byeashhh

[byeashhh]

I don’t know if you accept requests— but what if you (the reader) are a new hire at The Ministry shortly after Papa V Perpetua’s ascension? Like some SFW & NSFW about you 2 growing close?

ofc i can !! i’ll post within the next day or two so stay tuned !! <3

ive been meaning to write for V and this is just giving me all the more reason to write for him :))

[byeashhh]

cute little young papa nihil blurb bc i see ghost in less than a month.. im so excited,, ghost brainrot is awful rn again, he's not with imperator here ➽──────────────❥

She padded into the room wearing his button-up shirt— far too big, sleeves falling past her hands, hem nearly to her knees. Her hair was a mess. Her smile, soft. Sleepy. Young Papa Nihil looked up from tuning his guitar and nearly forgot what chord he was playing. “That’s mine,” he said, smirking, but his voice had that fond, hushed edge it only got when he was looking at her like this. “I know,” she said simply, tugging one cuff over her knuckles. “It smells like you.” He set the guitar down. In an instant, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “I like it on you better,” he murmured. “Keep it forever.” She turned to him, smiling into his chest, and said, “Then you’ll have to keep me, too.” He laughed— low and soft, like music meant just for her. “Done,” he whispered. “You’re not going anywhere.”

[byeashhh]

⛧ ┊In Nomine Domini Nostri Satanae (pt. 2)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Secondo x Fem! Reader ⚠︎ MDNI. 18+. ADULT CONTENT. ⚠︎ you can read pt. 1 here ➜ In Nomine Domini Nostri Satanae please read discretion below, this continuation may not be for you !! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

this is a dark, ritual-heavy smut piece featuring secondo in a dominant role with themes of powerplay, religious kink, and intense overstimulation. all acts are portrayed as consensual within the context of an established, trusting dynamic, but readers should be advised that there are slight consensual noncon undertones, emotional intensity, and sacrilegious imagery throughout.

the dynamic is extreme, but the reader is safe, cherished, and fully cared for—secondo’s cruelty is deliberate and theatrical, but it is never careless.

PLEASE do not interact if you’re under 18. and as always: take care of yourself, consume responsibly, and don’t be afraid to scroll if this isn’t your flavor.

content: overstimulation, multiple orgasms, crying during sex, powerplay, slight cockwarming, free use (kinda), vaginal sex, degradation, dom/sub dynamic, religious kink, rosary bondage, blasphemy, impact play implied, aftercare included . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the sound of his quill once again scratching against parchment— calm, composed, maddening. She stayed where he left her: knees aching, thighs trembling, the slick between her legs only worsening with every second of inattention. She dared not speak.

Secondo didn’t look at her. Not yet.

Instead, he dipped the quill again, writing with slow purpose. Deliberate strokes, each letter penned as if the world outside them did not exist. Only when he signed the bottom of the scroll did he finally set it aside and glance at her briefly, as if she were nothing more than a flicker of incense smoke.

Secondo rose, slowly, the stiff rustle of his robes the only warning she received before his gloved hand caught her jaw and tilted her face upward. His expression was unreadable— something between reverence and hunger.

“I told you to pray,” he said softly, voice low and patient, a warning folded into silk. “And yet you kneel before me like a harlot awaiting reward.”

“I—I am praying,” she whispered, tongue thick with need.

A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. Then, without another word, he stepped closer and pressed two fingers against her lips. She opened instinctively, and he pushed them inside, slow and unrelenting. His other hand slipped beneath her habit, gloved fingertips grazing over soaked, aching heat by pushing the small bit of fabric covering her to the side.

“So wet,” he muttered. “Did sucking your Papa off make you this desperate? Or is it the denial that’s got you trembling?” She couldn’t answer. Not with his fingers curling just so, brushing her clit with a lazy cruelty that made her whimper around his fingers that he pushed into her mouth, his leather covered fingertips rubbing the flat of her tongue.

“No. No noises,” he said, withdrawing from her mouth just long enough to spit into it. “Swallow. Take it. You want my blessing, yes? Act like you deserve it.” She choked it down, dizzy with humiliation and aching want, legs trembling as he eased two fingers inside her, pressing deep.

“Still praying?” he murmured, lips ghosting over hers without giving her the kiss she so clearly craved. “Pray louder.” She sobbed, moaned, and whimpered something like a plea, barely audible, as he drove his fingers in harder, faster, watching every twitch of her thighs with wicked delight. She was unraveling beneath him, mouth slack, body slick and needy.

Only when he felt her clench—right on the edge, did he stop. She cried out, confused, aching.

“No,” he said coldly. “Not yet. You will come when I say. Not before.” And with that, he stood again, wiping his gloved fingers across her chest to mark her, filthy and sacred.

“Back to the floor,” he commanded. “Face down. Legs apart. If you want my blessing, piccola peccatrice, you will be devout.”

And as she obeyed, heart pounding, trembling in anticipation, she knew this was only the beginning of her penance.

She obeyed—head bowed, cheek to the stone floor, her wrists tightly bound behind her back in a loop of smooth rosary beads. Each one pressed into her skin, cool and sacred and obscene where they cut into her flesh.

Secondo had tied them himself.

“Properly restrained,” he murmured from behind, voice low and reverent. “Finally.” The sharp clap of his gloves against her thighs echoed through the office, deliberate slaps that made her legs twitch beneath her. But she couldn’t brace. Couldn’t shield herself. Her bound hands left her utterly exposed, face-down and trembling.

Secondo only smiled at her helplessness. He leaned in, one hand dragging up the curve of her spine, the other sliding between her legs to completely remove the thin fabric that kept him from seeing her in all her glory.

“Dripping,” he muttered, amusement curling through his voice like smoke. “This is what prayer gets you, piccola puttana?” She whimpered— wordless, desperate. She wanted to speak, to beg, but he had trained her well. Not without permission.

