf, how… how so, dolce?” he asked, slowly pumping his cock in his hand, his eyes squeezing shut again and leaning his head against the back wall of his booth.

“Sometimes you… you make me cum on your tongue but sometimes… you c-can’t wait…” you stutter, picturing the scene in your head as your free hand comes to circle your clit, adding a layer of pleasure that had fresh slick slipping past your fingers.

“Fanculo… What do you mean, Tesoro?” he asks, his thumb spreading the beads of precum shining at the head of his cock. The leather glove he wore shone wet as he fisted his length.

“You uh… you spin me around a-and, you push me down against the desk…” you avowed, “and you f-fuck me, Cardinal…” If you had learned anything about yourself today, it was that you had a shame kink – because the way your pussy clenched around your gloved fingers as you spoke was too telling…

“In nome di Satanas (in Satan’s name)…” he growled beside you, his fist pumping fast enough that you could hear the sound of his cock gliding through it. “I… fuck you, Sorella?”

“I-I’m sorry for… my language, Cardinal…” you pleaded, unable to stop yourself from fucking your fingers deeper into you, your foot propped up on the wall opposite you.

“Oh, mio cara… don’t you apologise,” he smirked as he sat basking in your sweet attempt at an apology as if he didn’t know you were doing far worse next to him than cursing. Satanas, he fucking loved your innocence – but more so, he loved knowing that it was him who could corrupt it.

Still, he heard those delicious noises from beside him, his mind racing trying to imagine how you would taste given the chance to try… His dolcezza… Just one chance to taste you and he’d never forget how sweet you truly were.

But oh, Satanas, the thought of bending you over that desk in his classroom and sinking his length into your tight, wet cunt… It was almost too much for Copia. He had to squeeze himself at the base to stave off an early orgasm. No way was he finishing before you had confessed all to him.

“Will you tell me how, Tesoro?” he asks, and your willingness to answer him stuns you; how easily you gave in to your Cardinal, wanting nothing more than to please him.

“You’re… gentle with me. You take care of me, make sure you don’t hurt me… At least at first,” your hands slowed to the pace you envisioned his hips meeting yours, the building pressure in your abdomen lessening for the time being. The cardinals fist did the same, simulating the feeling of filling you.

“You always tell me how good I’m doing, that... you know I can handle more.” How you had got him so accurate in your dream is beyond him; as he slowly fisted his cock he knew that he would say those things to you, he would always praise you, tell you how good you were being for him. He’d only ever want to take care of you, to make sure you not only felt every single ridge and vein of his thickness but that you were comfortable while doing so.

“I know you’d be good for me, amore mio…” Copia was too far gone to recognise his own tiny confession as he talked you through your dream.

“C-Cardinal…” you whimper, your fingers curling inside you to reach the spot you just know his cock would hit with every slow thrust.

“It’s okay, Sorella…” he reassured, willing you to continue. If he got to hear you climax, to hear those gasps and sordid moans spill from you as you came, he could die a happy – if somewhat perverted – man.

“You start to get faster… harder… I can feel the edge of the desk digging into my thighs,” your clit pulsed under the circles you drew over it, “y-you p-pull my hair a little… a lot,” you corrected yourself as you stuttered. In your dream, Copia would wrap his fingers in your hair and pull until your chest lifted from the desk. “It hurts a little, but… I like it.”

He couldn’t take much more of this. His cock was leaking profusely as his fist quickened its pace. From beside you, you could hear his grunts, and the moment he spits into his palm to make the glide of his fist easier. It only served to heighten your arousal more.

Imagining his hips pistoning into you from behind, you couldn’t help but rut against your own fingers, little whimpers leaving you with each thrust. In the booth beside you, Copia was doing much the same, hips thrusting up into his fist which had now stilled to allow the next best thing other than your pussy.

“Sorella, I… merda,” he didn’t even know what he was trying to say, his mind simply clouded with thoughts of you and only you.

You were giving in, hands working so fast to race towards an end. You needed release, you needed to cum. For how long you had stopped yourself from touching yourself to these fantasies, you could barely edge yourself any longer. You’d only ever allowed yourself a release to thoughts of Copia once before, when it had become too much and now you were finally allowing yourself again.

And not only you, but the Cardinal was sat beside you, furiously fucking into his fist as if it were you because of your fantasy… You couldn’t hold off if you tried.

You pressed your lips together in a hard line as you hummed, suppressing a moan that would ricochet off the chapel walls for the ministry to hear. The pressure built and built, heat turning into a spark, to a flame until you ignited an inferno…

“C-Copia… Please,” you howled into your shoulder, curling in on yourself as you met your end. You fucked yourself through your orgasm, feet kicking out against the wood of the booth.

At the sound of his name – his real name – being thrown from your lips in desperation was enough to make his cock pulse in his fist, hips stuttering as he shot thick spurts of cum across his hand and down the front of his cassock. But the sounds of your fingers deep inside yourself and the thumps of you thrashing around next to him drove him animalistically wild, continuing to desperately thrust into his fist into overstimulation.

The both of you had to slow to catch your breath, slumping into opposite corners of the booths and both of you removing your hands from the messes you had made of yourselves. Your glove was sopping, to a point it almost repulsed you – you had to slip it off, letting it fall beside you as you recovered from your post-orgasm exhaustion.

The silence between the two of you was leaving too many unanswered questions, neither one of you knowing how to proceed from here. But frankly, you both needed to catch your breath and calm yourselves down before you could even think straight.

“Sorella…” Copia started, tucking himself back into his pants. “You…” he sighed, shame washing over him once again now the orgasm haze had dissipated. He ran his clean hand through his hair, and slotted himself back into Cardinal mode. “You should say your prayer of thanks…”

Disappointment washed over you, followed by a helping of embarrassment. He wanted to wrap up whatever this had been quick, and have you go on your way… Why had you expected anything different?

“Um… yeah, I… I should,” you started. Sitting up, your roll your habit back down to hang around your ankles and began your prayer. “Satanas, I thank you for your guidance and celebrate my sin with you, shrouded in your darkness. Nema.” You kept it short, now desperate to flee the chapel as fast as possible to run and hide in humiliation.

“I celebrate your sin in the name of Lucifer, our Dark Lord,” Copia stayed on script, as if this were any regular confession.

“His wrath endures forever,” you respond, as you knew you should.

“Your sins are celebrated…” he hesitated – he didn’t want you to go like this, he was screaming at himself in his head but his professionalism stopped him from wavering. “Go in peace,” he sighed, leaning forward against his knees, unable to even watch your shadow as you stood and left the booth.

The regret Copia felt stung in his chest – not for the act of sin he had just committed, he could never regret a moment with you. But he regretted the way he let you leave, hearing your heels clacking on the marble floor faster than they had approached earlier that evening. You got out of there fast, and he was so mad at himself for making you feel like you needed to run from him.

Copia looked down in his lap at the mess he had made of himself. He shrugged out of his cassock, the stains localised to just the jacket so he could at least leave with a little dignity in his pants and shirt underneath. He stepped out of the booth, checking that there was nothing to clean up on his side – luckily not, he was already far too ashamed of himself to have to spend any more time here.

He walked to your side to check for the same, praying to Lucifer there was nothing left on the bench either. Cleaning up his own mess was humiliating enough, but cleaning up yours? Satanas, he’d be mortified…

As he opened the door to the other side, he noted no stains on the leather of the bench. However, he noticed a small black heap in the corner. With a gloved hand, he reached for it, picking it up between pinched fingers.

It was lace… not panties like he had first thought, but a glove. Your lace glove.

You wore them often when he saw you around the ministry, enjoying the pretty pattern no doubt. He laid it in his palm, wondering how to give this back to you without combusting on the spot in horror after what he had just done when he noticed it left a dark, shiny mark on his leather clad hand. A wet mark.

Realisation dawned on him and the blood drained from his face.

You hadn’t taken it off… That mark; that was all you.

He quickly scrunched the glove up in his hand as if hiding it from prying eyes, despite being alone. With a quick guilty look over his shoulders and around the empty chapel, he opened his fist a little closer to his face, picking up a sweet, intoxicating scent as he did so.

He twitched in his pants again at the knowledge that was your scent. That was how you smelled.

Satanas… How could he ever look you in the fucking eye again?

His Sorella… his amore…

What a sick, perverted old Cardinal he was.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 A/N: Hey! Welcome, I'm Bee - I'm new to Ghost tumblr, and well, to Ghost too... but not new to writing fan fiction and so this seemed like the natural progression of my new found love of this band. So hi, welcome. I'm planning more fics as we speak... but feel free to send me some prompts and I'll write little blurbs/one shots out of those too... SEND ME A PROMPT

Can I request headcannons of you surprise Papa IV on tour???

Absolutely you can, my dear!

Some hints at NSFW content. 18+, MDNI!

You had always loved watching Papa on stage, but knowing you couldn't accompany him on the full American leg of the Re-Imperatour was hard to swallow

Usually you were by his side day in day out, but you were needed in the Ministry now your position in the clergy has been elevated

When Sister Imperator gave you the green light to join him for a few dates though, you swore her to silence. This had to be a surprise.

You stood by the sound desk, watching on proudly just far enough away that he wouldn't spot you in the sea of adoring faces

You laughed, you cried, you sang along with him from your hiding place.

Halfway through his last song, you made your way backstage with the help of Jesus (Kevin) shielding you from running into anybody else.

"Wait here, maybe hide somewhere..." he smirks

You do. You hide behind the door to the large dressing room the band shared.

You hear him before you see him, his shoes clacking on the floor and when he enters the room, back to you, he notices absolutely nothing amiss.

In fact, it was Phantom who saw you first - and all he could do was jump up and down on the spot, clapping like an excited puppy dog.

"What are you doing, Phantom?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

Phantom points behind him excitedly, but he still doesn't turn around. The other ghouls do though, and Swiss makes a noise of surprise.

"I think he's pointing at me, amore..."

Copia stiffens, his head turning before he allows his body to. In the corner of his eye he sees you, and faster than you've ever seen him move, he clambers over furniture to reach you.

He trips over the couch in the middle of the room, but you say nothing. Better not to acknowledge it...

You practically jump into his arms, toppling the pair of you over. Copia was already unsteady enough on his feet, you may as well have rugby tackled him.

He made no move to get up from the floor, hugging you close to him.

"Tesoro, how?"

"His unholiness works in mysterious ways..."

The ghouls pile up on top of you both, wanting their fair share of affection.

"Get off, you oafs! Merda!"

Back at his hotel, he cannot keep his hands off you. His arms are wrapping around your waist the moment you stepped into the room.

"Do you even capire how much I have missed you, cara?" his voice is deep in your ear, sultry.

"Probably as much as I missed you, I'm sure," you flirt back.

You can feel how much he's missed you.

"We must make up for lost time, sì?"

Oh, and you do. Nevermind that he needed his rest for the next ritual tomorrow. He would just have to be exhausted, because there was absolutely NO WAY he wasn't spending ever second of tonight wrapped up in you.

I'm so deeply in love with this I never want this fic to end

I Knew Nothing But Shadows pt. 10

Chapter 10: Some Part Of Me Stayed Alive

CLICK HERE TO READ :)

Story Summary:

Curious circumstances and a questionable curse from your childhood led you to becoming the resident artist of the local Satanic Church – and a sinister night you’d truly rather forget. Years later, you’re presented with another chance at proving your artistic worth. Only this time, you’re kind of falling for the awkward anti-pope who sits for you and he is oddly interested in the intricacies of your past that you’re so desperately trying to hide. (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary:

Your quiet morning gets interrupted but that doesn’t stop you from making the best of the afternoon. Meanwhile, we learn more about your past.

Chapter Content: 12k words, spice!!! (thigh riding, hand job, they're getting frisky okay), a tiny bit of angst, lots of cuteness

SIDE NOTE: If you want to be tagged in chapters in the future pls let me know!! :)

Note that I switched the layout again because I figured from now on the chapter summaries might be too spoiler-y for people who have not caught up yet or maybe you just want to go in blind.

horny thoughts only

Ok @blacktie-whitenoise I went with Papa Copia and choice #1! But first we have to get through some phone sex oh noooo...

Ring, Ring

Papa Emeritus IV x Female Reader ~ Your work day is interrupted by a phone call from Copia

Warnings: phone sex, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v sex, nsfw, 18+ only, mdni, 2400 words

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“Cardinal Alero’s office, how can I help you?”

“Do you have any idea how badly I want to fuck you right now?”  You froze at the sound of Copia’s voice.  It was dark and low, his breathing ragged.  The only time his voice got like this was when—  “Well, dolcezza?  Do you?”

With a quick glance over at Alero you cleared your throat before you answered. 

“Uh, I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I’ve been thinking about burying myself inside of you all day.”

Fucking hell.  

“Oh?  That’s too bad.”

“Si, it has made the day very interesting.  Long.  Hard.  If you understand me.”

“Yes!  Yes I understand.”

Very faintly you heard the sound of his belt clinking and the rustling of fabric.  Copia let out a loud groan and you could only guess he had taken himself in hand.  You spun your chair away from Alero’s desk so your back was to him.  It was doubtful the Cardinal had heard Copia, but you knew Copia was only going to get louder.  

