#Popia x you

[korn-y-copia]

Heir Apparent

Hi yes, I am currently experiencing baby fever (it’s bad), and I am unashamedly in love with Copia (it’s bad) and from that fatal concoction, this monstrosity (my first ever published work!) has been born.

I am new to all of this and could not think of a proper title, but basically, please enjoy this little piece entailing the first few hours following the birth of your son with Papa Emeritus IV (it is intended to be very fluffy, I really hope it reads that way!)

Word count: 1,333 (roughly)

Written in second person P.O.V. 

Warnings: AFAB reader (gendered language, “mamma,” and “cara” should be the only instances), slight cursing, allusion to Terzo being a whore (affectionate), mentions of “parental instincts,” brief mentions of childbirth and breastfeeding which some readers may find uncomfortable!! If I missed anything please let me know! Constructive feedback and reblogs are appreciated!

“Ah, shit,” grunted Copia, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. The first 40 times, it was because your water broke. The next twenty instances slipped between haphazardly lifting you from your seat in the car, to wheeling you into the hospital. The latter 39 counts were muttered and groaned as you gripped his hand amid labor, in such an ungodly grip that it took an hour for the feeling in it to return. In that time, rather reluctantly, he sped back to the ministry (Nuclear Assault blasting the entire way, and yet he hadn’t “heard” it), his mind in such a euphoric haze that he also failed to register when Primo concernedly inquired about you and the baby, or to notice when he nearly trampled Terzo and his chosen sister of the evening, or when he bumped into Secondo—an action that would normally result in Copia nearly dying of fright—while on his way to your shared quarters, to retrieve the forgotten hospital bag for you (luckily, his brothers, for as unforgiving as they could be, gave him a break just this once, since they understood the importance of the evening—the Emeritus bloodline was now secured once more, with the birth of Copia’s son). Now, after grabbing the bag, quickly changing into his favorite pair of sweats (he of course, nearly tripped changing into them) and bumping into several nurses in his hurried return to you, he found himself uttering his favorite foreign curse for the hundredth time, as his cacophonous movements, upon reaching your room, caused a stir from the bundle of blankets lying in the bassinet before him. Copia winced when the gentle coos of his awakening son quickly turned to cries. Panicking, the potent concoction of his paternal instincts—which he had nurtured, and refined through the help of several parenting books, and attending doctor’s appointments with you throughout your pregnancy—chronic anxiety, and adrenaline, sent him into action.

“Aw, what’s the matter, little man?” He fussed, caressing his son’s cheek before settling his gloved hand on his belly, patting him softly. “Why do you cry? Why—you should be happy, yes. You have the best mamma in the world!” The baby, not yet named, only looked up at him with a pair of curious eyes, matching his own. The tears had stopped at the familiar sound of his father’s voice (Copia had made it a point to talk to your belly as often as his papal duties allowed him to, for this exact reason). Copia smiled, his eyes threatening to fill up with tears once more (when the baby was first born only a few hours ago, he had been in near hysterics). “Yeah, you do!” He continued, “and your papa,” he gestured to himself. “he might not always be around, but he’ll…” his mind momentarily wandered back to his childhood. He still carried with him the heavy weight of growing up without the love of a mother or father. There was still a lonely child residing within him, one that sat outside in the bitter rain, on the steps of the abbey, wrapping his arms around himself as he cried into his lap, relying only on himself to bring him comfort, since no one else would. He’d be damned now (again) if he’d let his son fall victim to this same lonesome fate. “He’ll be there, sì? I promise.” Papal duties or not, Copia would always make his way back to his son, and to you—this was a promise both to his son, and to himself. The baby soon dozed back off to sleep, causing Copia to hum contently. He took the opportunity, in the silence of the room, to carefully lift the baby—exhausted from his entry into this world—into his arms, holding him to his chest as he sat down in the recliner beside you, taking the moment to sigh in relief. He couldn’t help himself—he was just too restless, too exited to finally be a father—and so he sat there, eyes fixated on every little movement the baby made, rubbing his thumb across his cheek. “My little man,” Copia whispered, placing a kiss to his forehead. He sat there, snuggling his son and heir, ignorant of the time that had passed, but relishing in every moment of it, until he began to fuss again.