The sound of his zipper filled the air next, then the blunt heat of his cock pressed against her entrance. He didn't warn her. Didn't tease.

He simply took.

One brutal thrust and he was seated fully inside her, a low groan dragging from his throat as her body clenched tight around him. She cried out but with her face against the floor and her arms bound behind her, she could only endure as he set a punishing rhythm. “No hands to fight me now,” he grunted, fingers digging into her hips. “No distractions. Just your cunt, your cries, and my cock.”

The rosary beads bit into her wrists with each thrust, each brutal jolt forward making her bound arms strain against the loop. It hurt. And it was holy. “Such a beautiful little vessel,” he growled, panting now. “You beg with your body, even if your lips stay silent. You want to be filled, don’t you?”

Her moan was answer enough.

He reached around with one hand, the other still locked onto her hip, and found her clit— flicking it, rubbing it with cruel precision. Her legs quaked, her vision blurred. She was so close— but she couldn’t even reach out to grasp something. Couldn’t ground herself. Couldn’t run.

“You come when I say,” Secondo hissed. “Not before.” She sobbed, mouth against the cold floor, drool slicking her cheek, her body shaking with the force of trying not to fall over the edge. And then—

“Come.”

One word. A command.

Her climax tore through her with the force of prayer answered and punished all at once. She screamed, shuddering violently, cunt clenching tight around him as he rutted deeper, riding her through it. But Secondo wasn’t finished. Not yet.

She lay there trembling, wrists still bound with the rosary just as he'd commanded. Her chest heaved with each shattered breath. Her thighs were slick, trembling, spread wide and defenseless.

“Look at you,” he murmured, kneeling behind her now, casting a long shadow across her wrecked body. His voice was almost… tender. Mockingly so. “Blessed. Fucked. And yet… you tremble like a creature still in need.”

She flinched when he touched her again— two gloved fingers slipping down between her thighs, dragging through the nectar still leaking from her. She gasped, hips twitching, legs trying weakly to close. But his other hand was already there, firm on her inner thigh, keeping her open.

“Don’t you dare.” The tone was icy. Sacrosanct.

“Your Papa decides when your body is done. Not you.” And then he pushed two fingers inside her. She cried out instantly— voice broken, a sob punched straight from her lungs. Her body jerked under his touch, clenching desperately around his intrusion, far too sensitive to bear it.

“Shhh,” he cooed, sliding them in and out slowly, cruelly, the wet sound obscene in the stillness. “Take it. You can scream, piccola. The walls won’t save you.” She did scream. A choked, involuntary cry as he pressed up into that sweet, sore spot inside her— again, and again. Her legs trembled violently. Her abdomen arched off the stone. And all the while, the beads dug deeper into her bound wrists, leaving holy welts in her skin.

“You’ll come again for me,” Secondo growled, voice rougher now, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he leaned over her. “Even if it breaks you.” His thumb slid over her clit and she shattered yet again. Her orgasm hit like violence— raw, unyielding, a forced exorcism of her will. Her entire body spasmed, a scream torn from her lips as tears streamed freely now, mouth slack, throat sore.

He didn’t stop.

Even as her body seized and twitched, even as she sobbed brokenly, he kept working her— fingers relentless, circling her clit again with wet, deliberate cruelty. She couldn’t take it. She shouldn’t be able to take it. But she did.

She thrashed, cried, pleaded— nothing coherent. Just ruined, overwhelmed noises as her body betrayed her and chased a fourth high against her will. Secondo watched her fall apart with something like reverence—his expression unreadable, his touch steady, as though she were a sacred relic in his care. An offering. A vessel.

And when she came again— violently, convulsing, no sound left to give— he finally withdrew. She lay in silence.

No strength. No modesty. Her body a mess of sweat, tears, and slick, arms still bound, lips trembling. She couldn’t move, she was too fucked out.

Tears clung to her lashes from the overstimulation, lips parted in silent ruin. Her body twitched with aftershocks, her wrists still bound by the rosary, her thighs glistening, raw and trembling.

Secondo watched her in silence. There was no sympathy in his gaze. No soft stroke to soothe her. Only calm, clinical calculation.

“I’m not finished.”

Her breath hitched.

She barely had time to react—no strength to plead—before he bent down, grasped her hips, and pushed back inside her.

Her body seized, from pleasure and shock— pure, helpless overstimulation. Her cunt was soaked, pulsing, raw, and he slid into it like a blade into butter. Deep. Unrelenting. Without pause.

“You thought that was for you?” he hissed, voice low and furious. “That blessing was mine to give. But this—” A sharp thrust. “This is mine to take.”

She sobbed beneath him, bound and helpless, her overstimulated nerves burning as he used her- each snap of his hips punishing, precise. She clenched around him involuntarily, body still too responsive.

He groaned low in his chest, the sound guttural, feral. “That’s it,” he hissed, thrusting deeper, harder. “No more prayer. No more tears. Just your cunt milking me like you were made for it.”

Her body couldn't stop twitching and jerking under him with every thrust as he fucked her with single-minded cruelty, chasing only his own pleasure now. No kindness. Just need. His gloved hand pressed on her throat— not tight, but firm. Controlling. Claiming. His other hand gripped her hip, pulling her up just enough to change the angle. To bury himself inside her fully, over and over, until he could feel the tremble in his own thighs begin to climb.

He leaned in close, mouth against her ear. “You’ll be filled. Consecrated.” Her eyes rolled back. Her lips parted in a whimper.

And then, he shuddered. One brutal thrust. Then another. Then stillness. A groan poured from his throat, drawn out and low, as he emptied himself inside her with twitching hips and clenched teeth. His seed poured into her already spoiled cunt, thick and hot, leaking instantly with nowhere to go.

He stayed inside. Still. Deep. Buried.

Secondo stayed inside her for one long breath, hands braced on either side of her body. Her back rose and fell with trembling exhales, body lax, tears still drying on her cheeks, her limbs boneless in their exhaustion. Only then did he move.