He never was very good at keeping quiet. 

“I wonder what that old bastard would do if I were to come in there right now, oh cazzo, and bend you over your desk.”

You snuck another glance at Alero over your shoulder, freezing when you saw him watching you.  

“I, uh, don’t think he’d like that.”   Alero raised his eyebrow and you gave him a quick smile before spinning away.  “Can I call you back?”

“No.”  Copia’s chair creaked as he exhaled into the phone.  “I wouldn’t do that anyway, dolcezza.  I’d have to get you wet first.”

“Don’t worry Papa, that won’t be a problem.”  You squirmed in your seat, your body starting to respond to Copia’s words.  Vaguely you heard your name but you thought it was just Copia saying it under his breath.  “How about I bring you those files right now?”  

“Wet already?  What a naughty thing you are.  Are you having dirty thoughts about your Papa?”

“Yes, of course I am you idi—“

“Is that Papa?”  You yelped at the sound of Alero’s voice, jerking your head around to see him standing behind you.  When you nodded he reached out a hand and snapped his fingers.  “Give me the phone.”

“Do not give him the phone.  Tell him to fuck off.”

A somewhat delirious laugh left you and you covered the receiver with your hand. 

“Cardinal, Papa says not to worry.  He knows you’re busy.”  Copia snorted and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing as well.  “He appreciates your hard work.”

“The only thing that’s hard right now is my dick.”

Alero frowned down at you and you could tell he was debating if he should insist on the phone or just take the compliment and sit back down.  Thankfully he seemed to choose the latter, a smug smile on his face as he turned to go back to his chair.  You slipped your hand off the receiver and turned away from him once more.

“What else can I help you with Papa?”

“Tell me dolcezza, are you wearing underwear?”

“No, Papa.”

“Mmm, so you’re just sitting there, bare for your Papa?”  You hummed into the phone, spreading your legs a bit unconsciously.  “If I was there right now I’d slip my hand under your skirt, then push two fingers right into your needy cunt.  Because that’s what you are right now, eh dolcezza?  Needy for me?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Molto bene.  Soon I'd be able to fit a third inside of you and watch as you made a mess of my gloves.”  You thunked your head against the back of your chair, immediately sitting up again when you remembered you weren’t alone.  Copia let out a strangled moan and you winced, hoping Alero hadn’t heard it.  “Would you clean them for me?  If I shoved them into your mouth?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Brava ragazza.  You’d do anything I asked of you, wouldn’t you?”

“Anything, Papa.”

“Bene.  Then come here so I can fuck you.”

Copia hung up the phone and for a few seconds you just sat there staring at it.  When it started beeping you scrambled to get it back in its cradle while looking for something on your desk you could use as an excuse to go see Copia.  Alero cleared his throat and when you looked over at him he was scowling.

“What’s the problem?”

“I uh, need to bring some paperwork over to Papa.”

“Why can’t he send a ghoul to come get it?”

Goddammit Alero.

“I'm not sure.”  You grabbed a random stack of paper and hastily stood up.  “He needed them right away.”

“Fine, but don’t dawdle.  There’s still a lot of work to do.”

You nodded, biting down on your lip savagely before you retorted with ‘yes, your work’.  With quick steps you left the office and did your best not to run towards Copia’s.  At the end of the hallway you turned right but immediately had to stop as you ran into someone.

“Shit!”  Copia’s hands grabbed at your elbows to help keep you upright.  “What took so long?”

“I had to come up with an excuse for Alero!”  You slapped the papers onto Copia’s chest and pushed past him.  “Now hurry up.”

Copia chuckled as he quickly followed you, coming up to your side and grabbing your hand.  You knew if you looked at him he’d have that stupid, dopey smile on his face and you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself from kissing him in the hallway if you saw it.  As you both rounded the last corner before his office you froze at the sight of Sister Imperator and Nihil waiting right outside his door.  Copia cursed under his breath and wrapped an arm around your waist, quickly tugging you back around the corner.

“Now what, Papa?”  Copia muttered something in Italian before starting to usher you across the hall towards a closet.  He ripped it open, gently pushing you inside before following and kicking the door shut.  You both stood there in the dark for a moment until you heard Copia make a small noise when he found the light switch.  As the room came into view in the dim light you sighed.  “You always take me to the nicest places.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s a closet.”

Copia rolled his eyes and started walking your way, you started to back up playfully but there really wasn’t anywhere to go.  Your butt hit a desk that was shoved up against the wall and Copia grabbed your waist, grunting as he lifted you up to sit on the edge.  He placed his hands on your knees, squeezing them as he grinned at you.

“Are you still wet for me, dolcezza?”

“Right now I’m mostly dusty.”

He started to respond but instead he had to turn his head away to sneeze.  You slapped your hand over your mouth to cover your laughter, trying to look innocent when he whipped his head back to glare at you.

“Sorry, Papa.”

“Uh, mi dispiace, this is not how I planned the afternoon to go.”

“Oh Copia, it’s ok.”  You reached up and brushed some of his graying hair off his forehead before cupping his cheek.  “This is still better than dealing with Alero.”

Copia laughed, leaning in to give you a lingering kiss on your mouth.  He nipped at your lips when he pulled away before resting his forehead against yours.

“Let’s see if we can get back on track, eh?”  He kissed you again and then dropped to his knees with a grunt.  His hands squeezed your calves briefly before they began to move up to your thighs.  The leather of his gloves was warm against your skin as he started to push your skirt up towards your waist.  He lowered his head to the inside of your knee, mouthing at the sensitive skin there for a moment before he looked towards your cunt and took a deep breath.  “It smells like you’re still wet for me, dolcezza.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything, you just pulled your skirt up all the way to expose yourself.  His eyes darkened when you spread your legs and he was able to see your folds glistening even in the dim light.  Copia grabbed the bottom of your thighs and lifted your legs up so they hooked over his shoulders.  His hands moved down to grip your ass, holding you in place as he pressed his face against your cunt.  He took another deep breath, growling when you wriggled a bit.

“Copia, please.”

His tongue sliding between your lips was his only answer.  Slow laps across your cunt over and over again.  You placed your hand in his hair and held on as he continued to lap up your juices.  His moans were getting louder so you tugged his hair to try and get him to quiet down.  In retaliation he covered your cunt with his mouth, sucking hard and causing you to cry out.  You both froze, meeting each other’s eyes as you waited to see if anyone had heard you.

“Hush now, do you want the whole abbey to hear you?”

“How about you make me?” 

Copia nipped at the inside of your thigh and you barely held in your gasp.  Before you could snap at him he pulled your legs off his shoulders and stood up, leaning in to take your mouth in a hungry kiss.  You moaned as you tasted yourself, grabbing onto his vest to keep him in place.  He pulled you closer to the edge of the desk so he could grind his cock against you.  It was straining against the ties of his pants and you quickly dropped your hands down to start undoing them.

“Si, cazzo.  I need to be inside of you.”  While you struggled with the ties he pressed his fingers against your entrance, both of you groaning when two of them slid right in.  Copia bit his lip and rested his head against yours.  “I knew it.”

You finally got his pants undone and shoved down far enough to free his cock right when he started prodding a third finger at your entrance.  

“Now Copia, now please now.”  

He pulled his fingers out of you, swiping them quickly up and down his cock before he pressed forward.  You dropped your head onto his shoulder as he started pushing in.  As your body stretched around him you bit at his shirt to try to keep quiet.  He was relentless, not even pausing until he was all the way inside.  The material of his pants was rough against your thighs as he began to move his hips in a small circle.

“So wet, so tight for your Papa.”  You didn’t bother trying to respond, you knew if you opened your mouth no words would come out.  When he slid a hand into your hair and gently pulled your head back you couldn’t help but whimper.  “Let me see you.”

You both panted into each other's mouths as he let you get used to his cock.  He moved his hand out of your hair, stroking a thumb across your cheek before pressing a soft kiss onto your mouth.  You hummed against his lips, then took a deep breath as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Help me stay quiet.”

“Anything, dolcezza.”

Your mouths connected again in a clash of lips and teeth right as he pulled out and thrust back into your cunt.  His thrusts were hard and fast, neither one of you having the patience for anything else.  You nipped and sucked at each other’s mouth, Copia thrusting his tongue in time with his hips.  The slick sounds of both filled the air of the small room and even though your moans were muffled you knew that anyone walking by would be able to hear you both.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care.

The edge was coming quickly, your orgasm ready to tear through you as Copia angled his thrusts so his cock brushed against that sweet spot inside of you.  With the way his movements were becoming more frantic you knew he was close as well.  He broke away from your mouth and you forced your eyes open so you could look into his mismatched ones.  

“Are you close, dolcezza?”  His voice was wrecked and his makeup an absolute mess.  You tried to speak but all you could do was whimper and clutch at his shoulders.  “Are you going to come on my cock?”

You managed a nod, your mouth opening in a silent scream when he brought a hand to your cunt and started rubbing his thumb around your clit.  That was the end for you, he kissed you again right as your orgasm ripped through your body, muffling both of your moans as he came as well.  He continued to thrust as his cock kicked and emptied inside of you before finally stilling, wrapping his arms around you to hold you close.  After a moment you finally found the energy to speak and lifted your head off his shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back.”  

Copia opened his mouth to respond but he immediately scrunched his face up, turning away right before a sneezing fit overtook him.  He stumbled back a few steps, pulling out of you quickly and making you gasp.  You looked around for something he could wipe his nose with, finally seeing a roll of paper towels on a shelf nearby.  With a wince you hopped off the table, grabbing a few towels and shoving them his way while you took a few to clean yourself up.  When you finished you turned to check on Copia, smiling when you found him staring at you and pouting.

“I wanted to do that.”  You mimicked his pout, laughing as he reached for you and yanked you close.  “That’s my favorite part.”

“Ugh Copia, you’re so weird.”

“But yet here you are, enjoying the finest closet our church has to offer.”  He leaned down to give you a quick kiss, before pulling away to look at you with a raised eyebrow.  “You can’t go back to work like this.”

“Definitely not.”

“No, you should come to my quarters instead.  I need your help with something else.”

“Anything, Papa.”  He grinned at you, that infectious smile of his sending a thrill through you like it always did.  You reached up to smooth some of his hair back as you returned his smile.  “Anything.”

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

my masterlist

my ao3

I've literally been thinking about this fic nonstop since I binged the first 9 chapters and I'm so in love

IKNBS chapter 10 preview

Hey hey hey, because you're all so cute I got a little preview for chapter 10 for you ♡

obviously, spoilers below the cut!

(catch up here)

✦ ✧ ✦

The ray of sunlight on your shoulder moves slowly but surely towards your face. Copia knows it’ll wake you once it hits your eye and he’s debating whether he should block it with his hand or not. He’s never seen you as relaxed as you look right now but at the same time he can’t wait to talk to you. Not that his exhaustion just vanished after three hours of sleep but the giddy excitement after waking up by your side has kept him awake ever since his eyes blinked open.

You frown in your slumber and he knows it has become lighter. You look adorable with the sleepy pout on your lips, the cheek you’re resting on scrunching up the left side of your face. It’s so tempting, too tempting. He leans in and his lips brush over your cheek, down to your jaw until they come to rest just below you ear. You stir, a soft hum falling from your mouth and he can’t help but kiss you properly. You smile into it and reciprocate, the gentlest press of your lips against his.

“Buon giorno, bellezza,” he says as he breaks away.

You still smile with your eyes closed, stretching out your limbs for a moment before you fully blink yourself awake. As soon as you open your eyes, they’re fixated on his face. Suddenly you shoot up, staring at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He almost feels like you expected someone else to be there and for a moment he gets self-conscious.

“What is it?” he asks, patting his cheeks. “Am I dirty?”

“Your… your face is bare.”

Copia freezes. He hadn’t thought about that last night when he showered after getting back. And you’re still looking at him, eyes so wide and taking in every detail. He feels oddly exposed. You’ve never seen this face without any sort of make-up, not without the eye paint, and suddenly he worries that it’s a turn-off. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Is it… Is it not what you hoped it would look like?” he asks falling back into the pillows.

“Copia,” you say, so slowly, gently, reaching out to cup his cheeks. “I think you’re so beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” He feels himself getting flustered, his face undoubtedly heating up against your palms. “Cara–”

Your fingers softly trace the curve of his jaw now, then the line up to his temples. He feels a warm shiver running down his spine. “And I can see all of your pretty freckles now. So many of them.”

“Are you going to draw me with them now too?” he asks, chuckling nervously.

“Oh, for sure.” You slide your thumbs over his cheekbones before you shake your head and huff out a laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be weird.”

He stops you from pulling away without even thinking, grasping your hands and placing one of them back on his cheek while holding the other one safe in his. “Don’t be sorry, please. It feels good to have someone see me. Really see me. And not pull away.”

Camellia: Popia x f!reader - Chapter 2

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You start work on Elizabeth's diary, and finally get a good look at Papa.

Word count: 5.5k

A/N: Hey hello, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a bit of a monster, but worth it, I promise!