Copia rocked him in his arms gently, soothing him. “Oh, why so negative, huh? Are you hungry? You want a little somethin’-somethin’?” The baby only continued to whimper. “Come on,” he grunted, standing up from the recliner (which certainly wasn’t doing his back any favors), and approached your bed. “Maybe mamma has a little somethin’-somethin’.” Exhausted from the birth, you’d fallen asleep shortly after, only awoken when nurses came in to check on you—Copia wouldn’t dare wake you, after having witnessed all the tears, and the screams of pain that you suppressed (not wanting your son to enter the world to such a jarring noise), none of which he could ease, all while you birthed another human. Now it seemed, out of necessity he would have to, and so while holding your son firmly with one hand, he brought the other to the side of your face, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. The sensation of leather, just barely ghosting your skin awoke you. With your eyes still blurry from exhaustion, you questioned “is the baby okay?” Copia’s heart melted. “He is here, amore,” he spoke gently. “He is okay. But, uh, I think he needs his mamma now.” That was enough to momentarily bring you out of the haze of exhaustion, as your own instincts filled you in on what precisely Copia meant. Sitting up, you allowed him to hand you your son for the first time. “Oh, he’s perfect!” You cooed, examining his little face. Once more, Copia found himself utterly bewitched by your bright smile—it made him just as weak in the knees as the first time you had met. “He has your nose,” you chuckled, looking at Copia (his old nose, anyway). Copia smiled softly, relishing in the unholy vision before him. He long dreamt of being a papa, and part of that dream was seeing you as a mamma—and here you were, glowing and radiant, and absolutely divine in his eyes, as you cuddled your son close to you, guiding him to feed. You sighed, relaxing as you felt the baby successfully latch onto your breast. You looked up to Copia, who now moved closer, sitting beside you on the bed. He kissed your temple, gently petting your hair as he whispered praises to you. “Oh, you did so good. Molto bene, cara mia,” he softly spoke, rubbing the back of his knuckles against your cheek. You nuzzled against his touch, closing your eyes, content to finally be holding one boy in your arms, and to be held in the arms of the other. Silence lingered as your mind danced between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness. “Copia?” You finally spoke. He looked at you with such softness in his eyes, that you could have sworn you’d melt into a puddle right there. “Amore?” “Thank you.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I should be thanking you! You carried him, you did all of the hard work—” “for those things you said, about me being the ‘best mamma in the world?’” You smiled, heat rushing to your cheeks at the remembrance of words spoken so earnestly. Now it was Copia’s turn to blush, rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly. “Heh. You heard that, did you?” “Copia,” you spoke slowly. “Hm?” “I think you forgot something.” His face fell, as he momentarily panicked, assessing the room. “What, what is it, amore?” You bit your lip, finding him just as endearing as the first time you had met him, and beckoned him closer, whispering “he has the best papa in the world too.”

Note: “molto bene, cara mia” = “very good, my dear (f.);” “amore” = “love;” “sì” = “yes;” “mamma” = “mama.”

[oh-babylove]

~7k. copia/f!reader. explicit. established relationship, smut, filth and fluff. copia does date night, and you show him your appreciation-- it's only fair. mdni.

thanks to @copia for showing me how to put images in a grid-- top right image by instagram user susitse.art. @enjoy-my-swearing and @photiniainsummer, this one's for you. <3

when the red comes over you - ao3

rhrn spoilers. blowjobs, masturbation, dirty talk, light degradation, a small piece of light cum kink, a touch of hanky-panky in public, some thigh riding, face-fucking, fluff, tw: references to past sexual assault/dubious consent/sexual trauma

You’re holding the same pole on the subway car as Copia, his gloved hand over yours, swaying with him, forced into his space by the crowd. It gives you an excuse to stand close to him, in the circle of his scent like cold smoke. You're not complaining– well, not much. Keeping your balance is a bit of a challenge– you aren't used to doing this in heels, even these modest Cuban heels. Riding the subway truly is riding, the rhythmic thrum of the rails swaying up your body, through the balls of your feet. Riding the train feels like riding a living thing.

“I like this,” you say, as if coming to a decision.

“Hnn?” Copia replies, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at you.

“Riding the train. I like it.” You lean in to murmur in his ear, not that you have far to go. It’s a matter of tilting your head until you can feel the warmth of his skin against your cheek. “But I’d like riding you even more.” It’s just the kind of cheesy nonsense that you’re both into.

Your body keeps brushing against his– a particularly hard bump has your belly pressed against his erection, and his choked-off gasp scores a direct hit to your brain stem, bypassing your ears, cinching something tight around your diaphragm. His hand tightens on your hip, possessive. Holding you up, keeping your balance.

“You little minx,” he hisses, frustrated--with a ragged edge of delight. “You wait till I get you home.”