He slipped out slowly, carefully, a faint groan catching in his throat at the sensation. His hand lingered on her hip, grounding, heavy but not cruel. “Brava,” he murmured, so soft it barely stirred the air. “You endured… beautifully.”

She whimpered— not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming release of it all, from the trust it took to let go that deeply, to give so completely. He stood, adjusting his robes with that same ceremonial precision… but this time, he didn’t return to the desk. No quill. No parchment. Just quiet footsteps toward her once more.

He knelt. Gloved hands moved to the rosary, gently peeling the beads from her wrists. Her skin was red and marked, his touch as he removed the bindings was nothing like it had been before. Careful. Intent.

When they were free, he cradled her hands between his own, thumbs smoothing over the pressure lines left behind. He kissed the inside of her wrist without speaking, the way a priest might kiss a relic— gentle, reverent, as if she were something divine.

Then, slowly, he pulled her into his lap. There was no coldness now. No performance. He held her against his chest, robes soft between them, her face buried beneath his chin. One gloved hand stroked the back of her head, the other rubbed slow circles at the base of her spine.

The candles flickered softly around them. Her breathing began to calm. “You did well,” he whispered again.

She nodded faintly in acknowledgement, fingers curling into his robe, fragile and raw.

He shifted slightly, pressing his lips to her temple, breath warm as he murmured, “You are safe now, anima mia.” And there, in the quiet sacred hush of the ritual’s end, he simply held her. No more demands. No more power.

Only warmth. Only him.

[byeashhh]

just a super quick blurb bc i cant get copia out of my head but it is going to be a bit nsfw so MDNI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ⚠︎ NSFW BELOW. MDNI. 18+ ⚠︎ ⚠︎ please be 18+ to interact ⚠︎ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . content: NSFW, overstimulation, soft dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, copia begging (in the best way), implied vaginal sex, lots of sweet filth.

copia was already breathless beneath her, his chest heaving, hair damp against the pillow as he looked up at her with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. she had him pinned gently by the wrists, her hips rocking slow and steady, drawing out every needy little sound he tried so hard to swallow “brava… ah—merda, you—you're gonna kill me,” he whispered, the edge of a whimper in his voice she leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, and shushed him sweetly. “no, tesoro,” she whispered against his lips. “i'm going to make you feel so good. all you have to do is let go.” his hands clenched under hers, trembling slightly as she moved her hips again, grinding down just right. his back arched, lips parting with a moan he couldn’t hold back this time “please,” he breathed, eyes glassy. “don’t stop. please don’t stop.” and she didn’t—not until he was a mess beneath her, twitching, whimpering her name like a prayer, ruined by the very hands he trusted to take him apart so tenderly he was already shaking when she coaxed the second orgasm out of him—his breath caught, hips bucking weakly beneath she as he came with a broken gasp, his fingers curling tightly in the sheets. she slowed for just a moment, soothing her palms over his flushed chest as he tried to catch his breath

“i-i can’t…” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking on the words. “please, amore, i—”

she kissed the center of his chest, right over his frantic heartbeat. “yes, you can. look at you,” she murmured, starting to move again—so slow, so unbearably gentle that his body twitched from the sensation his thighs trembled as she rode him through it, slick and sensitive, every motion drawing out soft, involuntary sounds from his throat. he whimpered her name, over and over, hands scrabbling at her waist, unsure whether he was trying to slow her down or pull her closer

“you’re so good for me, copia,” she whispered, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead. “Let me have it again.”

he was already close, too sensitive to bear it, too deep in it to stop. his breath hitched—eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in surrender. she leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, just as his body tensed again under her

and when he came—again—it was with a wrecked little sob, clinging to her like it was the only thing keeping him grounded

[byeashhh]

‧₊˚ ┊Young Nihil Headcanons !!

can we pretend that sister imperator doesn't exist here ?? bc i've been thinking abt young nihil A LOT recently ⚠︎ there will nsfw headcanons under the cut so MDNI ⚠︎ ➜ nihil is a total sap in private, def writes you cheesy love lyrics in his notebook, disguised between song drafts and dirty jokes. he swears he doesn’t get sentimental ➜ after a long night (especially after a show), he loves to curl around you in bed like a big, lazy cat. hair in your face, limbs tangled up, whispering in his gravelly morning voice: “stay a little longer, bella… i ain’t done with you yet.” ➜ when he touches you—especially your face, or when brushing hair behind your ear—he’s so careful. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he’s not soft enough ➜ he walks with an arm slung over your shoulder or around your waist in public—not to show you off (well, okay, maybe a little)—but more so to keep you close ➜ his idea of romance is kicking back with a couple of beers, his arm draped across the back of the couch, old records playing. or slow-dancing with you barefoot in the living room while a cheap cassette warbles in the background ➜ late at night, if he can’t sleep, he’ll lie beside you and hum softly—old love songs, half-remembered lyrics, little made-up tunes just for you. sometimes he’ll even press soft kisses to your shoulder between verses ➜he gets quietly jealous when others flirt with you—but it’s not anger. It’s fear. deep down, he worries he’s “too much” to be truly loved. you have to remind him that you chose him, sleazy eyeliner and all. he’ll sniff and joke it off—but that reassurance sticks with him for days ➜ carries your photo around in his wallet.. not just a headshot—something sweet, like a candid of you laughing with lipstick smudged or flipping off the camera. He shows it off like a proud boyfriend whenever the topic comes up, going, “yeah, that’s my baby. gorgeous, right?” ➜ he's surprisingly handy. if you play an instrument or ride something loud and impractical, he’ll fix it for you without being asked—shirt off, grease on his hands, smirking the whole time like he’s trying to impress you (he is) ➜ def calls you his muse.. he really means it. his best songs come after nights wrapped up with you. sometimes he’ll turn to you mid-practice and go, “you know this one’s about you, right?” ⚠︎ NSFW BELOW. MDNI. 18+ ⚠︎ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ⚠︎ NSFW BELOW. MDNI. 18+ ⚠︎