Warnings: Mentions of reader having religious trauma

AO3 Link / Chapter 1

~~~

You’ve been hunched over this damned diary all day. 

Sister Imperator was right. None of the Abbey’s translators or archivists would have been able to read Elizabeth’s writing because she had written in a cipher. With no spaces between words and with no obvious keyword to decipher her entries, the first page of her diary looks like nonsense. Just absolute gibberish. 

But to you, it isn’t. 

With each passing hour you spend at a small table in the restricted room, you admire Elizabeth more and more. She was smart as a whip and even more clever. You figure that, if she wanted her diary to be kept secret, she could have simply destroyed it. Burnt it, ripped it, buried it, dipped the whole thing in black ink—anything surely would have been easier than creating a cipher which has no discernable pattern. 

She didn’t destroy it, though. She wrote on each page, front and back until the entire book was filled, and then she hid it. If something is truly never meant to be found, it won’t be. Which leads you to believe Elizabeth’s diary isn’t a diary at all. It’s a record. 

A record of what, you have yet to be sure. It is secret enough for Elizabeth to want it to be discovered someday, but only after she is long gone. That intrigues you enough to sit hour after hour over this book, trying every word you can think of that might be the key to the cipher. So far you have crossed off ‘Satan’, ‘Lucifer’, ‘Beelzebub’, and other aliases of the Dark One. You hadn’t expected those to work, because Elizabeth seems smarter than that, but you had to try just to rule them out. You also tried words like ‘chapel’, ‘altar’, and other imagery of the Satanic Ministry, with no luck. You thought perhaps the first five letters of the entry were the key to the second five, or vice versa. You tried again with the first six letters, the first two, three, four. Nothing. 

The only words you have been able to read are the dates of each entry, the month and the day, which she wrote in the top-left corner in plain English. Those were not much of an accomplishment to decipher.

You sigh and sit up straight for a moment. Your back is sore after hours of slouching and writing. The once-crisp notebook under your pen is nearly half full of incorrect keywords and mistranslations. The small window on the far wall of the restricted room has grown dark and no sounds echo to you from the hollow of the atrium. 

You’d gotten up to find something to eat (and to uncross your eyes) during the dinner hour. Tonight you opted for a hot meal but decided not to stay in the refectory. You don’t know if food is even allowed in the library but all the Siblings who work there were at dinner, so you snuck it in anyways. You aren’t careless, though, so you ate your dinner at a different table, far away from the one where Elizabeth’s diary and your notebook sit open. That had been a few hours ago. 

As far as you can tell from the small window in the door, the lights in the library have been dimmed for the night. No one came and fetched you to tell you that it was closing, so you assume it stays open at all hours. Your own desk lamp is the only source of light in the restricted room. 

You rise from your workstation and move towards the closed door. Such an enclosed room tends to get stuffy and humid, and it’s still too chilly outside to open a window. You gently prop open the door to let in the relatively fresh air of the library. No one said you couldn’t keep the door open when you’re inside the room, only that the door must be locked when you aren’t. 

Returning to your desk, you can already feel the cooler air drifting through the bookshelves. You’re content to work for a few more hours like this. It feels wrong to give up for the night when you have nothing to show yet. It feels wrong to stop working when you have something to prove, and somewhere to return. 

The night here is eerily silent. At home in Marseille, if you open your dormitory window and sit on the end of your bed to look out over the water, you can hear the soft lapping of water against the marina docks. If the wind carries just right, you can also hear the creaking of masts and cables as the sailboats list back and forth in the water. Sometimes the gulls stay out at night during the summer months, calling for one another from their perches on a bow pulpit. The breeze carries the saltiness of the water and the sweetness of the hillside wildflowers into your dormitory, illuminated only by a small desk lamp and the moon—

A sound from outside the room breaks you from your reverie. Your consciousness whips back to the present, to the Abbey. The ghostly scent of salt and flowers fades, replaced by old leather and dust and ink from your pen. 

You raise your eyes to look through the open door when you hear another sound. There’s no one visible to you—whoever they are must be between shelves, looking for a late-night romance novel to put them to sleep. 

You haven’t figured out why the romance section is so tucked away yet. Though, perhaps if erotica is shelved nearby, the librarians would want any wandering hands to stay hidden. Not that lust is shameful here—it’s the Satanic Ministry, it’s actually encouraged—but the library is not the place to get hot and heavy. 

Knowing that someone is nearby distracts you terribly, and you decide to stop for the night. The little analog clock hanging next to the door reads past midnight. At this hour, you likely won’t get much done anyway. You need sleep and a proper breakfast to let your mind work. 

You take the time to gently wrap Elizabeth’s diary in the white linen and return it to its lockbox. The rest of your things don’t take long to gather, having only brought the one notebook and a few pens, plus your empty dinner box. You close the door behind you as you exit, fishing through your habit pocket to find the key. It and the key to your dormitory are affixed to a single keyring which jingles as you fumble with it one-handed, but you lock the door successfully and turn to make your way to the staircase. 

Rather, you try to make your way. 

As soon as you turn around, a figure emerges from the bookshelves. You promptly run into him, which sends your materials to the floor and your mind reeling with apologies. “Oh, je suis vraiment désolé—Er, I’m so sorry!” you bluster, holding your now-empty hands out to plead for forgiveness. You kneel to gather your things into a messy pile, then stand and finally meet the eyes of the poor soul you’d accosted with your body. “I should have been more careful, but it’s late so I thought…” 

They’re the same eyes you’d met yesterday, in the refectory. Still striking, still surrounded by black, but up-close and more relaxed. And no white paint. Just the black upper lip and the black eyes of Papa Emeritus the Fourth. 

“It’s, eh, it’s quite alright, Sister,” Papa says with an awkward little laugh. You notice he’s not wearing his robes or his mitre. In fact he’s not wearing anything that might remotely indicate that he’s the Antipope. He wears a simple black t-shirt and red sweatpants, and gray fuzzy slippers that have the eyes and whiskers and pink nose of a rat which you thought looked cute when you’d knelt down. 

But he’s still Papa, and you still barreled into him like a brute. 

You try to smile but it feels more like a grimace. “Still, I shouldn’t have just…” you gesture with your free arm. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?” 

Papa pats his chest like he’s searching for injuries. You hit him hard, but not that hard, and it makes you laugh softly. “I’m fine. Quite good. Still in one piece,” he says. “Are you? And why are you here so late?”

You blush. “Oh, does the library close at night? I’m sorry, no one came and told me, I just assumed…” 

“No, no,” Papa reassures you, waving a hand in front of himself. “No, it doesn’t close. But it’s usually empty at this time of night, you see.” 

You nod in understanding. “It is pretty late.” 

“It is,” Papa echoes. “So… pardon my asking, Sorella, but why are you still awake?”

“I was, um,” you try to explain, looking down at the messy pile of translation work cradled in the crook of your elbow. “I was working on Elizabeth’s diary, but it may take longer than I expected.”

Papa’s face seems to light up at your mention of your work. “Oh! Forgive me, yes, I should have known,” he rushes out. “You are the, eh, visitor? From Marseille?”

You nod and give him your name. He repeats it softly to himself, as if to remember it. You doubt he will, but you won’t hold it against him—there are many, many Siblings at the Abbey and many names to remember. So if he manages to distinguish you from the rest of the crowd, you will be pleasantly surprised. Not to say you don’t have faith that he could, but… well. You’re running yourself in circles. 

He narrows his eyes slightly, but pauses for a moment. “I saw you yesterday, at dinner,” he tells you. 

So much for not remembering a face in the crowd. You mentally kick yourself. 

“Ah, yes,” you chuckle nervously. “I’m not the biggest crowd person.” Papa chuckles. “Yes, I noticed. To be honest, neither am I.” 

That’s hard to believe, coming from him. To be Papa is to be a figurehead, a symbol of unwavering faith and devotion to the Olde One which the entire Satanic Ministry worships. One must be a bit of a crowd pleaser in order to be successful in his position. “It doesn’t seem that way, Papa,” you tell him. “You command a room very well, from what I’ve heard.” 

A smug little grin grows on Papa’s lips, and it suits him. Smiling suits him. “So word of my immense charisma has traveled all the way to Marseille, yes?” he asks, mostly teasing. But a small lilt in his voice betrays that he really does wonder. What does this foreign Sister think of him based on word of mouth alone? And does his person size up to his reputation? 

You laugh. “It has,” you say. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you are uncomfortable in a crowd.” 

Papa tuts his tongue, his grin growing into a fond smile. “You should have seen my brother.” There’s a small sparkle of reminiscence in his eye as he says this, and you wonder which of the three other Papas he speaks of. You’ve heard different stories about all of them. 

His eyes drop to the papers and notebook in your arm, then back up to your face. “But, eh, you are settling in well, Sorella?” he asks. 

You can tell he wants to change the subject, so you let him. “Yes, Papa, thank you,” you smile. 

“That’s not very convincing.” 

You release an airy laugh and drop your head. He can see right through you. “It’s very different here,” you say. “Marseille is… small. Cozy. Secluded. Not to say that I don’t like it here, because it really is very nice—”

“It’s crowded,” Papa cuts you off. It’s soft, and not intended to be rude, but to agree with you. “And big. I understand.”

Your shoulders drop, but you hadn’t realized they were raised in the first place. “It’s not home,” you find yourself admitting. 

He nods. “And so you work late into the night because you do not want to sleep in an unfamiliar bed.” 

You stare at him for another beat. He seems to know what you’re feeling even before you do, because yes, your bed here isn’t the same as the one back home, and suddenly you’re very close to crying. Don’t cry, don't cry, don't cry…

“May I tell you something, in confidence?” Papa asks. His voice is low and gentle. It soothes you. His eyes search your own, flicking back and forth between them, and you begin to understand how this slightly awkward man in rat slippers is able to enrapture an entire chapel of people. 

You nod. 

“I miss being a Cardinal,” he tells you. “Truly, I do. Becoming Papa has been the only goal I can ever remember having, ever since I was old enough to care. But as soon as I ascended I…” He pauses. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should finish his thought. 

He sighs. “What I mean to say is, There is no shame in missing where you used to be.”

You hold his gaze for another long moment, wondering what it is he was going to say. His words linger in the silence between you and you let them. As soon as he became Papa he… what? 

“Thank you, Papa,” you say quietly. The moment feels almost intimate, like he’d confided his biggest secret to you. But for all you know, he tells every Sibling he comes across the same thing. It’s his duty to counsel everyone under his roof, visitors included. 

No, you chastise yourself. Papa doesn’t seem like the kind of man to have practiced lines for serendipitous meetings… but you are still learning not to assume the worst of people. You had been far too young when you learned not to trust anyone, even those deserving of it. But Papa… he seems genuine, and it’s all you can do (for yourself and for him) to believe that he is. 

You realize that this is the natural end of your conversation. That now is when you should say goodnight, nice to meet you, see you around, but you don’t want to. You can’t tell if it’s because you’ve been on your own all day, or because it’s late and you’re tired, or because the air around him seems to grow warmer and more… comfortable. Papa radiates an aura of peace that you haven’t felt since you received Sister Imperator’s letter nearly a week ago.

“If I may ask, Papa,” you start, just as the silence begins to grow awkward, “what are you doing awake at this hour?”

Papa’s eyes turn down, and a small smile graces his lips. “Ah, I was just looking for something to read,” he says, and you nearly laugh at yourself for asking such an obvious question. Of course he’s looking for something to read. The two of you are standing deep in the bowels of the library. 

Oh, who are you kidding? Papa likely came here to find a book in peace, not speak to some foreign Sister. Who are you to keep his attention? 

“I see,” you say, in your practiced voice. “Well. Good luck, and I hope you find something, Papa.” 

Before you can blurt out any more feelings to him, you turn and walk briskly towards the winding staircase that leads you to the first floor. 

~~~

Copia watches you retreat, slightly confused and halfway ready to call your name to make you stay. Something had changed in your demeanor just before you left, and he wants to ask if you’re alright, or if he said something wrong and caused you to close yourself off like that. Was it his little comment about missing the past? No, no, it couldn’t be—your eyes had been wide and searching, but you weren’t offended. Your brow had furrowed but not out of disgust. 

He’s not as clueless as most people think he is. Just because he has a hard time finding the right words to say what he’s thinking doesn’t mean he’s stupid. In fact, Copia prides himself on his ability to read people. His ability to speak as eloquently as he does in his head… that’s another story. 

When he’d first seen you in the refectory yesterday, you had already been looking right at him. He was curious about the straggler who’d wandered in so timidly. Your face isn’t one he’d seen around the Abbey. If he had, he would’ve remembered you because frankly, you’re striking. 

Copia doesn’t know why he hadn’t connected the dots sooner. It seems obvious that a brand new Sister should appear only weeks after Sister Imperator mentions bringing someone in to translate the document that had been found. Your presence had been a single talking point during some meeting or another, and if he’s perfectly honest, most Clergy meetings seem to blend together into nonsensical mush when he thinks back on them. Your mention of Elizabeth’s diary had reminded him of a few vague details. But the rest of that discussion, unsurprisingly, slips his mind. 

He finds himself feeling guilty. He’d been at that meeting, he knows for certain. The paperwork to confirm your temporary transfer had landed on his desk and he’d signed it. He must have. Your file must have been sent over from Marseille ahead of your arrival, why hadn’t he seen it?