“You caint blame that on me, now, that was the train,” you say, but you're close to laughing, yourself. You can hear your accent getting thicker, but damned if you can stop it. Besides, Copia loves it, loves ruffling your feathers enough that he can get you to slide back into that slurring hillfolk drawl. Someday he might even make you less self-conscious about it. 

Truth be told, you’ve been practically vibrating since before you left the apartment, restless and swollen between the legs, a low-grade ache that Copia has not been helpful with.

(The apartment. Your apartment. Yours, plural, now, you think. You’d never been a co-religionist of his, and he’d had a toothbrush at your place for a long time. Then a drawer in your dresser. Then he’d brought over his best frying pan, his best chef knife– simply because he couldn’t stand it, gattina, you cook with that? And now there’s as many of his books as yours on the shelves– shelves you put up with your own hands while he did ‘the heavy lookin’ on.’ His name isn’t on the lease, but he paid the rent for the next two months anyway. In full.

When you tried to fight him on it, he’d just shrugged. “Babydoll, I’ve been here more nights than I haven’t for the last four months, this is just… ehh, consider it backdated, yeah?” He’d kissed your forehead. “We can do half each after that. If you haven’t gotten sick of your dirty old man by then.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Copia kept his room at the Ministry, even after his… promotion. His term as Imperator, he’d decided, would be more hands off. You’d talked about it a little. Mostly in bed, sweaty and spent and a little sticky. “Mister Psaltarian is more than capable of running most of it. The administrative things. I’m better with the ghouls, I think, but there’s Kevin, and Ashley, they have it well in hand. I want the new guy to– to be able to be his own man, yeah? I’ll show him the ropes, of course, answer any questions he has, but he doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder all the damn time.”

The new guy. Hell of a way to refer to his long-lost brother. “And you ain’t ready to be around him twenty-four seven just yet.”

“...And that. Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re too perceptive, gattina. Keep it up and I’ll have to fuck you again, till you don’t think so good.”

“So… you sayin’ you gone fuck my brains out? Say, you ever notice that your man Psaltarian loses his train of thought whenever Kevin comes into the room?”

“That’s it, back in the handcuffs with you. And remember, you brought this on yourself.”)

As ever, he’d insisted on doing your makeup. (It should have been your first clue that you were in for it.) It only makes sense-- he’s better at it than you’ve ever been, and he loves doing it. You love it, too, if you’re honest. He had to take his gloves off for it, to hold your chin firmly and keep you in place. It was terribly intimate, his breath ghosting over your lips, the skin of his hand against your cheek. His quiet, gentle command held something still in the center of you, made it sing like a struck tuning fork– a calm vibration that sank into your bones. The cool brush of the eyeliner on the delicate skin of your eyelids. How meticulous he’d been, how precise. That calm focus he brings to everything that he cares about. How his whole being focused on that point, painting cat eyes sharp enough to kill a man.

Your lipstick had been worse, barely holding your mouth open, the brush sliding over the curve of your cupid’s bow, stretching out your lower lip ever so slightly. You hadn’t even known they’d made brushes for lipstick. Copia has taught you so many things.

Copia knows just what shades of red match your skin tone, knows just how to bring out the color of your eyes. He knows, too, the best cut of a dress to accentuate your figure, to flatter your curves. This one was lovely, shaping your breasts, with a little bit of flare to the skirt. He bought you this dress, these heels. This lingerie. He’s taught you how to fasten a silk stocking to a garter belt, that the underwear goes on over the garters, not underneath.

He’d taken the liberty of fastening your stockings tonight. “So the back seam is straight, gattina. I know it’s tricky to get right on your own, yes? Let me help.” His hands, his clever fingers, so high up on your thighs, his face level with your pussy.

“Oh yeah, sweetness, you're helping something, alright,” you choked out, a little strangled. 

He must have seen how wet you were already, if the self-satisfied hum he made behind you was any indication. He bit the crease of your ass, just lightly, making a goofy little rawr noise that made you actually giggle.

Embarrassing, the noises he gets out of you.

“You shaved,” he said, and it was supremely gratifying to hear him a little hoarse, himself. 

“Did you wanna do that, too?”

“Hnn. We’d miss our reservation.” He wasn't moving from his place on his knees behind you. “Miss the show.”

“Sound like you're enjoying this show purt’ well,” you said, but you thought it best to step into your underwear, anyway. 

Pain shared is pain lessened, isn't it?

…He didn't need to know that you only kept them on for a couple of minutes, just until you used the bathroom one last time on the way out the door.