➜ he thrives on being desired. after shows, he’s high on adrenaline you're the only one allowed in his dressing room. he wants you on your knees between his spread thighs, still in his stage gear, grinning like the devil himself. “you want to worship papa, eh? then do it right.” ➜ doesn’t make love—he fucks. raw, dirty, sweaty, sometimes with his rings still on. he loves when you scratch his back or bite his neck, marking him up like you’re fighting for control (he never lets you have it for long) ➜ he’ll light a cigarette after sex, still inside you, legs tangled together. hair mussed, smudged liner under his eyes, grinning lazily as he offers you a drag before pressing a filthy kiss to your lips ➜ sex with nihil always has a soundtrack—bluesy rock, doom metal, or even his own band's rehearsal tapes. sometimes he’ll fuck you to one of his unreleased tracks and growl, “that’s me in your ears and in your cunt, cara.” ➜ he’s into everything—bondage, threesomes, impact play, voyeurism. he’ll tie you up in silky scarves or scratchy ropes, whichever suits the mood. he’s definitely down to perform for an audience, or better yet, let you watch him take someone else while keeping his eyes locked on you ➜ he lives for risky encounters. bending you over a sink backstage, pulling you into dark corners of the ministry, even dragging you into a confessional booth at the chapel and taking you from behind while whispering mock-prayers into your ear ➜ your thighs, neck, and hips are always bruised or bitten. he’s territorial—not jealous, just possessive. if you so much as flirt with someone, he’ll drag you off and fuck you rough, panting, “mine. say it.”

➜ as arrogant as he is, nihil adores your body. he'll spend hours between your thighs, tongue greedy and unrelenting, smirking up at you with ruined eyeliner and wet lips ➜ he’ll fuck you like it’s a power trip—gripping your hair, whispering nasty things in your ear—but when you collapse under him, trembling and dazed, he melts. kisses your temple. ➜ he treats your climax like an offering. forces your pleasure from you—tongue, fingers, cock, toys, whatever he decides—and won't stop until you're sobbing, twitching, overstimulated and utterly worshiped. “let papa hear his favorite sound—there you go, mia stella…”

[byeashhh]

⛧ ┊In Nomine Domini Nostri Satanae

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Secondo x Fem! Reader ⚠︎ MDNI. 18+. ADULT CONTENT. ⚠︎

Part 2

author's note: if you guys want more / want this continued.. let me know. i had so much fun writing secondo, hopefully he isn't too OOC. translations offered at end of text <3

content: nsfw, explicit content, satanic religious themes, blasphemy, sub/dom dynamic, restraints, power imbalance, improper use of sacred symbols, male receiving

. . . .

The quill scratched softly across parchment, the only sound in the cavernous hush of Secondo’s office.

Behind the heavy oak desk, flanked by towering bookshelves and veiled candelabras, Secondo worked in near silence. The only illumination came from flickering beeswax candles—rows of them lined the stone walls like faithful sentinels. Shadows crept along the ceiling, dancing in time with the flicker of the flame, but nothing dared to disturb him. A brass pendulum clicked in the corner. A relic. Accurate to the second. Just as he preferred.

He dipped the quill again, ink the color of dried blood staining the edge of a parchment labeled DOCTRINAL REVIEW – RITUAL VIOLATIONS – INTERNAL. His signature—sharply elegant—marked the bottom with a final, decisive stroke.

He leaned back, fingers laced together in thought. The leather of his gloves whispered as he flexed his hands once, then placed them neatly on the desk. His mismatched eyes flicked to the unlit incense burner. Cold. Just like the office tonight.

A knock broke the stillness. Delicate. Two beats. Not hesitant—but measured. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed like judgment in the silence. She stood in the center of Secondo’s office—no, sanctuary—where velvet curtains muted the moonlight, and candles bled shadows across the walls. The scent of myrrh and aged paper mingled with something darker, something undeniably him.

Secondo didn’t look at her. Not yet. He knew she was there, of course.

He reached for another scroll, dipped the quill again. "Seven minutes late," he said evenly, as he drew a line across the top of the parchment. “Your reverence for the schedule continues to disappoint.” his voice low and patient like a storm waiting to break She could feel his gaze even when his eyes remained fixed on the parchment before him.

He wanted her to feel that silence. To stand there, uncertain under his scrutiny even before he laid eyes on her.

Seconds passed.

When he finally did lift his head, it was slow- calculated. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint curl at the corner of his mouth. Her breath caught, but she bowed her head, hands clasped in front of her habit. “Forgive me, Papa.” He rose from the high-backed chair, robes rustling like dry leaves, and circled the desk with a predator’s grace. His gloves glinted in the candlelight, smooth and merciless. “I’ve given you leniency,” he said, stepping close—too close. “And what have you done with it? Tardiness. Disobedience. Sloppiness in your rituals.” “I—” she began, but his hand caught her chin, tilting her face up sharply. “No interruptions,” he hissed, voice like silk drawn over a blade. “You speak when I allow it.” She swallowed. Her knees threatened to buckle, not from fear—but from the way his command sank into her bones like sacred wine.

“I take no pleasure in reprimands,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “But discipline is holy, is it not? Submission is purity. And you, mia piccola peccatrice* … you need to be cleansed.” The glint in his eyes was anything but kind. There was reverence there— but it was the kind that burns down idols to remake them in fire.

“On your knees.”

She obeyed.

The stone floor was cold beneath her knees, but she welcomed it—deserved it. The hem of her habit pooled around her ankles, but she didn’t move to adjust it. She didn’t dare. Secondo remained standing above her, the candlelight casting long, commanding shadows behind him. He said nothing for a long moment. Simply looked down at her, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable.