Copia runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He should have welcomed you to the Abbey himself. He should have sought you out and personally offered his hospitality, because he knows what it’s like to be across the world from home. He knows how lost and alone you feel. He’d felt it himself, after he transferred to the Abbey as a newly-appointed Cardinal. 

I miss being a Cardinal, he’d told you. And it’s true, he does, but he misses being an Archbishop more. He held less sway within the Satanic Ministry as an Archbishop, but he was allowed to stay in Italy. His home. 

As soon as he’d ascended to the rank of Cardinal, Sister Imperator had called him to the Abbey as a permanent transfer. Sure, his brothers had all been transferred from Italy one by one as they were called up to the Papacy, so he had family at the Abbey. But they had all been busy, constantly, and so had he. 

You’d told him you miss home, and a very strange, very tender part of him wants to comfort you. 

~~~

You replay your conversation with Papa all the way back to your dormitory. Stupide, stupide, stupide… 

He told you that he’s not much of a crowd person, and then you go and tell him that his Abbey doesn’t feel cozy enough for you? And you nearly knocked him over in your haste to return to a bed that you told him isn’t as good as the one in Marseille. What a way to thank him for opening his home to you! Thanks, Papa, but here are all the reasons why your Abbey sucks.

“Fille stupide,” you mutter to yourself. The sound echoes off the walls of the dark, empty corridor. The wall sconces are dark for the night, so the only illumination comes in the form of pale blue stripes of moonlight along the tiled floor. 

When you finally reach your dormitory and softly shut the door behind you, you take a moment to breathe. You’d been walking rather briskly in order to get back. Your fingers clench so tightly on the edge of your notebook that your fingernails are white, and your joints creak as you release your hold. The slap of the spiral-bound book seems loud when you drop it onto the small desk below the window, reverberating around the room. There are no posters, no tapestries, no curtains to absorb the sound like there are at home. 

You loathe the sound. You loathe the echoes. You loathe the tip-tapping of heels on the pristine floors of the Abbey. You loathe the muffled sounds of laughter coming from a dormitory a few doors down. You loathe how desperately you want to find something to hold onto here, something that feels personal. And you loathe how you crave familiarity despite the fact that you’ll return to Marseille as soon as that little book is translated. 

You practically rip your habit off—a habit that is uniform in France, but sets you apart here—in favor of your sleep clothes. Climbing into the small bed, you begin to recite your prayer in every language you know. It’s a habit you’d developed as soon as you began learning a second language at the ripe age of nine. Only then, the prayers had been directed at the cruel, unforgiving Catholic God. 

Salut Satan, notre Ténébreux juste et indulgent…. Ave Satana, il nostro Tenebroso giusto e indulgente…. Salve Satanás, nuestro justo y perdonador Oscuro…. 

You continue until you’ve exhausted all the languages you know, and then you start over again with a different prayer. And again. And again, until somewhere in the middle of your Portuguese Hail Lilith you drift to sleep. 

~~~

You wake the next morning in a much better mood. Perhaps last night you’d just been frustrated and overtired from working from dawn til far past dusk, but the bright birdsong from outside sounds happier today. It follows you from your dormitory, down the corridor and to the main hall, where the sounds of the breakfast hour echo out into the large space. 

You could walk into the refectory if you wanted, without feeling intimidated (at least not as much as the day you arrived), but you don’t have much of an appetite this morning. Instead you take your time walking the length of the main hall. There are sculptures in spaces between the wood benches that you hadn’t noticed before. You find one you recognize, and it doesn’t surprise you that the Abbey houses a replica. 

La génie du mal is a welcome sight. The Marseille Abbey also keeps a replica, although it is slightly smaller than this one. It’s a depiction of a fallen angel chained to a rock, with a crown held loosely in one hand while the other runs through his hair. His stone face is solemn but the bat-like wings splaying from his back seem to welcome you, as if saying, Hello child, do you remember me? 

Yes, you do remember. You remember being eleven years old and traveling to Liège at the whim of your parents. You remember touring Saint Paul’s Cathedral and pretending to marvel at the Catholic imagery that you didn’t understand (or care for) at the time. Every depiction of Jesus on the cross looked the same. Every statue of a veiled Mother Mary reminded you to be chaste and pure and subservient to a God who thinks you a lesser being. 

And then you’d seen him in the chapel of the Cathedral, placed at the back of a pulpit which wrapped around a stone pillar. The four sculptures of saints (whose names you don’t bother to remember) stood at the front of the pulpit, facing in towards the pews, as if standing guard over the sculpture. La génie du mal was tucked into the back, hidden from view, but you knew something must have been there. Why else would not one, but four saints be guarding a single pillar, when there were dozens lining the interior of the chapel? 

So you’d slipped from the watchful eye of your parents while they were distracted by the tour guide, and rounded the pulpit to see the backside. He was there, carved in white marble and stationed in the niche between two curved staircases. The elaborate stained-glass windows cast speckles of yellow, blue, and violet over his body, and he glowed in the sunlight like he was a real angel fallen to Earth right in front of you. 

You visited him a lot, afterwards.

You learned later that the pulpit was commissioned to represent “The Triumph of Religion over the Genius of Evil,” but you thought—and still think—that it was executed rather poorly. The four statues facing inward protect only the Cathedral from La génie du mal, but he, facing outward towards the windows, can see the rest of the world. Anyone looking into the chapel for refuge or guidance would only see him, colorful and bright, through the holy scenes of the stained glass. 

You jump nearly ten feet in the air when a voice beside you snaps you from your thoughts. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” 

You look to your left and catch the mismatched eyes of Papa. You hadn’t even heard him come up beside you. “Oui—ah, yes,” you say, swiftly correcting your French to English. 

“You know,” Papa says, looking back to the marble replica, “the original was commissioned because the first version of it was too, eh, sexy.” 

You do know, but the fact makes you laugh anyway. “The first version is nothing compared to this. It makes me think that the artist made this version even sexier, just to spite the Catholics. And to avenge his brother.” 

Papa turns to you fully now, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wears a smart black suit adorned with an elaborate grucifix on the lapel. It’s a far cry from the sweatpants and t-shirt from last night, but no less comfortable. You can’t help but notice that the suit is tailored to perfection. 

“His brother?” he asks. 

You nod. “The original sculptor was the younger brother of this artist,” you explain, gesturing to La génie. “It’s a bit of a slap in the face for them to ask his own brother to redo his work. I can imagine they both felt a little slighted.”  

Papa chuckles. “Perhaps just a little.” 

A brief pause falls between the two of you, and you begin to wonder just how long it will take for the silence to grow awkward. So far you haven’t reached that point. Not with Papa, at least. 

“It would have been nice to have the original piece,” Papa says unhurriedly. “I can’t imagine the Catholic Church would have agreed to let us buy it.” 

You turn to look at him briefly, letting out a small laugh. “If the price was high enough, I’m sure they would have,” you say with an almost imperceptible edge of bitterness. “But I do think its place at Liège is where it belongs.” 

“Have you been?” Papa asks you, his eyebrows slightly raised as he turns to meet your gaze. 

“I have,” you answer. You don’t elaborate further on the nature of your visit. “That’s not to say I don’t believe it would have a good home here, Papa. I just think that the irony of its placement is lost on the Catholics.” 

He asks about it, and you explain. His eyes never leave your face as you talk. You don’t feel scrutinized like you had under Sister Imperator’s gaze, though. Papa’s eyes are warm and interested and you could swear they almost glow in the morning light. He nods and hums with each point you make, seeming genuinely intrigued by your argument that La génie holds more influence facing outward rather than inwards. 

It’s a subject you’re passionate about. La génie had set you on a path towards the Satanic Ministry that day. By age eleven you already knew you didn’t want to be Catholic despite your parents’ efforts to instill their beliefs on you, but you didn’t know exactly what you believed in. Until you saw him, solemn and still, his magnificence hidden behind a stone pillar at Liège. 

Despite Papa’s careful listening, you realize you must be rambling and cut yourself off. “Sorry, Papa. I don’t mean to talk your ear off.” 

“Oh, no!” Papa says, shaking his head. “No need to apologize, Sister. I enjoy listening to you speak.” 

Heat blossoms over your cheeks. You almost miss how his own face flushes a slight shade of pink. Almost. 

“Eh, I mean—” Papa begins to fiddle with his own fingers. “What I mean to say is that you make a lot of good points. Yes.” 

It’s obvious that he’s nervous over the comment he made. It was straightforward and a little flirty, and you know that in the bright hall he can most likely see the pink beneath your skin. Maybe he hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so… well, flirty. Or maybe he thinks he overstepped a boundary, that he said something he shouldn’t have? It was just a comment about listening to you talk, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Satan, why are you so flustered all the sudden? 

You give him a small smile. “Either way… thank you, Papa. I should, uh—”

“Yes, me too—”