You almost never know in advance where exactly Copia will take you when it's his turn to plan date night- generally your only clue is what clothing he picks out for you, how he does your makeup, if makeup is required. You've ranged over the city hitting up obscure museums before, taken tours in the underbelly of the public transportation system, gone to aviaries and magic shops and tiny greenhouses.

(You like to think you hold your own. Dive bars and twenty four hour diners, sidewalk art festivals and night markets, one memorable instance of a graffiti lesson– that had been an unexpected delight. 

Your man can be blisteringly uncool sometimes– most of the time, even– but there's no snobbery in him. No fear, either, not in the way most people are afraid: of embarrassing themselves, saying the wrong thing, of looking like a jackass. He hadn't been good at it, but he threw himself into the attempt wholeheartedly, listened to the man in the baggy jeans with the paint-stained fingers explain technique and theory and the history of the medium with total attention and enthusiasm. 

Never will you reach the bottom of him. His openness and his generosity and his good, good heart.)

Dinner and a show is almost a little pedestrian, for him, but there's comfort in the classics. A bar paneled in blond wood and washed in warm light, specializing in rare vinyls piped in on a very serious sound system as much as the cocktails. 

He’d been very good, kept his knee between yours, but otherwise, hadn’t even tried to put a hand up your skirt– a rarity, with him.  His eyes told a different story, watching you with obvious, predatory hunger. The second time you caught him ogling your cleavage he leaned into it, dragging his eyes salaciously down your body with enough force that you nearly felt his gloves snagging on your skin.

The cheeky motherfucker actually licked his lips at you.

You barked out your unlovely laugh, and the way he grinned took the sting out of the sharp glances cast your way– the aim was to listen to the obscure bossa nova, not to your fellow patrons. Your face was hot. “Ah, gattina, you cannot blame a man for looking. Not when you are as ravishing as that.” It wasn’t helping the heat in your face.

A glance at the mirror over the bar, old and pitted and a little smoky, the perfect self-aware touch of authenticity. You’d never have recognized the woman looking back, not when you first met Copia, this exquisite creature with perfect makeup. Sharp. Sexy. 

You don’t hate it.

“...Y’outdid yourself,” you said, slow. You didn’t look real to yourself, this absolute pinnacle of femininity. Copia’s gaze softened, warmed, less the slavering predator and more– a naked adoration that was hard to look at.

(Of course, neither expression was comparable to the first time he’d put you in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit. You’d thought the man was going to pass out from how quickly his blood rushed south– but that’s a story for another day.)

He crowded your space, just this side of indecent, his knee halfway between your thighs. Copia fed you little morsels from his own fork of– whatever this was. A vaguely mediterranean inspired amuse-bouche. He took his time with it, making you duck your head while the cool tines slid against your lower lip. You kept his eyes for it, moving slow, relishing the way his mouth hung open. 

It’s a little much, in public, truly.

You weren’t even sure what you were eating, something perfectly balanced with rich cream, phyllo dough, an acidic tang. Spanakopita when it’s got a Michelin star or two, you thought. Copia’s little shudder at your groan of appreciation didn’t escape your notice, but you managed to keep the smugness out of your expression with truly heroic effort. 

From there, it was a short taxi ride with his gloved hand heavy on your knee, Copia keeping up a stream of polite chatter that you barely heard a word of. He’d gotten box seats in a lovely little jewel box of a theatre, for a revival of a classic two-man existential tragicomedy starring a couple of aging comedic actors known for their roles in a cultural zeitgeist film from around the turn of the last century.

It was a good effort, all told, and the actors weren’t bad– they had a chemistry borne out of twenty years of friendship that’s impossible to replicate. But Copia proved that he’s a true and faithful servant of the Devil somewhere around the start of the second act, when he peeled a glove off with his teeth.

Your chest went tight.

No wonder he wanted box seats, you thought, as he settled his hand back on your knee. Like it belonged there, like he had perfect possession of it, every right to edge just under the hem of your skirt. 

(His hands-- you love his hands. He’s self-conscious about the hair on the back of them, the dusting of freckles. Large and well-made and skilled, seeing them is like sharing a secret. A gift. He’s squeamish about textures, too sensitive, the slightest scrape will make him shudder-- and not in a fun way. Sandpaper would be torture. Anything gelatinous is right out. You get used to the constant grime and the vague awareness of filth you get on your hands, living in a city. It’s not so bad, for you, you invest in hand sanitizer and don’t touch your face. It’s the price you pay for living in a place with something like a subway, where things pulse and hum and never truly sleep, to be a microbe in the gut of this beast of a city, to be a tiny cog in the great machine.