"Brava*," he murmured at last. "At least your knees remember what they’re for." The words were cruel, but the heat behind them coiled low in her belly. Her breath hitched. He could hear it. He always heard everything. He circled her slowly, the click of his polished boots echoing softly around the stone chamber. Like a predator evaluating his prey— not for weakness, but for potential. For obedience. For willingness to be shaped.

"You carry our Lord's sigil on your chest," he said, voice cold and reverent as scripture. "You speak His names. But I wonder…" His gloved fingers trailed over her veil, down her shoulder, where he paused—gripping. Tight. Controlling. "Do you understand what it means to submit? Or have you merely been performing devotion like a role in one of Papa Primo’s operas?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but froze. His hand tightened. Just enough. "No interruptions, piccola*. I’ve already warned you once." She nodded, breath shallow. Her heart beat wildly under the smooth satin of her uniform. The way he looked at her—through her—felt like judgment carved into flesh.

He came to a stop before her again and held out one hand. "Hands," he commanded, and she raised them without hesitation. He took her wrists in his gloved grip, inspecting them as if appraising something he might discard. Then, deliberately, he slid a rosary from his robes. Matte black. Silver crucifix, inverted.

"For penance," he said simply.

With clinical efficiency, he bound her wrists together, the beads digging into her skin just enough to mark. "You wear sin like perfume," he murmured, voice low and dark. "And you like the way it clings to you. But in this room, I define holiness. I determine what is sacred. And you—"

He leaned down then, mouth close to her ear, breath warm and steady. "—you are mine to sanctify."

She shivered.

He stepped back, admiring her: on her knees, hands bound in rosary, eyes lowered in reverence—or fear. It didn’t matter. He had her. "And now, cara mia*, you will show me just how devoted you are to your Ministry."

Her bound hands rested in her lap, rosary beads pressing into tender skin with every pulse of her heartbeat. Secondo stood before her in silence, the weight of his presence crushing in its stillness. His gaze swept down, sharp as consecrated steel, and he tilted his head as if examining the posture of a relic placed improperly on an altar.

Then, without a word, he turned his back to her. The dismissal was not mercy. It was calculation.

He returned to the incense burner and, with methodical precision, struck a match. The scent of frankincense flared and bled into the room, heady and ancient, wrapping around them like a ritual shroud. As the smoke curled upward, so too did the tension. Electric. Sacramental. Secondo murmured a Latin phrase—low and reverent—before turning back to her.

He approached slowly.

“You kneel before me like a penitent,” he said, hand reaching out, fingers sliding along her cheek. “But is it repentance… or hunger that keeps you on your knees?” His thumb dragged over her lower lip—slow, possessive. Her breath stuttered against it. “You want absolution,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “But first, you’ll offer devotion.” She nodded quickly, lips parting to speak.

He tsked. “No.” The word hit like a commandment etched in stone.

“You don’t speak unless I allow it,” he repeated. “And if you disobey me again, I will remind you that pain is also a sacred tool of the Clergy.” She looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy in the flickering light. He smirked at the sight. Her need, her tension—it fed something deep in him. Something primal, dark, and perfectly in control.

"On your hands and knees," he said, stepping back.

She moved, slow and reverent. The rosary clinked faintly as she shifted her wrists. She bowed her head to the stone like it was holy ground. He circled her again, his robes brushing her as he moved, a dark star with her in obedient orbit.

“Così brava,” he murmured. “Look at you… willing to be remade. A vessel for obedience. A symbol of discipline.” He crouched beside her, his hand curling around the back of her neck, firm and grounding.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice thick with authority. “Say that you belong to me.” “I belong to you, Papa,” she breathed, barely able to speak under the pressure of the moment.

His fingers tightened. Pleased.

“Yes… yes. You belong to the Ministry,” he growled, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “But through me. Your obedience, your submission, your pleasure—it all passes through my hands. And tonight…” He bit down—sharp enough to leave a mark just below her ear.

“…you are my sacrament.”

His breath was warm against her skin, but his tone was cold—commanding. Measured, like a prayer delivered from the pulpit with divine certainty. Secondo stood again, letting his fingers slide from her neck to her jaw. He tilted her head up until she looked at him, bound and trembling on all fours, the rosary tight against her wrists. Her lips were parted in reverence. Anticipation.

His eyes narrowed. “I wonder,” he murmured, reaching into the folds of his robes with slow precision, “if your mouth is as obedient as your knees.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t dare. But her gaze never left him.

He moved closer, letting the hem of his vestments brush her shoulder. The scent of incense clung to his skin, his clothes—holy and heavy, like smoke after a ritual fire. The air between them was thick with silence, but charged.

He unfastened a clasp, then another.

"You will not touch," he said. "You will not rush. You will offer your devotion slowly, as one offers prayers at the altar—carefully, reverently, on your knees." He guided her forward by the chin, his gloved hand resting lightly there—not restraining, not forcing.

Permission. That was the power. And still, he made her wait.

“Show me, mia peccatrice*, that you know what it means to serve.”

She leaned in, breath shaking, lips parting. And he watched her—every inch of movement, every flicker of hesitation and hunger written across her face. “Così brava*…” he murmured again. Her breath hitched as she leaned forward, his words settling over her like ash after a burning sermon. The folds of his robe parted just enough for her to see—an offering made sacred not by softness, but by control. She could feel him watching.

Her lips brushed against him— tentative, reverent. And in response, his breath drew sharp through his nose as her tongue ran along the vein on the underside of his thick shaft. "Slower," he said, his tone almost disapproving. "You’re not devouring a feast. You are worshiping."

She obeyed, her movements careful. Her lips moving to encase the swollen head within her mouth, her tongue swirling around the circumference before flicking at the slit. Slowly, she took him deeper into her mouth until she began to work with half of the length he had to offer.

A groan slipped from him then, low and contained, like it had been dragged from somewhere deep, unwilling. He finally looked down. One gloved hand slid to the back of her head, resting there— not forcing, not guiding. Just possessing. A symbol of ownership. A tether.