“Right, have a good day,” you say, a bit quicker than is necessary, and turn on your heel to start towards the library. 

~~~

Once again, Copia finds himself watching you go. 

Rationally, he knows that you’re not upset with him. You didn’t leave because of something he’d said or done that made you uncomfortable. If that was the case, he hopes that you’d tell him. He would hate for you to feel unwelcome or upset, especially because of him. 

But oh, how your eyes shone while you spoke about La génie. 

Hearing footsteps approaching from his right, Copia turns and finds Terzo looking rather smug as he strolls towards him. He wears a big, stupid grin on his face and looks at Copia like he’d just discovered the stash of sweets on the bottom drawer of his bedside table. 

“And who was that?” Terzo asks with feigned innocence. He comes to a stop next to Copia and clasps his hands behind his back. They both stare at La génie. 

Copia chews the inside of his cheek. “Who was who?” 

Terso tuts his tongue. “Oh, don’t be coy with me, fratellino. We both know I’m talking about the Sister you were just ogling.” “I wasn’t ogling,” Copia protests. Terzo is always teasing, always nudging, always subtly poking fun at him for no reason other than he finds it fun. That’s what little brothers are for, Terzo says. To poke fun at, and to teach the ways of the world. “And we both know that you know who she is.” 

“Ah, yes, I do know,” Terzo says with a shrug. “But I wanted to hear what you had to say.”

Copia looks at his brother. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Terzo says, “you seemed quite invested in that conversation just now. And then you turned a very obvious shade of red, and she walked away. Forgive me, I’m a gossip.” 

Copia laughs. “There’s nothing to gossip about, Terzo. She told me about this sculpture and where the original is housed. That’s it.” 

Terzo tilts his head, leaning in slightly. “That does not explain why you both were so red in the face, fratellino.” 

Copia sighs and runs a hand through his hair. So it was obvious, even from down the hall. “I… may have said that I like listening to her speak.” 

“Oh,” Terzo says flatly. He sounds almost disappointed. “I thought you might have told her something else.” 

“What? Why?” Copia asks. “Was that a weird thing to say?” 

Terzo chuckles, shaking his head. “No. It’s a perfectly good compliment. But you both turned so red that I thought you invited her to your chambers.” 

Copia nearly chokes on his own saliva. “Wh–what?” he sputters. “Terzo, I barely know her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t think so with the way you were looking at her!” Terzo says, his voice pitched higher to his own defense. “‘My darling, you speak so beautifully, it is like birdsong in the early morning. I simply cannot resist the way you look—’” 

“Stop—”

“‘—in the sunlight. Your eyes shine so brightly and your mouth moves so gracefully—’” 

“Terzo, I—”

“‘—that I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like on my—’” 

“Okay,” Copia throws his hands up. He storms off towards the refectory for breakfast. 

Terzo’s laugh echoes through the main hall as he jogs to catch up with Copia. “What? I’m only saying what I thought you said.” 

Copia hadn’t said any of those things to you, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t thought them. It’s true; your eyes did shine in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and your mouth did move gracefully. Although those parts of you are attractive to him and he’d readily admit that you’re beautiful, it was the way you spoke that caught him. You seemed to forget your timidness, your reservations. You spoke freely and enthusiastically, like you’d forgotten you were speaking to Papa and instead spoke to a friend. Copia wonders if La génie holds some significance to you outside of just being an interesting sculpture. 

Copia resolves to ask you the next time he sees you, and he finds himself hoping that it’s soon.

one more? | cardinal copia x gn!reader

Inspired by all the kiss prompts. This is for @leezlelatch ♡

content: 750 words, gn!reader, some suggestiveness and spice but nothing explicit, lots of kissing going on here, we get a little frisky

Masterlist – Ao3 link

✦ ✧ ✦

Lunch breaks are invariably too short. They feel even shorter since you spend them wrapped up in Copia’s cassocked arms, hidden away in an empty corner behind the entrance to the library. Your back is pressed against the cool stone walls, your habit disheveled from his wandering hands, leaving half of your leg exposed to the chill draft haunting this part of the abbey.

The cool air feels heavenly against your heated skin where Copia’s fingertips are trailing up to your hip and back down in a steady dance. It’s oddly tender compared to the way his mouth is so insistent on devouring you. You can only imagine the purple discolorations blooming on your neck right now, the smears of lipstick and bite marks he left in his impatient fervor after he’d pinned you to the wall.

The bells have long since chimed to announce the passing of lunch hour. He should be back in his office and you should be back behind the reception desk. And yet your arms are still tightly slung around his shoulders as his tongue licks into your hungry mouth.

“I have to go back,” he mumbles for the fifth time as he breaks away for air, trying to step back but you don’t let go of his neck. “Amore…”

With your hand in his hair, you press your mouth to his once again, ignoring his complaints. His biretta has long since fallen off his head and you make use of the easy access, dragging your nails over his scalp in the way that he loves so much. He moans loudly and kisses back for a moment, moving his swollen lips against yours just almost chastely now. With the kiss distracting you, his gloved fingers wrap around your wrists and he pulls them off of him, pretending to pin you to the wall. With your hands off, he tries to tear himself away once more, but your fingers grasp his pellegrina at the last second. You yank him back, bringing your mouth to his ear as he stumbles into you. “One more kiss? Please?”

“You want your Cardinal to be late?” he whispers, bracing himself against the wall behind you.

“Yes, if it means I get another kiss.”

“I will get in trouble, amore.” He drags his nose along your cheek before nuzzling yours. “Do you have no compassion for me?”

“No.”

He tsks, pulling back slightly when you try to capture his lips again. “So cruel. So cruel to your Cardinal and you claim to love me.”

“I do love you. That’s why I want another one, silly.” You try to pull at his robes again but he won’t budge. “Please please please.”

He whimpers softly. “You know what begging does to me, dolce.”

“Please. Please, Cardinal, I need one more.”

“One more, then you will let me go?”

“Mhm.”

He leans in, kissing you as softly as he can muster. You trap his full bottom lip between your teeth for a second and he groans, pressing in harder until the back of your head hits the wall again.  He pulls away with a desperate sigh and you whine at the loss of him.

“One more,” you beg, tugging at his robes.

“Amore,” he groans. “You are getting greedy now.”

“Isn’t greed a virtue?”

“I think you are mixing that up, no?”

He gives you another peck before he fully pulls away. You allow it this time, conceding in favor of your own reputation. Someone is going to want something from you any second now and you still have to get presentable.

Copia straightens his rumpled cassock before glancing at your ruined face with a smirk. “We continue this tonight, amore,” he promises. “You will bring the same hunger, yes?”

You nod, smiling like a fool when he winks at you. He almost stumbles over his own feet as he turns back around, still drunk on endorphins and your taste. A few deep breaths and you gather your wits before your eyes get caught by a red blob of color on the floor.

You pick up his biretta and put it on your head. He’s already halfway down the hall when you call out to him. “Looks like you forgot something, Cardinal.”

He spins around, the skirt of his cassock whirling around his legs. “Don’t even say it, amore.”

“You’re lucky,” you say with a grin. “Payment is very cheap today.”

 Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

Hiiii! I was wondering if you could maybe write about copia struggling to do his makeup and asks (y/n) for help?

let me help | copia x gn!reader

Thank you for your suggestion anon, it inspired me to this little fic. It may be a bit different from what you had in mind but I hope you enjoy it anyway :) @leezlelatch here it is ♡

summary: your papa is overworked and tired, too shaky to do his own make-up, so you offer to help. content: 2.1k words, some mild hurt/comfort, established relationship

masterlist – Ao3 link

✦ ✧ ✦ 

A strong gale blew thick and heavy snowflakes against your window all night, leaving a plump white pillow on the sill that’s now covering half of the glass pane. You woke up multiple times as the wind howled in the cracks of the abbey’s old stone walls like a wolf calling to the moon, only ceasing in the early hours of the morning. As you get ready for the day now, the sky has cleared up and the soft glow of a rising sun paints your quarters in warm hues of orange. You lift your hand and let the warm rays of sunshine dance over your fingers.

It’s all quiet at this time of day and you’re sitting on your shared bed, pulling on some warm socks while Copia does his make-up. He’s perched on a wide, upholstered stool in front of the vanity he got when you moved in with him. Anything so he wouldn’t occupy the bathroom all morning, so he can share some more time with you while getting ready. 

The sunlight hits the back of his head, his hair still tousled and sticking up at odd angles. You love observing him as he gets ready. While clumsy at first the process of painting his face has now gone over into muscle memory and watching his nimble fingers get to work each morning is a sight to behold. His brow is always furrowed in concentration, deepening the adorable wrinkles on his forehead as he draws precise black lines onto his features. His lips stay tightly pressed together through the whole process right until he finally has to relaxe them to apply his lipstick. 

It’s the same procedure every single morning.

Well, except for today.

“Ahhhh, cazzo.” 

His sudden curse makes you look up and you catch him furiously scrubbing at his cheek, almost violently wiping away some of his black paint. A blotchy gray rim remains around the red patch of skin he just rubbed raw.

“What is it, my love?” you ask, worried he’s going to seriously hurt himself.

Copia sighs in defeat, setting down the black paint in frustration only to stare at it in mild disgust. You observe him over the mirror but he doesn’t look up at you, a heavy air of sadness hanging over him.

“Ugh… I feel a little shaky today,” he finally says, staring at his trembling hand. “I cannot get it right.”

You’re aware Copia has dealt with a rough few days – sleeping restlessly, feeling unwell from all the stress, skipping meals in order to get more work done. It’s hardly surprising that he’s shaking, already overworked and worn out with another long day looming ahead of him.

You scoot off the bed and make your way over to your exhausted Papa. His eyes find yours in the mirror as you approach, and he makes space for you on the stool. It’s a tight fit but you sit down sideways, facing Copia instead of the mirror.

“What are you doing?” he asks as you take his hands in yours.

“Helping.” You bring them to your mouth, gently kissing each individual knuckle. You can feel his tremor, feel his tension against your lips. He slowly eases up as you continue to kiss him, running your thumbs over the backs of his hands. Copia sighs softly and when you look up, he’s smiling weakly at you and you already know what he’s going to ask next.

“Amore… how do I even deserve you?”

“You deserve all my love, don’t you ever question that.“ You give him a playfully stern look, followed by a pout, and his cheeks turn all rosy. “Now let me do your make-up.” 

“You– you want to–“

“I’ve seen you do it a hundred times. I think I should be capable by now.”

“That’s not…” He swallows, softly shaking his head. “Not what I meant.”

His tone is enough to tell you exactly what he did mean. Do you really want to do this for me? Painting my face, something you’ve never done before, to help me when I feel so vulnerable right now?

“Yes, I want to.” You let go of his hands to reach out for his face, slowly rubbing your thumbs over his cheeks. “My love, I know I cannot shoulder your burdens, I cannot paint my face and be Papa for you, but I can try to give you as much love and support and care as I can. And if that means packing you lunch to make sure you eat, rubbing your back when it’s sore from sitting all day, popping in to help you with paperwork or even doing your make-up because you’re too worked up over the day ahead, I will happily do it.”

His eyes close and he takes a deep breath, smiling as a single tear rolls down his cheek. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much, amore. You are my everything.”

It pains you to see him like this, so bone-tired, so defeated, really. He is your everything too and to admit that you can’t simply make all of this go away hurts. You lean in to kiss away the tear, add a few more kisses to his cheeks for good measure and an especially soft one to his lips. “I love you, too, Copia. More than you can imagine.”

You break away and he opens his eyes, huffing out a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Uhm, yes… so… should we start?”

“Mhm.” You reach for the white paint and decide to fix the spot he had been rubbing raw earlier. The redness is mostly gone but you’re still careful as you apply the face paint with a beauty blender. At first Copia watches you, still with that hint of disbelief in his eyes that you’re actually willing to do this for him, but then he slowly closes them and relaxes into your gentle care. Once his whole face is covered in an even shade of white, you pick up the black paint again. You find a brush and dip it in, trying to get a feeling for how much you need.

“Do you… uh…” Copia looks around, probably searching for his phone. “If you need a picture, for reference…”

“No, I don’t think so.” You chuckle, reaching for his chin to make him look at you. “I’ve been staring at your handsome face so many times, I’m sure I could do it in my sleep. Just relax, amore, I will get it right, I promise.”

“I know you will,” he immediately says, ears turning red at the use of his pet name. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to doubt you, tesoro. It’s just…”

“I know, it’s okay. Just relax, please.” You give him a genuine smile, raising your eyebrows until he finally returns it. Of course it seems a little forced, he’s still anxious, still tired, but it’s better than nothing. He takes a deep breath and finally relaxes his features, allowing you to start with the black paint.

It takes you a while to get his whole face done since you’re trying to be as careful as possible. Admittedly, you’re a little shaky too, but with the help of the brush and working very slowly, you get the lines straight anyway. Copia tries very hard not to flinch or move his face, but he does blink a few times as you draw the lines around his eyes. You’re doing his eyelids when he blinks yet again, the timing unfortunate as his lashes hit the brush and some of the paint gets into his white eye. He hisses and tears up immediately, squinting hard in pain.

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry,” you mumble, pulling away as fast as you can.

He raises a hand to your arm, the hurt eye still tightly screwed up. “Don’t, please, it happens.” 

Copia hands you a tissue and you gently dab at the tears before they mess up the rest of his make-up, waiting until his eye stops leaking. An agonising minute later he manages to keep it open, the white iris surrounded by a now very red sclera. It looks worse than it probably is but it still scares you and you take a few deep breaths before you decide to continue with your finger instead of the offending brush.

“Is it okay now?” you ask.

“It is. Thank you,” Copia whispers. “You’re doing so well, amorino. Don’t worry about it.”

You smile at his praise, though you’re not sure if he’s being quite truthful about the pain. Nevertheless, you apply the rest of the paint, even more cautiously now, until it’s almost done and only the lips are left.

It’s not the first time you see his whole face covered in make-up with only his lips bare, it’s basically a slightly cleaner version of what he looks like after a good make-out session – once all of his lipstick has transferred to your face. And he does have very beautiful lips, so plump and pink and practically begging to be kissed. They always feel so soft against yours and when he’s gentle–

Copia must see you staring at them because his fingers find your chin, slowly lifting your gaze until your eyes meet and he smirks. “Are you distracted, tesorino?”

You fight a smile. “What if I am, Papa? Are you going to fire me?”

“Oh, I could never do this, no.” He smirks knowingly. “Your Papa enjoys having all of your attention way too much, amore.”

That’s enough to make you close the gap and finally kiss him. He smiles into it and before you can pull away, his hands find your cheeks, keeping you exactly where you are. His fingers gently move into your hair, tilting your head up before he deepens the kiss. You sink against him with a sigh, hoping this won’t do too much damage to his paint. But that thought is forgotten as soon you feel his teeth grazing your bottom lip, asking for more. You let him kiss you breathless as you taste the remnants of minty toothpaste on his tongue and it’s enough to make you crave him so badly. But he’s tired enough already, you can feel him losing his energy as the kiss gets more sluggish and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Promise me to take it easy today,” you whisper against his mouth. “I’m so worried about you, Copia.”

He lets out a sigh, the exhale ghosting over your tender lips before he whispers back. “Ti voglio tanto bene. For you I promise anything, anything. I try my best to get home early tonight, sì? We can continue this without hurry.”

“Yes, please.” You smile, running your thumb along his jawline. “And I love you too. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“How could I? Whenever I look in a mirror today I will be reminded, eh?” He presses a wet kiss to your cheek before he pulls away. “Now, I think I’m already late.”

He’s right, you’ve taken way too long. So, you reach for the black lipstick and carefully follow the curves of his still kiss-swollen mouth, trying to ignore the tingling sensation in your belly. You blot his lips with a tissue after you’re done and fix some of the white paint your kiss messed up again. Once you’re done, he looks just like always. The only difference is the warm, affectionate smile that now graces his features, the twinkle in his eyes that belongs to you and only you.

“Thank you, amore,” he says, inspecting himself in the mirror. “È veramente perfetto. You did so well. I want to kiss you again so bad, but I would ruin it.”

Instead, he blows you a bunch of kisses and you giggle as you pretend to catch them. Copia gives you the first enthusiastic smile you’ve seen on him all day and it doesn’t leave his face as he combs his hair back, smoothes out his black dress shirt and tugs at the sleeves.

Then he suddenly jumps up, raising his hands. “Tada!” He does a little spin, almost stumbling over the leg of the stool. “How do I look, eh? Tell your Papa what you think. Be honest.” 

“You look bellissimo!” you say, clapping your hands as you grin at him. “The most handsome Papa to ever grace these halls.”

“Ha! And it’s all thanks to my very talented amore. I am so lucky, molto molto fortunato!”

You stand up as well, let him pull you into a tight embrace. He’s solid and his arms feel strong as they squeeze you to his body. He’s not quite recovered, and you know it will take more time, will take you a lot of convincing to get Sister to reduce his workload, but you can tell he’s feeling better for now.