You love it here. You didn’t think you would. Hell, you didn’t think you could. “It’s growing on me,” you told Copia one day, cool as you like, as if you weren’t giving anything away. “A little.”

“You have no talent for bullshit, babydoll,” he said, both dry and terribly fond.)

All of your awareness focused on the soft warmth of him enveloping your knee, the rough scrape of his calluses on the inside of your thigh– a new sensation, he’s taken the acoustic guitar back up recently. Not moving, just–holding. 

You kept your eyes forward, and your breathing even.

His thumb slid over your kneecap, absentmindedly tracing little circles. Your legs fell open a little wider, just so your thighs weren’t touching. You were terribly, achingly aware of the air on your cunt.

A soft stroke back and forth, a gesture that could have been reflexive, thoughtless– if it wasn’t for the beatific expression on his face, his eyes forward and too-innocent. It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been inching his slow way upwards, featherlight touches, tracing up and back down, up and back down. Just a millimeter higher each time. An agonizingly slow drag, a glacial pace.

Your grip tightened on the armrest. 

Copia leaned forward, his breath in your ear. “Why, gattina,” he purred. “I do not think you are even paying attention to the play.”

“You are,” you managed, “a real sunnavbitch, you know it?”

He only chuckled low, and ran his touch to the top of your thigh. The side of his hand brushed up against your wet cunt and you both gasped.

“You little slut,” he hissed, with obvious pride. “So eager for me already.”

He dragged the very tip of one finger up between your lips, so slick it was almost frictionless, pulling away just before he could touch your clit. You took a ragged breath that was nearly a whine, bereft at the loss of his touch. You felt your cunt clench over nothing, an involuntary contraction. 

Copia hummed in mock-sympathy, and took mercy on you, cupping your whole cunt with his broad hand, steady and even pressure that was nowhere near enough, but at least took a little of the edge off. 

His middle finger slid naturally between your labia majora, and settled there, his fingertip crooked so he could just barely feel the inside of you.

The bastard stayed that way for the rest of the performance, sometimes giving you a gentle squeeze, sometimes pulling away to slide his fingertip back up to circle your clit. Just often enough to keep your attention focused where he wanted.

Evil, evil man.

Copia retracted his hand before the lights went up, giving you one final squeeze. He kept your eyes as he brought his hand up to his face, inhaled deeply, and surreptitiously licked his palm before fitting his hand back into his glove for the applause.

“Play weren’t that bad,” you said, weakly. “No call to do- alla that.”

“Oh? Didn’t you tell me you had a crush on the– which was it, the one with the dark hair– as a little girl? You want to wait around, go to the stage door, get an autograph?” All innocence, all the accommodating boyfriend.

“I revise my previous opinion. You are the Lebron James of being a sunnavabitch.” Despite your discomfort in heels, you couldn’t drag him to the train home fast enough.

So now, here you are. You shiver a little, in this hot and humid subway car, remembering. You bite your lip and can taste the wax of your lipstick.

Copia sees it, of course he does, how your eyes go just a little glazed. He smirks a terribly self-satisfied smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, this’d cost you at least a dollar. Maybe five nintey-nine.”

“Inflation is just outrageous these days. Highway robbery. I’m shocked.”

“Not yet, you aren’t.”

“You are talking a big game, babydoll. Be careful, I think, ehh-- your mouth is writing checks your ass can’t cash.” His hand heavy on your hip, almost indecent. His boot between your shoes, the sweet curve of his thigh displacing your skirt. He’s so close, so warm and solid. The train is packed, but he’s all you can see, all you can feel. His breath in your ear, pitched low. “Your pussy can’t cash.”

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from grinding on his thigh in the middle of the train. “Sweetness,” you croak out. “We’re in public.”

He leans back, conciliatory. Terribly smug. The world fades back in. You catch a teenager in a hoodie smirking at the two of you, a direct and uncomfortable gaze that feels more taboo in this city than even the way your hips keep shifting, restless. You feel almost drunk, stepping into the warmth of his body and his hard cock between your hip and your belly, a little vindictive, relishing his frustrated little grunt in your ear. 

“Two more stops, gattina,” he murmurs, as much for his benefit as yours. You see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “We can make it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you manage. 

He drags you roughly by your elbow off the train, in a way that has your fellow passengers actually making a faint murmur of disapproval at the way he growls. He might be leaving a bruise on your arm. Can’t be helped. You’re laughing up the stairs, your heels loud on the concrete and metal, giddy, just this side of hysterical. 