His fingers curled into the veil where it met her scalp. “Brava… così brava*,” he breathed, his voice rough now, losing its cold edge. “Do you feel it? This is your place. Not as a Sister of Sin… not even as a follower. But as mine.”

She moaned softly in answer, the sound vibrating his throbbing cock and that made his grip tighten. She felt his control waver, just for a moment. Just enough to know she’d pleased him. And still, he didn’t allow her to rise. Didn’t rush. The ritual was not complete. That singular groan and waver in control gave her more reason to continue her movements. Her head bobbing back and forth as her eyes, half lidded, looked up at him like he was her unholy lord.

“Guarda che bella creatura*,” he whispered above her, almost to himself. “On your knees… rosary on your wrists… my name on your tongue. So pure in your desecration.”

Her devotion was slow, steady—measured in breath and obedience.

Secondo’s hand tightened in her hair, just slightly. Not to correct her. Not to guide. Simply to claim. His head tilted back. The scent of frankincense hung thick in the air, smoke curling around them as though the act itself summoned it.

Every muscle in him was taut, coiled like a bowstring stretched to its final inch. He’d held his composure longer than he had intended. Too long. Her pace and her restraint was perfect. Too perfect.

“Sì…” he hissed through clenched teeth, the word barely more than breath. “You do understand now…”

She looked up at him, lips parted around reverence itself.

“Look at you,” he growled, the cadence of a final prayer rising in his chest. “Knees on stone. Mouth full of sin. My perfect little penitent.”

His hips jerked slightly, grip tightening in her hair as his breath caught.

Then—Stillness.

For one long, taut moment, everything stopped. The candles flickered in a draftless room. The incense smoke froze mid-spiral. Even the pendulum in the corner seemed to hesitate.

Then— release. A sharp exhale. A groan dragged from somewhere far beneath the liturgical calm he wore like a second skin as rope after rope of built up tension began to shoot down her throat, the remaining few ropes, dribbling onto her tongue.

She felt his surrender— earned, not given. And still, he held her. Still, he did not let her rise.

Seconds passed. The only sound was his breathing, slowing in time with the pendulum.

Click. Click. Click.

At last, his hand slid from her veil. Her tongue dragging up his now softening shaft as he pulled out with an obscene noise

He looked down at her with something almost fond. Almost.

“Keep your knees on the floor,” he said softly. “Your penance is not over.”

She nodded, lips still wet with the remnants of devotion.

“Brava,” he murmured again, tucking himself back in before shifting his robes back into place with ceremonial precision. “You’ve pleased me tonight, piccola peccatrice*.” He stepped back, the distance not cold— but deliberate. “You may pray now,” he said, voice once again smooth and composed. “Pray that I choose to bless you again.” And then he turned his back to her, returning to the desk, as though nothing had happened at all. ────────── TRANSLATIONS; mia piccola peccatrice - my little sinner brava- good piccola - baby cara mia- my dear Così brava- so good mia peccatrice- my sinner Guarda che bella creatura- Look at what a beautiful creature Sì - yes piccola peccatrice- little sinner

[byeashhh]

‧₊˚ ┊Of Rats and Reverie

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Cardinal Copia x Fem! Reader content: fluff, pining, nervous copia, library encounters, slow burn, quiet intimacy, romance word count: 2578 est. read time: 10 min. author's note: first actual fanfic in years so it may be awful ! If it does well I will make more (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ heavily inspired by c.ai bot by @ xokyraxo potentially a chapter two in the making ?

The Ministry's library was a strange, solemn relic buried in a place more accustomed to debauchery and sin. Hidden among shadowed halls and opulent chambers where sacred blasphemy danced freely, the library stood still—forgotten by most, remembered only by those who sought knowledge, solitude… or someone. The scent of aging parchment clung to the walls like incense, mingling with candle wax and dust. Few dared spend time within its cold embrace unless they had purpose—summoning rites, obscure research, or an occasional desire to disappear from the relentless noise of the Ministry’s sins.

Copia, however, came for her.

She wasn’t someone most would notice. A quiet Sister of Sin with ink-stained fingers and a gaze always buried in crumbling pages. But Copia noticed. Oh, how he noticed. He saw her, always, even if she never saw him. She had a habit of claiming the bay window that overlooked Primo’s garden— an old, overgrown place that refused to die, even when ignored. Depending on the hour, she sat with either a delicate porcelain coffee cup or a thin-stemmed wine glass, always cradled delicately in her hands while her eyes traveled line by line across old, yellowing books.

He’d watched her enough times to memorize the way she chewed the inside of her lip when a passage caught her attention. The way her brow would knit, lashes low as she focused with a kind of reverence he only dreamed of receiving. They’d never spoken. Not really. A nod here. A brush of the sleeve there. But tonight, that would change.

It was just past midnight, and his heart was thudding against his ribs like the beat of a ceremonial drum. The propped library door welcomed him like a challenge, and he stepped in quietly, smoothing back his dark brown hair with trembling fingers. This is it, he told himself. You’re the Cardinal. You’ve practiced. You have a plan. She was there, of course, already in place, her silhouette haloed in candlelight as she perused the nearest bookshelf. Copia felt his resolve crumble beneath the weight of her mere presence. But he couldn’t run… not now.

With his heart pounding in his throat, he forced his feet to carry him forward, keeping a few respectful feet of distance as he mimicked her scanning of the shelves. Faux confidence stitched itself awkwardly across his features. A smile, a wave.

Then, the move.

"This one is really good," he said, his Italian-accented voice just loud enough to reach her. He plucked a book from the shelf and held it out, praying to Lucifer that this moment would go smoothly.

She blinked once, then tilted her head, reading the title aloud with a soft lilt: “What to Expect When You're Expecting… A pregnancy guide?” The soft laughter that followed nearly knocked the wind out of him. “Ah! Oh sweet Lucifer!” he squeaked, face flushing red as he practically snatched the book back. “I don’t— Someone must have— That book wasn't— I swear, it must have been… misplaced!” She said nothing for a moment, only watching him with quiet amusement and those hazel eyes that seemed to gleam with something kind. Then, with a slight smile curving her delicately plump and rose tinted lips, she said, “Good evening to you too, Cardinal.” His title had never sounded sweeter when coming from her mouth.

