Ghost Band Fanfiction - Blog Posts

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.

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.