He’s clumsy with the keys when you get to your apartment building, following you up the stairs so he can look up your skirt. “Can’t believe– I watched you put those on.” 

“You just mad you didn’t get to watch me take ‘em off.”

He’s on your neck like a lamprey when you get to your door, and now it’s your turn to be clumsy while you paw through your purse, his hot wet mouth insistent, just under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. His hands firm on your breasts, pushing the neckline of your dress down so he can fill his hands with them, gripping almost hard enough to hurt. He’s trapping you against the door, grinding into your ass while you fumble with the lock.

“What’re you– you tryna fuck me in the hallway?” you gasp. He’s reaching up your skirt now, his bare palm at the top of your stocking. When did he take his gloves off?

“I will,” he growls, “if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

You somehow make it in the door without breaking the key off in the lock, and you give him just enough time to slide the bolt home before you’re shoving him onto the couch. You’re in his lap just as quick, your mouth on his, nearly biting him as he laughs into your mouth. Christ, you didn’t even get out of your heels. 

He’s warm under you, solid muscle under a sweet softness around the middle, and you can’t unbutton his shirt fast enough. His tongue in your mouth is making you clumsy, making it hard to keep track of how buttons work, shorting out basic motor functions. When you make it, you groan at his fur under your palms, and then he shoves his thigh between your legs and you whine when you grind your wet cunt against it. You have to break off from his mouth for it, clinging to his shoulders.

Your lipstick is all over Copia’s face. He’s grinning, rapt, delighted, impossibly fond. The man’s face is so pink it looks like he’s been slapped around. “Good, eh?” He pushes his thigh forward again, his hand up your dress and on your ass. “You like that?” He’s pulling you into it, making you drag your cunt over his tight jeans. The seam running down the front of his thigh hits your clit and you gasp. “So fucking desperate you need to hump my leg, filthy little thing.”

You roll against him once or twice more, because he’s right, it feels so good, those long runner’s thighs, the coiled power of him. That hard muscle and rough fabric against you, his body between your knees, so warm and familiar and beloved.

But his smirk is just a little too smug for your taste, so you have to make yourself stop before you fall too deep into a rhythm. Even if you actually hurt with being so turned on for so long. You get his shirt the rest of the way open, have to bend your head to suck a nipple into your mouth– the terrible brand over his heart level with your eyes– and bite. It’s not hard, but it does raise his back off the couch, and distract him from you eeling down between his legs to kneel on the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at you, knowing (some of) what you have in mind.

Your hand is on his belt buckle, and the sheer Pavlovian reaction you have to the sound of undoing it with one hand forces you to press your cheek to his thigh and focus on your breathing for a moment.

You laugh, shaky. You left an actual wet spot on his jeans.

Copia’s hand is in your hair, fingernails running along your scalp, soothing, grounding you. “Baby?” he asks. “Babydoll, are you alright? We don’t have to–”

“No.” You catch your breath, look back up at him, and his mismatched eyes go from soft and sweet to almost afraid, when he sees your expression. The hunger there– you could eat him alive. “No, I was just– too turned on, for a second.”

“Oh.” He pets at you again, then his smile turns predatory as he sweeps your hair up in one hand and pulls tight. “Then why don’t you get to sucking my cock, puttana?” 

Just for that, you lean up and bite at his belly, the sweet furry softness just below his navel. You laugh with a mouthful of his flesh at his yelp, how it turns into a groan as you unzip his jeans and take him in hand. 

It isn’t as if you aren’t intimately (haha) familiar with his dick, but it’s always nice to see. You’d called it pretty, the first time you’d slept with him, and it really is an accurate description. (It had been emotional for a great many reasons, but that had touched him in ways he still couldn’t articulate.) Silky soft skin over the hard length of him, his head already shiny with precum. It’s the same color as his lips, under the paint.

“You see what you do to me, gattina?” he murmurs above you. “You wreck me. You’ve ruined me– or at least these pants.”

“It’ll come out in the wash,” you say, and take him into your mouth, slow suction, tasting salt. He fills your mouth, fills your hand, blood-warm and firm in your grip. You watch his eyes when you start to suck him down, loving, as you always do, how in that first moment he looks at you, whimpers at you, like you're breaking his heart. 

You hear the dry click of him swallowing as you pull the soft skin of his cock further towards your mouth, your grip twisting, the slow churn of it. How his veins give under your lips, under your hand. It doesn’t take long to get him slick, the thick ridge of the underside of him heavy on your tongue. The musk of him fills your whole senses, thick and animal and a little gross.