Copia blinked, momentarily stunned, every practiced line of small talk slipping from his mind like water through his fingers. His mismatched eyes locked with hers, and for one long second, the world narrowed to her smile, her voice, the soft warmth in her expression. He cleared his throat, fumbling once more to retrieve the correct book—The Story of Rats: Their Impact on Us, and Our Impact on Them. “This… is what I meant to grab,” he mumbled, holding it out sheepishly. “It’s… informative.”

She took the book gently, her fingers brushing his, and read the back with visible curiosity. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Still, Copia couldn’t help himself—he had to keep her engaged. “You know,” he said, “rats can crawl through holes the size of a quarter… and they actually laugh when they're tickled.”

That got her attention.

She looked up at him with surprise and a grin that melted his nerves just a little. “I, uh—I could show you,” he added quickly, his voice picking up speed. “I have a pet rat, Gino. He’s very ticklish. And… very vocal.” There it was. The invitation. Not just to meet Gino, but to stay in his orbit a little longer. She tilted her head again, this time with a touch of warmth in her gaze. “Is that so?” Copia nodded, heart in his throat. “Yes. He, uh, really likes new people.” She smiled again, “Well… I’d love to meet him sometime.”

Lucifer be praised. ───────────────

The invitation had been casual—at least, that’s how Copia hoped it sounded. He had barely slept since the night in the library. His mind replayed the way she smiled at him, her laughter echoing in his ears like a hymn. She’d said yes. She wanted to meet Gino.

That meant something… right?

He’d spent the entire next day cleaning his quarters. Not that it was particularly messy, Copia was surprisingly tidy, but every corner was scrutinized with the intensity of someone preparing for a royal inspection. He even replaced Gino’s bedding and gave him a thorough brushing, much to the rat’s sleepy protests.

“This is important, sì?” Copia muttered as Gino blinked up at him lazily. “We must make a good impression.” The soft knock on the door came exactly at seven, as agreed. He froze mid-sentence in the middle of telling Gino not to bite anyone tonight.

Then he bolted for the door, almost tripping over his own feet.

When he opened it, there she stood—still in her habit, though the black veil was looser, framing her soft features. A small bottle of red wine was in her hand. “I figured he might appreciate a peace offering,” she said, holding it up with a smile. Copia laughed, too loudly, then immediately tried to tone it down. “He’s, eh… not much of a drinker, but I will gladly accept on his behalf.” She stepped in, her eyes curiously taking in his quarters—eclectic, warm, lined with strange relics, odd books, and framed images of rats dressed like clergy. A strange comfort radiated from the space. It felt like him.

And in the middle of it all, in a lavish little enclosure sat Gino. “Is that him?” she asked, setting the wine down and crouching slightly to peer into the rat’s domain. “Gino, yes,” Copia said proudly, moving to the cage. “Gino, we have a guest. Be nice, eh?” Gino blinked sleepily, then scurried toward the open door of the cage, whiskers twitching. His tiny pink nose wriggled as he sniffed the air, clearly intrigued by the new scent. Copia carefully lifted him and offered her the chance. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Absolutely,” she said, holding out her hands gently. Gino made himself comfortable almost immediately, crawling up her sleeve and perching on her shoulder like it was his rightful throne. She laughed, bright and real, and Copia’s heart just about gave out. “He likes you,” Copia said, maybe a little too seriously. “That’s… rare.” “Is it?” she asked, reaching up to gently scratch under Gino’s chin. “He seems very sweet.”

“He’s a good judge of character,” Copia said softly, watching the two of them. “He doesn’t usually warm up to people this fast.”

“Well,” she said with a soft grin, “I did bring wine.” Copia chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe I should’ve brought wine the first time I saw you in the library, huh?”

“You noticed me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow with playful curiosity. His eyes went wide. “Oh! I—not in a creepy way! I just… you were always there. I mean, not always, that sounds like I was watching you, which I wasn’t, not like that, just… sometimes. A little. Respectfully.” She laughed again, and it didn’t sound like mocking. “Relax, Cardinal. I thought it was cute.” Copia felt his face heat up, and he quickly changed the subject. “Would you like to stay for a bit? We could… open the wine? I have glasses. Somewhere.”

She nodded, gently handing Gino back to him. “I’d like that.” He set Gino back into his enclosure, who promptly curled into a ball of fluff and contentment, and Copia turned to find her watching him, not just politely, but openly, as if trying to learn him the way she read those books. He poured the wine with trembling fingers, but his smile was steady. Maybe this wasn’t the summoning ritual he thought he’d have to perform to get her attention. Maybe this was better.

The quiet clink of glass filled the room as Copia poured the wine, his movements just a little too careful, as if the simple task of filling two glasses was somehow a delicate ceremony. The air was thick with the kind of stillness that often comes before something important, something he didn’t quite understand yet. His hand trembled, just slightly, as he set the bottle down. She was still watching him, her gaze gentle and curious, and he could feel the heat rise to his cheeks.

“Do you…” He cleared his throat, desperately trying to steady his thoughts. “Do you like wine?” He instantly regretted the question, as if it were too plain, too awkward. Great start, Copia. She smiled, soft and warm, her eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “I do,” she said, taking the glass he offered with a graceful hand. “But I prefer to enjoy it slowly. Not too much at once.” Her voice was a gentle hum that seemed to settle something inside of him. “It’s the little moments that matter, don’t you think?” Copia stared at her for a moment longer than he meant to, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. There was a delicate kind of magic in the air, like the world had softened just for them.