And that’s what truly matters.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

thanks for reading :) if you want more comfort fics check out this fic, this fic or this fic hehe ♡

Camellia: Popia x f!reader - Chapter 1

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You are a translator for the Ministry. You receive a letter summoning you to the Abbey for a project involving an ancient diary with a mysterious author, but you find yourself wishing you were back home. That is, until you meet the charming Papa Emeritus the Fourth.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Hi all!! This is the first long-form fic I've ever written and decided to publish, so I hope you all enjoy!! The first chapter is mostly setup and scene building, so not a lot of interaction with our beloved Copia. But there will be more, I promise!!

Warnings: none for now but there will be some in later chapters.

AO3 Link

Prologue

“Will you help me move this box?” the Brother of Sin says. 

Wordlessly, the Sister of Sin stops what she’s doing and maneuvers through the crowded, dusty basement room to help the Brother. The two crouch down, bracing their hands against the box of books. It leaves behind a path carved into the layers of dust as it slides across the wooden floor. 

Once the box is pushed a few feet out of the way, the Sister lets go and, losing her balance, falls to her hands and knees from the crouching position. She cries out in surprise when her hand sinks through the floorboards as one of the slats gives way. The hole is only a few inches deep and filled with dirt and cobwebs, but the Sister’s hand falls onto something softer than wood. 

She lifts her hand to find that there’s a small leather-bound volume hidden face-down in the small crevice. The Sister can hardly imagine how long it has been there, with how thick the grime lies on the back cover. 

This room of the Abbey’s basement had been long forgotten, until Sister Imperator tasked these Siblings of Sin to clear out the room to make way for new storage. They had half expected to find a ruby-encrusted sarcophagus in the room, with how ancient and opulent the Abbey is. So far the only things of interest they have found are books—it seems that the only items stored in the room are books. 

The Sister gently removes the book from the hole in the floor and replaces the wooden slat. Even through her gloves she can tell that it is close to disintegrating. The distinct orange of rotten leather lines the edges of its binding and a few corners of pages fall to the ground. 

“What’s that?” The Brother asks. 

The Sister carefully turns the volume over so that she can read the front cover. It, too, is covered in dust, so she gently brushes it with her hand in order to read the embossed leather cover. Having been face-down in the crevice, the gold leaf illuminating the embossment is preserved and it shines in the low light of the basement. 

“It says…” the Sister squints to read the small letters, “...Elizabeth.” 

“Elizabeth? Who’s Elizabeth?” 

The Sister turns over the book once more. “I don’t know, just… Elizabeth.”

Chapter 1

The ride from the airport to the Abbey is a long one. The car you had been picked up in took you through the city and the suburbs, to the rural outskirts of civilization where the coniferous trees block much of the sunlight. The winding roads, dotted in late-afternoon sunbeams, feel endless as the car climbs into the hills. It’s been a silent ride, and rather awkward (at least, you feel that it’s been awkward) because the helmeted ghoul who drives the sleek black sedan has not said a word. 

You knew that the Abbey has ghouls. A few abbeys do, as they are big enough to warrant summoning help, but your home chapter is not. This is the first time you’ve met one. 

You wonder if they’re all so stoic, or if the driver simply doesn’t have anything to say. He isn’t impolite, but you wish he would say something, anything to make the drive a little more bearable. You want to ask him about the Abbey–what the Siblings are like, what Papa is like. How many Siblings live there full time? How big is the library? You’ve heard that the ghost of a former Papa haunts the corridors, is that true? Hundreds of questions brew in your mind, but the ghoul remains silent and you’re left feeling like an unwelcome guest in a strange country.

You already miss home. 

The Marseille abbey, your home for the better part of your adult life, is a medieval stone structure built on a hilltop south of the Marseille city proper. The ornate, stained-glass windows of its chapel face west over the Mediterranean so that the sunset streams into the room during Black Mass. The walls are old and drafty, and keep faded tapestries in a constant state of fluttering. The linens line the walls of the refectory in between tall, narrow windows which also overlook the sea. If it were not for the inverted crosses and scenes of the unjust fall of Lucifer, one might think the atmosphere in the chapel—and the rest of the small abbey—is almost holy.

The windows in the Sibling dormitories are small and south-facing, with deep stone sills and wood frames that have somehow managed to survive the ages (although they hardly open without a fight.) Your own dormitory windowsill is lined with personal prayer books. Each has about a hundred loose papers sticking out. They are your translation practice, your way of staying versed in every language you know, because you know the prayers by heart at this point. The papers are experiments: which language makes the prayer sound better, sound prettier? Which language makes the most sense? Which language makes the prayers the shortest, the longest? 

No matter which language you use, to you the prayers sound the most beautiful in your mother tongue. That is how you’d memorized them, after all. Yet… you wish there had been room in your single suitcase to take your prayer books with you. 

“We’re almost there,” the ghoul says, snapping you out of your homesick reverie. His voice is deep and softer than you’d expected. There’s no spurt of hellfire from his mouth as you’d half-thought there would be, and no low rumble in his words that might signify he’s more beast than man. The ghoul, despite his bug-eyed mask, seems shockingly human. 

He steers the car through tall wrought-iron gates which seem to open automatically. You can see the tall peak of the Abbey’s bell tower peeking through the trees, and suddenly the reality that you’re very, very far from home hits you. 

You unfold the crinkled envelope in your hands and reread the letter for the hundredth time that day. 

Dear Sister, 

I hope this letter finds you well. 

We at the Abbey have recently uncovered a very important document which we require your expertise to translate. However, this document is extremely fragile and cannot be transported in the post. Papa Emeritus IV and the rest of the Clergy request your presence at the Abbey as soon as possible. 

We expect this project to take several months. Enclosed is a one-way ticket for you to travel to the airport closest to us, from which a car will transport you to the Abbey. We will discuss plans for your return to Marseille when you are nearing the end of your work here.

We anxiously await your arrival. 

Sincerely, 

Sister Imperator

The letter itself is quite presumptuous. Sister Imperator had assumed you were not busy, and assumed that you would be able to drop everything and travel halfway across the world for a months-long project. And then to use Papa’s name to exaggerate the importance of this mysterious document which she hadn’t even disclosed the nature of? 

Well… you can’t exactly say no to the woman who practically runs the Ministry’s affairs. 

The car takes a bend in the Abbey’s endless driveway and emerges into a clearing. Sitting far back on a sprawling lawn is a massive, imposing stone structure. The rows of trimmed hedges and flower bushes do little to soften the gothic hardness of it. Two pointed bell towers loom over the steep roof of what must be the chapel, with stained glass windows stretching up at least two storeys. The central image is of Baphomet, in his iconographic pose. The setting sun glints off of his golden halo. Sweet Satan, you think, your eyes tracking the window as the car rounds the drive. Baphomet alone must be taller than the entire height of Marseille. 

The ghoul pulls the car to a stop in front of the wide steps leading up to wooden double doors. A woman stands there, her hands clasped in front of her and her back straight, like the matron of this grand palace. You suppose she is–the severity of her expression alone leads you to believe that it’s Sister Imperator who waits for you.

You step out into the chilly air and shut the car door behind yourself. The ghoul already has your suitcase in hand and gestures for you to walk up the stairs before him. You wish he’d let you carry your own suitcase, if only to give your hands something to do, but you are far too stunned to ask. Climbing the shallow stone steps feels like stepping into another world. A world in which you feel far too plain to exist. 

“Sister,” The woman greets with a smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which squint at you beneath slightly furrowed, well-groomed brows. She strikes you as someone who is all business, all the time. “How was your journey?” 

You return her smile as best you can. She speaks to you like you don’t understand English. “It went well, your dark eminence.” 

She seems a little surprised that you respond so fluently, but she quickly fixes her face into another warm grin. “I am glad to hear it,” she says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sure you must understand that this document is very important, and quite fragile. We would not risk losing it in the post.” “Of course,” you nod. “If I may ask, Sister Imperator, what is this document? You did not disclose it in your letter.” You gesture to the envelope safely stored in your jacket pocket. 

Sister Imperator turns to step inside the slightly ajar wooden door and you assume she wants you to follow. The ghoul accompanies you over the threshold, but at the wave of a hand from Sister Imperator, he turns down a narrow corridor with your suitcase and disappears around a corner. 

You are still a bit too overwhelmed to thank him. Instead, you look at the woman beside you. “The ghoul will bring your luggage to a room we have prepared for your stay,” she explains at your silent question.

She continues down the main hall, deeper into the Abbey. Your footsteps echo through the atrium, bouncing up to the high, painted ceilings and off the stone walls. There are a few wooden benches pushed back against the wall, with pots of surprisingly lush houseplants on either side. Framed oil paintings line the walls: some depicting biblical scenes, some of landscapes, and a few large, dignified portraits. You can tell by the distinct Papal paints in each portrait that the subject is a Papa, and you wonder which one depicts Papa Emeritus IV. You’ve never seen an image of His Unholiness before. 

After a few moments of silence, Sister Imperator speaks again. “We found the document last month, in one of the storage rooms in the Abbey’s basement.” She likes to use the royal ‘we’ a lot, you think. 

She continues. “One of our archivists believes that it is at least five hundred years old. It is very fragile, you see, and so we ask that you handle it with the utmost care as you work with it. We would prefer it if you used gloves. And frankly, Sister, I believe that you would want to. The leather is fairly rotten.” You stay silent as you follow slightly behind her. You’ve worked with old, rotten books before. The pages nearly crumble apart in your hands and the leather splits easily, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. 

“We believe it is a journal—a diary, rather, of someone very important in the Ministry’s history.” You find it strange that she doesn’t immediately disclose whose diary it might be. “Who, if I may ask?” “Elizabeth.” Sister Imperator’s voice is clipped as she answers you. She gives no further explanation. Just Elizabeth. 

There are millions of women named Elizabeth in the world. It is very likely that there is more than one important Elizabeth in the Ministry’s history as well. It’s a fairly common name, especially five hundred years ago (if the archivist is correct). For all you know, this document could be some random Sister’s sexual logbook, and documenting her sinful indulgences was her way of praying to the Lord Below. 

You break out of your ponderance over possibilities when Sister Imperator turns a corner to walk down another, slightly narrower (but still wide) corridor. She speaks again. “The book is to be kept in a lockbox at all times when you are not working with it. Under no circumstances is it to be removed from the Abbey library without my express permission, or the permission of Papa. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Sister,” you answer hastily. Her tone of voice as she lays down the law makes you feel as though you’ve already made a mistake. 

“Now. The reason we need you, Sister, is because none of our own archivists or translators can figure out what language the journal is written in.” 

This piques your interest, and also slightly flatters you. “What do you mean?” you ask.

She releases a long-suffering sigh. “The writing is jumbled. It is a mess of letters and sometimes numbers, with no spaces whatsoever.” 

The possibilities immediately start to stack in your mind. Latin from the Roman era tended not to use spaces, a practice called ‘scriptio continua’. Ancient Greek also did this… but wouldn’t the in-house translators be able to read it? 

“I cannot explain it well enough,” Sister Imperator says. “You will have to see, Sister.” 

The two of you come to another set of large double doors. Sister Imperator pushes one open and steps inside, holding it open for you. You slip past her into a huge, bright room, filled with hundreds and hundreds of bookshelves. Immediately you are hit with the scent of old books and parchment paper, and the gentle sounds of turning pages. To your left sits an ornate wooden desk with one Sibling standing behind it. They are sorting books onto a three-tiered cart, presumably to put them away in the correct order. You accidentally make eye contact, but they smile politely and you respond in kind with a little wave. 

You avert your gaze upward towards the open second floor, which wraps around the large atrium and is protected by a dark oak bannister. A few Siblings linger on the catwalk, carrying books or making their way towards the wide staircase that opens to your right. The bottom floor of the atrium houses several wooden tables where another smattering of Siblings sit. Most other tables are empty save for an abandoned book or two. 

The late evening glow shines down into the room from a large, circular skylight in the middle of the ceiling. There are desk lamps and overhead lights scattered about but none have been turned on yet. 

It reminds you of the University library.

“Come,” Sister Imperator says after allowing you to gaze around the massive library for a moment. “The lockbox is in the restricted section. You will receive your own key while you are here but you are required to return it, directly to myself or the Head Librarian, before you leave.”

She leads you up the carpeted staircase and deep into the bowels of the second floor. Towards the back corner, where the shelves are labeled ‘Fiction - Romance’, there is a wooden door tucked against the wall. A sign beneath its small glass window reads ‘RESTRICTED’. Sister Imperator fishes a rather noisy set of keys from her pocket and finds the correct one to unlock the door. She pushes it open with a squeak that feels loud in the quiet of the library. When both of you are in the room and the door is shut behind you, she removes an identical key from her keyring and hands it to you. “Your copy,” she says. “Do not lose it.” 

The room isn’t cramped, but it is small compared to the atrium. A few single-person desks sit along the back wall, while the walls on either side of you are lined with glass boxes. Each box is shaped similarly to a narrow cubby, and houses a single book. Printed labels on the front face of each box display a box number and the name of the volume stored inside. 

“Your key allows you to access any of these boxes,” Sister Imperator explains to you, “but I do not expect you to require any of them, except for the diary you’ll be working with. It is kept in box number seven, which is here,” she points to a box about halfway up the rightmost column of cubbies. Using her key (still attached to the incredibly jingly keyring), she gently unlocks the box and it glides out like a drawer. 

You step beside her to look down into the glass drawer. The diary is wrapped in white linen, but you can see the faint brown color of the leather through the cloth. “The archivist requests that you keep the white cloth under the book at all times,” Sister Imperator says. She reaches down into the box and gently retrieves the diary, careful not to jostle the cloth too much. “It will protect the leather from further decay.” You don’t need her to explain how preservation works, but you appreciate it anyway. It saves you from having to ask, or endure another awkward silence. 

She places the book down on a nearby table and slowly unwraps the cloth. Already you can see small flecks of brown and orange sticking to it where the leather has rotted, but it seems to be fairly well preserved in light of its age. On the front cover in small, embossed gold letters is the name Elizabeth. 

“Elizabeth,” you say, understanding. 

“Elizabeth,” Sister Imperator replies. “That is the only word we have managed to decipher. Hopefully you will be able to help us with the rest.”

You nod. “I believe I can.” 

She wraps the cloth loosely around the book once more, and returns it to its box. “I do not expect you to start tonight, Sister. We will give you time to settle, and have something to eat. But from tomorrow morning until you are done, this is your sole responsibility. Do you understand?” 

Her sudden, almost intimidating tone surprises you. You bite the inside of your cheek–a nasty habit you’ve had since you were a child. “I understand, your Dark Eminence,” you say with another nod. 

Her face softens, as does her stare. “Please, just Sister is fine,” she says. You follow her again as she begins to lead you out of the Restricted room. “I believe the dinner hour is to start soon. I will show you to your dormitory, and then leave you to get settled.” 

She brings you back through the library and the main hall towards where you’d seen the ghoul disappear with your luggage. The dormitory hall is a long, narrow corridor with windows on one side and doors on the other. Each door is marked with a number and a nameplate, and in between each door are wall sconces lit by incandescent bulbs. Halfway down the hall there is an opening to a stairwell which, you assume, leads up to the second floor of the dormitories. You walk past many, many doors, some of which have two nameplates, until you reach the very end of the hall where there are unmarked doors. Sister finds her keyring again and unlocks one, then removes the key and hands it to you. 

“These rooms here are the guest quarters. They are typically not suited for long-term stays but we have prepared yours to have everything you will need. If you need anything, ask Sibling Superior and they will make sure that you receive it.”

Sister Imperator turns to leave, but then turns around. “You know, Sister,” she says, with a curious look. “For someone of your expertise, I thought you would have been… older.” You can’t tell if it’s praise or suspicion in her voice. “Yes, well,” you stall. How are you supposed to explain that language just comes naturally to you and that it’s not your fault you’re not old and wrinkly? “I suppose once you learn one language, all the rest come easy. Especially romance languages.” 

“Hm,” Sister Imperator hums, sizing you up for a moment. “Find me at the end of the week and we will talk about your progress. I’m sure you will know your way around by then.” 

It seems her well of kindness has run dry.  