His hips shift, and before you have to pull yourself off of him to tell him to talk, he’s doing what you want. “Look at you,” he breathes, reverent. “You’re so good at this, fucking made for this,” a twitch upwards, a movement too small to be called a thrust, “aren’t you? Born for this, your god made you to suck my cock. My perfect– ohh– perfect little cocksucker. Want it so bad, don’t you?”

His hand is heavy on the back of your skull, pushing you down with that even, steady pressure just how he likes. How you both like. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to you, give you what you want.” He’s not choking you with it, you have plenty of room to work with your hand. Still, as you take him down further, swallowing around the thick length of him, you feel hot tears running down your cheeks, sheer dumb animal reaction. You slip your other hand to cradle his slick balls, rolling them gently, the weight of them a little cooler than the rest of his body. He makes a strangled noise, an “Ohh fuck, baby, babydoll, so good for me, so good to me, fuck, fuck–!” 

His stutter and his loss of control are just too much, finally, you feel the air of the apartment cool at the top of your slick thighs, your swollen cunt, and you have to do something about it. You take your hand from his balls and slide it up your skirt, slowly enough to feel your silk stockings under your fingertips, slow enough that Copia catches it.

Just as you register how fucking wet you are, his eyes go wide and his hips shudder, the smooth hot head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. 

Your grip tightens on the base of his cock, a warning. You freeze, staring blank and unseeing at his soft belly, before looking up at him imploringly. “Okay,” he says, gentling you like a frightened horse. His big hand moving in your hair. “Okay. But baby,” he's nearly whining as you slowly suckle on the head of him, faint living salt in your mouth, “I know you want it, you’re too fucking good at that to not want it, I. Ohhh.” His hand grips tight in your hair as you swallow around him, thick and hot on your tongue. “Oh, fuck.”

You’re finding your pace on his cock again, a little faster, your hands working in time on his cock, on your clit. Freshly shaved like this, you’re fantastically, impossibly slippery. “Ohh, fuck. Oh, sweet Satan. Oh my dear Lord Below.” Copia absolutely doesn’t know what he’s saying, he so rarely gets outright religious on you. It’s an unspoken courtesy you’ve extended to each other, so to hear him break it sends a smug little charge through you. You whimper a little around his cock, give yourself a little more pressure on your clit. He can’t keep still, not all the way, even though you know he’s trying, making little aborted movements of his hips.

Copia swallows. It’s remarkable how you can see him trying to pull himself together. “Knew you loved this,” he says, his voice creaking. “Can’t be that good at something if you don’t love it. Didn’t know you loved it this much, gattina.” A little more pressure on the back of your skull, his nails scraping your scalp. He isn’t exactly holding you down, but he isn’t letting you pull off, either. “Never had my cock sucked this good, never even had a man suck my cock this good, thought I liked that better, before you came along. Had so many people suck this cock–” and that hurts, a hot bolt of pain and arousal that hits your heart and your clit at the same time. Your pace falters, and it must show, because Copia slows as well.

It’s a sore spot. You know that his own inverted form of celibacy in the Ministry included a certain implied… availability that could be, charitably, unpleasant for him at times. Clergy take no wives, no husbands, but give themselves freely to their congregation. You haven’t pushed him on the things that happened to him, he usually insists it was fine, expected, normal– but you generally have to go for a long walk and break something after you talk about it. You know, too, that he had positive experiences there, genuinely caring relationships. It doesn’t exactly help matters that your own knowledge of partnered sex, before Copia, falls radically short of the mean for someone in your age group.

All of that goes through your head in a flash, and he knows it, he can read you so well, even between one stroke of his cock and the next. “Only– didn’t know you’d have a natural talent at this.” Petting at you, soothing, his thumb moving tender on your cheekbone. “Remember, how I had to teach you how to kiss, those hours in the park.” You make a noise on him, not sure if this is helping. “Loved that, babydoll, loved doing that with you, teaching you, drove me wild.” He’s murmuring low to you, his voice a little rough, a little too exposed. “But I– I was ready for you to bite it off, the first time you went down.” 

Awkward thing, laughing with a mouth full of dick. But he keeps going. “I didn’t know, my baby. I didn’t know how it could feel. Didn’t know how good it could be.” He twitches in your mouth, in time with a tiny movement of his hips, so warm and alive in you. “Taught you how to kiss, but babylove, I swear I felt like a virgin when you took me to bed.” His voice is low and wrecked for different reasons than it was before, and oh no, his eyes are wet.