“Yeah…” He trailed off, setting his own glass down on the table with a clink. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t sure what had come over him, but he wanted to savor this moment. Savor her. "The little moments…" She smiled again, and Copia’s heart skipped in that soft, fluttering way it only did when she was near. It was ridiculous, how much she made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn't quite grasp, yet he wanted to reach out and pull it closer.

Gino, as if sensing the change in the air, scurried from his little bed to the edge of his cage, looking up at the two of them with wide, beady eyes. Copia chuckled, grateful for the small distraction. "Ah, Gino," he said with a fond smile. "He’s a bit of a charmer, isn’t he?" She laughed, a light, melodic sound that made Copia’s chest feel full. “I think he’s already decided I’m trustworthy.”

“I think so too,” Copia said, leaning over to open the cage and lift the tiny rat out with a careful hand. “But I’ll warn you now, he can be a bit demanding. If you’re not paying attention, he’ll climb all over you.” She raised an eyebrow playfully. “Sounds like he and I will get along just fine.”

Gino, as if on cue, scampered up her arm and settled on her shoulder, making himself comfortable with a little wiggle of his tail. She let out a quiet laugh, her fingers gently brushing against the small, soft creature as he snuggled into the crook of her neck. “See?” Copia said, feeling proud, like a doting parent. “I told you.” For a moment, the two of them sat in comfortable silence, just watching Gino get comfortable on her shoulder. Copia realized he was actually smiling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this… settled. It was funny, he had spent so many months watching her from afar, so many nights staring from the edges of the library, afraid to approach. But here she was, smiling at him, Gino perched happily on her shoulder, and it felt so easy. So right.

She broke the silence first, her voice soft and steady. “You know, Copia, I always thought you were one of those people who hid behind the seriousness of your title. But now that I’m here… I think I’ve gotten a glimpse of the real you.” Copia blinked, suddenly unsure of how to respond. His heart lurched. “The real me?” he repeated, his voice a little smaller than he intended. She nodded, her eyes gentle but piercing. “The one who isn’t worried about impressing anyone. The one who talks about his rat like he’s a treasure, who takes the time to make sure everything feels right.”

Copia felt the warmth rush to his face. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat. “I’m just… I’m just me.” The way she looked at him, though, made his words falter. She didn’t just see him as the Cardinal or the figure of authority he was expected to be. She saw him. And it made him feel… seen. In a way he had never allowed himself to be. “You don’t have to pretend, Copia,” she said, her voice soft and reassuring. “I’m not here because you’re a title. I’m here because I enjoy being with you.” Her words, simple but honest, settled over him like a warm embrace, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he could breathe without fear of judgment, without the pressure of being someone he wasn’t. He was just Copia. And that was enough.

“Really?” he asked quietly, searching her eyes for any sign of insincerity. But there was none. Just a soft understanding that made his chest tighten. He felt like he was about to fall into something deeper, and the thought both thrilled and terrified him. “Really,” she said, reaching out to gently touch his hand, the briefest of connections that sent a spark through him. She smiled, her lips curling into something both teasing and tender. “Besides, I think Gino would approve. And he has very high standards.”

Copia chuckled, feeling the weight of the moment ease just a little, but there was still a quiet yearning that pulled at him. “I think you’re right.” They sat there for a while longer, letting the wine flow more freely, letting Gino crawl between them as if he was the true master of the evening. Copia didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or how things would shift between them, but he didn’t feel afraid. Not anymore.

For once, he didn’t feel like he had to have everything figured out. He just had to be. Just had to stay. She glanced at him again, her eyes soft in the candlelight. “You know, Copia…” She trailed off, as if weighing her words carefully. “I don’t think this will be the last time we do this.” The air between them shifted, and his heart thudded in his chest at the unspoken invitation.

He met her gaze, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I hope not.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Copia realized he didn’t want the night to end. He didn’t want this quiet, easy connection to disappear.

[byeashhh]

another copia post bc i can’t sleep until i yap about this,,

copia is such a good rat dad. every single rat under his care has such luxurious housing with every enrichment item money can buy. makes sure the room is constantly at a certain temperature to make sure the rats are totally comfortable

spends so much time with them daily, despite how tired he may be from paperwork or touring. offers so many treats if he’s so much as 5 minutes late to the set schedule he’s made for them

cages are cleaned every morning and refreshed every night before bed, even if the rats were free roaming in his suite most of the day

im genuinely just imagining copia in one of those “in my rat dad era” sweaters from etsy, he would wear that around the ministry every. single. day.

[byeashhh]

I've been giving so much thought into how Copia (specifically Cardinal Copia,, I LOVE him so much) would be in a relationship. ✦ THESE ARE HEADCANONS BTW (may be OOC) ✦ ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ ⋆ Poor baby is convinced that the feeling isn't mutual, even if you two have been together for years. The amount of reassurance this sweet boy needs because he truly feels like he isn't even going to be good enough for you. ⋆ He is so awkward, the amount of time he is just rambling on and on until you have to redirect his attention to something else. ESPECIALLY if you are all dolled up before and/or after a date. ⋆ He's so nervous to even hold your hand most of the time. Probably only kisses you in private,, but as soon as time progresses and he gets more confident in the relationship he is very touchy. ⋆ He loves cuddles. Little spoon ? His favorite,, but he honestly doesn't mind being big spoon either. As long as he can stay close to you he will do whatever cuddle position you prefer. ⋆ If you let him ramble about his rats, he is instantly in love with you. INSTANTLY. ⋆ You two went out shopping ? He will gladly carry all the bags. You're picking out books from the Ministry's library ? He will carry all of them. Even if you insist that you can do it yourself, he WILL be the one carrying them. ⋆ Takes so many pictures of you. SO many. His phone wallpaper is probably just shuffled pictures of you, even if they're blurry because he refuses to delete any picture of you. ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ ✦ NSFW ONES SOON ? ✦

[byeashhh]

Aww!! It’s my little babygirl! My beloved!! *I point to the most insufferable man you’ve ever seen*