~~~

If the loud ringing of the bell didn’t tell you that the dinner hour had started, then the steadily rising sounds of a crowd did. You can hear the murmurs of conversation even through your closed door. A few Siblings emerge from the dormitory next to yours, their chatting and laughing growing quieter as they walk down the corridor towards the refectory. The old wood floorboards creak above you from the movement of Siblings who occupy the second floor. All around you there is an excited bustle, and yet you don’t feel like joining it. 

You have never liked crowds. Especially crowds of strangers. And these strangers all seem to know each other, if the echoes of loud conversations tell you anything. 

But your stomach does rumble, and you feel rather weak from a day of travel, so you decide that it’s best to eat something before you go to bed. Once the corridor seems clear again, you quietly slip out your door (patting your pocket to make sure you remembered your key) and make your way to the refectory. Sister Imperator hadn’t shown it to you but you can make an educated guess as to where it is. 

When you emerge into the main hall, you see a few Siblings occupying the wood benches that had been previously empty. They all hold trays or to-go boxes on their laps. Some speak animatedly, enthralling their friends with stories from their eventful day, while others sit quietly beside each other and eat. You think that it might be nice to sit somewhere to eat so that you feel a bit more connected to the Abbey, but all of the benches are occupied. The ever-growing roar from the refectory does not seem too appealing, either. 

The large room is across the main hall from the library. When you turn the corner you see that it’s not as grand as the atrium, and that it only occupies one level. There are sheer curtains hung over the windows, which allow the sunlight to illuminate the room but keeps it from growing too warm. Siblings, Clergy members, and ghouls alike sit at long wooden tables not unlike those of your home Abbey. But these tables alone are longer than the entire length of the Marseille refectory, and once again you’re reminded that you’re quite far from home. 

No, you can’t eat here. Not tonight. 

There is a long counter stretching nearly wall-to-wall to the left of the door, where a dwindling line of Siblings make their dinner selections. Whatever meal the kitchens had prepared smells delicious but you find that you don’t have the appetite for it. However, close to where you stand in the doorway and nestled in the space between the wall and the counter, are a few baskets of fruit arranged on a small table. The baskets are nearly empty, with the only indication of their contents being the small pops of color peeking through gaps in the woven pattern. 

Despite not wanting a hot meal, you are hungry, and so you enter the refectory and move towards the baskets. You opt for two good-sized oranges–although the bananas do look perfectly ripe–and turn to leave as quickly as you came. Your eyes briefly sweep over the crowd and land on a long table, perpendicular to all the others, situated on a platform at the opposite end of the refectory. The platform isn’t tall, but it is just enough to raise the table’s occupants slightly above the Siblings. The table is entirely composed of men, save for Sister Imperator, who seems to be talking to an older man with Papal paints and long blonde hair–is that Papa?

You look at the others occupying the table, and find that no less than three are also wearing Papal paints. 

Marseille is a tiny Abbey. At any given time, only about ten Siblings reside there at once. And so there is no need for an upper Clergyman to be stationed there. Instead, the Chapter is run by Bishop Beaumont, who (until now) is the highest ranking member of the Satanic Ministry you have ever met, let alone seen. 

So, to be faced with not one, but four Papas, all in the same room, makes your heart thump with nerves. You recognize them all from the portraits in the main hall, but in person they are all so much more… just more. And yet you still don’t know who is who. 

Of course, you know that all four of the most recent reigning Papas are brothers, the order of which was determined by age. The man who Sister Imperator is talking to must be Papa Emeritus I, or Papa Primo, as you’ve heard him called by Bishop Beaumont. The other three look relatively close in age, and so you truly have no idea which man currently holds the helm and steers the ship. 

You realize you’re staring when you make eye contact with one of the Papas. You nearly gasp in surprise, as if you shouldn’t even be on the same plane of existence as him… and yet your eyes met. Of course one of them would have caught you eventually, you think. You were practically ogling them from across the room. 

Hastily, you turn and make your way back out of the refectory and into the main hall. Your eyes fall on the nearest portrait. The Papal paints of the subject match the ones of the man you’d just been caught staring at. You blush as if his portrait could think, and had just caught you a second time. Your eyes flick down to the gold plate affixed to the frame, and read the words. 

PAPA EMERITUS IV.

new obsession? i think yes

just a teeny bit, darling

Summary: Copia parties too hard for Terzo's birthday. You do your best making sure he gets home tucked in bed.

Tags: SFW but suggestive, 18+ only pls, 4k words, gen!reader, drinking, parties, mention of throwing up (no one does don’t worry), Copia is very drunk in this, he’s a sentimental drunk too, established relationship, fluff, lovingly taking care of his dumbass.

Read on AO3 or below!

Copia isn’t the type to get plastered. Atleast, not anymore. In his days as a young Cardinal of the church, an age where he had more freedom to do as he pleased, he’d indulge himself more in the art of getting hammered.

“They had to peel me off the Abbey floor this one time.” He had mentioned, whilst telling you stories of his youth. He made himself out to be quite the party animal; participating in drinking games, going toe-to-toe with Ghouls on who can down the most liquor. Part of you wished you knew him back then, just to see his antics unfold. He was wild in his Cardinal days, today not so much.

After ascension to Papa and his increased age, Copia’s assured you that he’s lost the stamina for it, one of the supporting reasons being that touring had done a great deal on him. And he’s kept this statement to truth; leaving parties before midnight and limiting himself to two or three drinks for an evening.

You have only ever seen him casually buzzed. Nowadays, even if he had the stamina, Copia holds too much value for himself as Papa to let himself go off the deep end.

Who would expect a simple birthday party to rekindle the flames of that young Cardinal— and his questionable decision-making. 

Tonight is Terzo’s birthday. A milestone number for the former Papa and, of course, Terzo wanted to celebrate in the most avant-garde way: throw a party, and invite the entire church. They cleared out the vast chapel to make room and the Ghouls helped conjure the decorations. Omega even conjured a disco ball.

The chapel looked like a makeshift nightclub, fitted with balloons and streamers, all of which were in Terzo’s favourite colours. Most, if not all of the Abbey came, and the atmosphere turned out to be just what Terzo wanted.

You took up a nice seat at the barside, nursing your favourite beverage as the night rolled on. A single Ghoul had been running the drinks, scurrying between serving and pouring.

You had spotted something fizzle out from under his dark sleeve early on in the night, and suspected he’s been using magic to get out the drinks on time. You hoped that Secondo wouldn’t notice. The second Papa always preached that magic was scared, only to be used in rituals. But the Ghoul did have a lot of guests to tend to, so you who were you to question it.

Another sip and you check the time, bobbing your head to the rock music playing above. Your watch reads past midnight, and Copia still hasn’t found you yet to leave. But you’re not really in a rush to find him.

Copia is somewhere in the room socializing with the other Papas, something he hardly had the time for. Once the two of you arrived at the chapel, you urged him to go off on his own to catch up with his brothers. He deserves all the quality time with them he can get; you know he doesn’t get that luxury often. Copia was reluctant to break off at first, not wanting to leave you stranded on your own for the evening. After reassuring him a few times that you’d be alright, off he went.

That left you on your own for the evening. You met up with old friends and some of the Ghouls. The whole party had been lovely and great time of catching up with your favourite people. Good music and good drinks too.

After a long night of chatting though, the bar offered some peace and a moment to breathe. And you expect Copia will be coming to get you soon. The bar is an easy place for him to find you.

You know this drink is probably your last, so you sip leisurely, savouring the cool liquid as it runs down your throat. This is your second drink of the evening. Being Copia’s partner for some time allowed for his own drinking habits to wash onto you. You don’t let yourself get too tipsy now when you’re out with him. And you do want to have your head clear when walking home, in order to make sense of all the gossip he’ll surely have in store. For now you wait, tapping your feet and rubbing your hands, watching the time pass. 

He should’ve came way earlier, but you don’t get too anxious. He must be caught up in the conversation with his brothers, as expected if it’s free of work related duties; they could talk for hours if that’s the case, and you weren’t going to interrupt them. Instead, you affirm to yourself he’ll come eventually, telling yourself he can’t go without his beauty sleep, nor can he go too long without you.

You reach the bottom of your glass by the time Copia comes up behind you. And his entrance is nothing like you’ve expected.

The first thing that jostles your attention is the familiar sound of expensive boot heels clacking against the marble floor. Not unusual, if you can ignore the fact that the footsteps are uneven and staggered.

Before you even turn around to greet who you know is Copia, the barstool beside you is yanked out of its place from under the bar. The barstool’s feet scrape unnecessarily loudly against the floor, making space for the man who practially slaps his ass onto its seat.

“Dolcezza! Oh, how I’ve been looking for you!” With one arm slumped over the bar surface, Copia sits up straight— or atleast attempts to —on the barstool. He has a half finished margarita in the other hand. There’s a brightly coloured straw in it that twirls around in the glass as he wobbles. He looks unrecognizable compared to the start of the night. 

You hardly process what is happening and already Copia is fumbling for your hand. The leather of his glove is oddly warm as he captures your hand. In a less elegant fashion of how he usually does it, he brings your hand up to his lips. He plants a wet kiss on the tops of your knuckles, making an audible “mwah!” and leaving behind a small patch of saliva on your skin.

“Tonight ’as been wonderful! And you look s’ wonderful. Oh, where do I start…” Copia is so overwhelmed he gets all tongue-tied, deciding just to shut up instead. He tucks your hand back into your lap with a goofy, starstuck smile, edges of his lips curling into badly flushed cheeks.

You blink at him, at a lost for words. The Papa of your church, your sweetheart, someone who hasn’t been drunk in a very long time, is absolutely cheesed.

Copia can hardly hold himself upright when he downs the rest of his margarita, making a dramatic “mmh!” as he sets the glass down. His face scrunches until the burn subsides, then he exhales roughly. His hand smooths back his hair which is quickly becoming messy.

Messy is a good word to describe the rest of him. The clergy collar under his gold jacket is well on its way to undone, his skull paint is smudged and sweaty, and his hair— which you remember fondly helping him slick back in the mirror prior to the party —is sticking out at the sides like wings. He looks completely unkept but also very, stupidly handsome. Emphasis on stupid.

You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, “Sweetheart, you are very drunk right now.” 

“What?! No-no-no-no-no. I’m jus’ a lil tipsy. Hehe.” Copia claims, voice betraying him with how it slurs on the syllables. He frantically shakes his head, which he regrets immediately; his whole body going rock solid. Suddenly horrified, you spot the universal sign in his face that he’s about to throw up. It only lasts for a second before he breaks and starts giggling.

Watching him carefully, he looks somewhat stable as he starts wavering in his seat again, smiling to himself like a toddler.

You have to say Copia surprises you sometimes, but you didn’t expect that tonight you’d be the one taking the two of you home. And it was time to go. He nearly threw up all over the bar and you are not risking anything worse. You want nothing else for your love except for him to be in his warm bed. 

Looking behind Copia to the chapel doors, you begin to estimate just long it’s going to take to get there, then get home. It’s past midnight now, sober Copia would agree that you two should boot it.

Meanwhile, drunk Copia’s distracted by the material in the outfit you’ve worn tonight, ducking forward to truly examine the handiwork that went into making it, mumbling noises of appreciation that you can’t fully hear over the music.

“Copia,” Voice slow, you rest a hand on his knee. He pops back up, and his head ends up tilted still with that ridculous smile. How it grows so quickly at the sight of you. His beloved, all dolled up and fancy for the evening, eyes radiating a sort of light that makes him breathless. Oh— how did he land you? He is such a lucky man. He cooes some sort of lovestruck babble, reminiscing in his mind on how fortunate life is that such a sweet person has become apart of it.

You give his knee a tight squeeze and he blinks out of his trance. Light glimmers off the side of his empty glass, and you wonder. Although he probably doesn’t know, you ask him, finger pointing at his emptied drink, “How many have you had?” 

He glances between you and the glass, confused at first. Then his brows jump up. “Ooh! Uh, just a teeny bit, darling.” He assures, emphasizing his point by pinching his index and thumb together. 

He shrugs, “Maybe four. No, uh. Five. I don’t know, I los’ count after six.” He studies the rim of the glass, clicking his tongue against his teeth nonchalantly. “Bah, s’however many Terzo had. It’his birthday, after all. Not a big deal. Non ti preoccupare.” The Italian sounds funny flowing off his tongue but doesn’t correct himself. 

When he goes to flick his wrist to call the bartender over, you quickly get to your feet. Copia gasps as you rapidly close the distance between you, as if you just ditched your shirt in front of him or flashed him.

You squeeze yourself between the bar’s edge and his body, forcing his full attention on you. When you tenderly tuck your arms around his cinched waist, Copia is completely at a loss of what to do. He just gawks with parted lips, watching what you do next with wide, curious eyes.

“You had lots of fun tonight, love. Time to go home, huh?” You call sweetly down at him, fingers playing with the texturing along his gold suit jacket. “Get some sleep?”

Copia is absolutely enthralled at the sight of you above him, holding him. He’s far too lost in the sauce when you gently comb back his messy hair and rest a palm against his sweaty cheek, thumb brushing against his smeared upper lip. He doesn’t even blink.

“Are you going to kiss me?” He questions innocently, handsome, foggy eyes gleaming up at you in wonder. “You touch me like this before you kiss me.” His voice goes awfully low there and the blush that invades your cheeks is fast and heavy. There’s no hidden meaning behind his words, he’s simply curious and genuinely wants to know.

You smile down at him, full and sincere, letting your hand drift down past his neck, onto his shoulder. You don’t answer the question, but you do take his hand. Your thumb caresses over the silky material of the leather, over his knuckles that slightly tremble in your hands. “You’ll get a kiss if you come along.” 

A promise that has Copia ready to go. With short little noises of anticipation and excited taps of his feets, he grins, “Okie dokie! Where we going?”

Hopping off the barstool, Copia immediately overestimates his ability to stand. You’re quick to catch him, sneaking an arm under his shoulders, saving him from going head-first into the chapel floor.

After slurred apologies in Italian for almost taking you down with them, you guide him towards the exit, in slow and careful steps. One arm around his shoulders, one hand pressed against his front.

He sighs, lowering his head, “I am very, very drunk, amore. I’m sorry.”

You steal a kiss behind his ear, in his hair, hidden from any eyes, “I know, sweetheart. Let’s go home.”

Copia hums softly in agreement.

Through the party attendees, you see Papa Secondo still with his brothers. A short glance of acknowledgement is all you need for a goodbye. He obviously sees the state of Copia and only dips his head in farewell.

Perhaps it’s the chapel’s lighting, but you swear you make out the tiniest amused smirk under Secondo’s dark paints. Moments later, Secondo snaps into older brother mode as Terzo wobbles on his feet next to him, reaching for Primo for balance. Terzo looks just as bad as Copia. You guess the two had a bet on who could do the most shots. You’ll find out the details tomorrow morning— that is if Copia even remembers what happened.

Outside the chapel, the air is calm and less dense; it doesn’t stink of booze and feels cool on your skin. The crowd thins completely by the time you reach the Papas’ wing. Copia, thankfully, didn’t wobble too hard on the walk, getting better with his balance the more time passed.

He talked in your ear nonstop, rambling about how good it was to catch up with his brothers. He rambled about Secondo’s dry sense of humour, Primo’s seemingly endless knowledge of the Abbey gardens, and how scarily good Terzo’s choice of alcohol was. You only nodded along, half listening. You were more occupied with making sure your next step didn’t lead to a pile on the floor of you and Copia.

By some blessing of Satan, you get to Copia’s quarters still on your feet. At this point in time, Copia would be the one opening the door, saying something cheesy as he offers you to enter first. But in this case, he’s more busy complimenting the choice of fragence you’ve chosen for the evening, babbling with his nose stuffed in your neck. You’re the one now who has to fish out the key from his pockets.

You stuff a hand down his back pocket and in your search Copia yelps in high-pitched terror. A startled, loud noise like you’ve just punctured him. 

That writhes him out of your neck and he exclaims, “You trying to cup a feel on your Papa?” He sounds absolutely flabbergasted at such a scandalous action. How dare you grab his ass, out in the open, in the hallway for anyone to see— although the hallway is completely empty.

He tries to desparately wriggle his butt away but do manage to hook a finger around the hefty key ring sitting in his pocket. You quickly more to unlock the door. “It’s cop a feel, Copia, darling.”

He sighs again, grumbling to himself, “Shit. I say stupid things, amore. Don’t listen to your Papa.”

The door falls open, revealing the expanse of Copia’s dimly lit suite. It’s exactly how you left it: video game controllers scattered over the small sofa, the box TV accidentally left on, with Copia’s rats curled into cozy balls along the throw pillows. Copia cooes in Italian greetings at one of his sleeping babies before you even close the door behind you. Just another short walk left until you reached the bedroom where you can finally get him into bed. He needs a bit of redirection as you go along, having to turn his attention to his bedroom door repeatedly, rather than his sweet baby who’s cutely snuggled on the sofa.

When you finally reach the bedroom, Copia’s weight gets heavier over your shoulder. The sight of his bed serving as a reminder for how exhausted he is. With your help, he lands safely on his side of the bed. He ends up sprawled awkwardly, on his back, long legs dangling off the bed. Although he looks uncomfortable right now, he’s safe in bed, and a short burst of relief blooms in your chest. The next part is going to be easier.

You leave his side briefly to rummage through his closet for his black tee and red sweatpants. You find it amongst old suits from his Cardinal era. You longed that those suits would someday make a comeback. Copia was well aware of your love for them. When you return to Copia’s bedside with his clothes over your shoulder, his softened breathing makes you realize he’s nodding off. Little hitches of breath hinting he’s almost there.

You lean down, brushing your nose against the soft locks on his head. Your one hand runs through the other side. A deep hum resounds in his throat at the feeling, slowly stirring.

“Copia, sweetheart. I gotta get you in your pajamas.”

He inhales softly, sleepy disagreement in his tone. He shakes his head left and right an infinitesimal amount. “Oh no-no, I can sleep like this, amore. It is too comfy.”

Despite his words, you start to tug at the sleeves of his gold jacket and he lets you, doing his best to assist by lifting his arms for you. You gingerly slip the jacket off his shoulders, careful not to tear one of the most expensive pieces in his wardrobe. Though you are surprised he hasn’t tore a hole in it himself at this point in the night.

You lay the suit jacket neatly over his dresser, moving on to his clergy shirt. Your hands are well adjusted to opening these types of button ups. You have lots of practice during heated makeout sessions. It’s alot easier now to take the thing off of him when he wasn’t moving. You get the buttons open in rapid succession without skipping a beat. A short glance up reveals he’s still awake, watching you blearily with crossed, half-lidded eyes. The white one glows dimly.

“You are good at getting me naked, dolce, heh.” He muses, a crooked smile pulling at his smeared paints from this own stupid joke.

“I have lots of experience, sweetie.” You finish the last button at the bottom and lean down to plant a kiss on his bare tummy, nestling your cheek against the trail of soft hair down there. 

He hums softly at your gentle attention. “That must help then, yes.”

You trail more kisses up his body, stealing all sorts of tiny, appreciative noises from him. You plant a final kiss above his heart before you help him shrug off the sleeves. You replace his shirt with his black tee, pulling the soft fabric over his shoulders and body.

His pants come off next, the laces undone quickly due to your muscle memory. Copia tries his best to help you by lifting his bum, then kicking off the legs. The sweatpants are looser and easier to put on, coming up on his legs smoother than the tight stage pants he was wearing. You leave his socks on and take a deep breath, standing back and surveying the worse of the mess you’ve made on the floor.

By then, Copia is almost out, half snoring in the blankets. One last swing of his legs over the bedside and you have him tucked in, warm under the covers, and pillow adjusted so he’s comfy.

When you go to give him a goodnight kiss, you realize he’s still in a full face of Papal paint. Although it’s badly smeared and sweated off, you can still recongize that he’s Papa IV. From previous experience, you know if he sleeps in that much paint, it will only create an unnecessary load of laundry, due to it ending up all over the pillows and blankets.

You find babywipes on the bathroom counter, stealing a handful for your own use. Usually, Copia’s nightly makeup routine is alot more complex, involving cleanser and expensive lotion— that isn’t happening tonight. Babywipes would do the job just fine. Scampering back to the bedroom, you crawl over the comforter on your side of the bed, tucking your knees against Copia as you lean over him, brow pinched in focus. 

With one hand, you still his head, the other starts to dab away the paints using a damp babywipe. Copia scrunches his nose and groans under your hands, attempting to turn away before you gently tug him back to face you. Paint ends up all over the fingertips but you pay no mind, reaching for another wipe.

“Just getting your paint off, sweetheart.” You coo, as if to a baby. It does work. Copia only grumbles sleepily in response, never attempting to cease your efforts. “Then you can go to sleep.”

It takes two full wipes to get the stubborn, thick black around his eyes. Another to wash away the black in his lips and cheeks. A few more to get the expanse of white on his forehead. You’re gentle as you clean him, holding his jaw up with one hand, using a zigzag motion to get the white off his chin, the rest along the edge of his neck. Checking your work, making sure you haven’t missed a spot, Copia’s voice startles you and snaps you out of focus.

“You will forgive me, yes?” 

Raising your gaze, Copia’s eyes are barely open. His sleepy, gravelly voice just audible for you to hear. Now, his crows feet and wrinkles are visible, showing his age; all the aging lines you fell in love with and have kissed endlessly. You don’t see the fourth Papa that the church knows well but instead, your Copia you’ve had the pleasure of loving. Hair all messy, cheeks puffy, your handsome man.

“For what?”

Copia smirks, closing his eyes. He raises his voice a bit more, still very quiet, “For getting shitfaced. Being an ass.”

You chuckle, wiping down the sharp angle of his nose. “You are an ass, that is true. But I forgive you.”

You dab away the specks of white paint almost missed, before tossing the large bundle of dirty babywipes to the floor. You’d clean it tomorrow, along with all the clothes. It’s too late in the night to do all that.

Looking down at him, admiring the soft shadows and lines of his face, you once again can’t help but comb back his hair, voicing resassurement in softened whispers, “As long as you had fun tonight, it’s okay.”

There’s a stretch of silence over the bedroom then. Peaceful and soothing, especially after a crazy night out. You allow yourself to wrap your limbs around him, slotting your leg with his own, curling an arm over his side and finding a precious love handle to squeeze. You glance between the paintings on the wall, mindlessly listening to the thrum of his heartbeat, until he speaks.

He must’ve been sobering up. “You told me I get a kiss if I came along.”

You click your tongue on the roof of your mouth, smiling, “I did.”

You find Copia’s bare cheeks to hold, grazing fingertips against his stubble. Although your fingers are speckled with dry paint, you don’t care. 

You really do touch him a certain way before you kiss him. Hands dragging back through his damp hair as you lovingly press your lips on his. You easily sense his exhaustion through how slow he kisses back. Barely dragging his lips to counter yours. Noses brushing, it’s lazy yet passionate, the best you can muster after a long night. Your hands run slow through his hair, nails skimming his scalp, just how he likes it. You dare flick your tongue through his parting lips and he faintly whimpers in your mouth, but that’s the most intense it gets. 

You part reluctantly, lips separating in an audible, softened pop. You smooth his hair back one last time, licking your lips and lying beside him. Naturally, you rest a hand over the curve of his belly.

“You are too good to me.” Copia mumbles tiredly in his throat. “Too good.”

“I love you.” You don’t know whenever or not Copia had heard you, his snores becoming louder as the minutes go by. You finally let your tired limbs relax, comforted and lulled to sleep by the knowledge you were both safe and sound— well, mostly that Copia was. 

You know he’s going to feel really bad in the morning, distraught that you had to do the work of getting him into bed, and you’ll never hear the end of it.

It’s going to take many times to convince him that you didn’t mind it at all.