You let go of him, turn your head to wipe your mouth on your shoulder, quick and perfunctory. You can't take your eyes from him. "Sug," you say, unsure how to continue, the twisting in your chest too much for words, beyond anything you could articulate with language. Your knees creak a little as you start to get up, to do what you don't know. Kiss him or touch him or say something, anything, to the way he's looking at you. 

Copia pushes you back down, his hand heavy at the back of your neck. His thumb slots right at the base of your skull, right where he likes to keep it when he kisses you. “No, no, you’re too good at this, I wouldn’t interrupt an artist.” Back in some semblance of control. “You’re too good, you make me feel too good, show me. Will you--? Please, baby, will you show me how it can be good--?"

"Well," you say, pumping slow at his cock. "I can try." You press a tiny kiss to the head of him, too sweet for the situation, relishing the way he shivers. You take him in, how his hair is a disaster, sticking up in the back, his shirt open, your makeup smeared all over his face, his body, the parts of his thighs that you can reach. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes a little glazed, his lips swollen from the way you kissed them and the way he's bitten them. He's wrecked, and he's yours. 

You love him. With all your heart, all your mind, and, you're afraid, all your soul. It hurts to look at him, you think he might sear your eyes right out of your skull. 

You close your eyes against it, at how it stings, and nuzzle into the silky skin of his cock. Copia's belly is soft, warm, furred, delightfully sticky under your touch, as you run your hand up the front of him, up until you're cupping the sweet curve of his pectoral, until you can feel the cruel scar of his branding under the pads of your fingers. You trace over it, mapping the vector of those interlocking sixes. You feel his pulse under your palm, under your lips. You drag your mouth back and forth, just to feel the soft, delicately crenelated skin, the coolness of his flesh here soothing your feverishness. 

Copia makes a tiny wounded noise as his hand presses over yours. As if he could press his heart into your hand. He’s better at language than you’ve ever been, but you can see it falter and fail for him. All you know how to do is– action. It feels inadequate, somehow.

Your dear man. He sees you, and raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles in a courtly gesture. It should be absurd, with you on your knees for him, with the delicate skin of his cock against your mouth. Somehow, it isn’t, the alchemy of his tenderness conveying exactly what he means. What you mean, with the most vulnerable part of him between your teeth. “D’you want me to take you to bed, babydoll?”

“No,” you say, pulling off of him long enough to murmur it against his slick head. “Later, maybe. If you’re up to it. Right now, I want–” It’s easier to wrap your lips around him again, to tell him that way. You’re more eloquent with your mouth this way than you ever were with language.

“Alright,” he says, almost a gasp, as he returns your hand to you. “Touch yourself for me?” Almost pleading. As if your pleasure were a favor to bestow on him. “I want– wanna see you get off, my baby, wanna see how much you love doing this. So fucking hot–” His voice breaks off into a whine as you pull him further into your mouth. 

His big hand on your head, stroking your hair back, so sweetly. “Do you want me to be a little mean? I know you like that.” 

You moan around his cock in an unmistakable affirmative, rut a little harder into your hand, plead with your eyes. 

Copia’s smile turns sharp, wicked. “My perfect little cocksucker.” The deep affection in his voice belies the words. “Perfect little cumslut.” Your hand is already back between your legs, and you might– might– be moving your hips a little more theatrically than strictly necessary. 

He holds the back of your neck, the base of your skull, his grip tight. Just this side of painful. “You know how to tap out. How to get me to stop.” He pushes you down on him as he tilts his hips up to you, not quite cutting off your air. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” 

Copia licks his lips. He looks feverish, making shallow little thrusts into your mouth. “No, you. Ohh, you like this too much.” He’s so careful, even like this, testing just how hard he can thrust, finding your limit and pushing just past it before backing down. It makes you moan, makes you shiver, makes your hand speed up on your cunt in time with the way he’s pushing into your throat.

“Cruel to me,” he croons, as he uses your mouth. “Keeping that sweet little pussy from me.” He’s panting. “I can hear it, hear how wet you are.” As he says it, you realize you can, too, the wet noise in counterpoint to the sound of you working his cock. “M’gonna make you pay for it. Hope you’re ready, gonna eat you out till m’hard again.” He’s got both hands on your head now, and he’s too far into you for you to use your hand on him.

“You’ll. Hnn. You’ll need me to, to eat you out. Make you cum on my face.” If it weren’t for the sheer adoration in his eyes, this would be brutal, the way he’s pushing into your throat. The speed of your hand on your clit. Moving with him, point and counterpoint. “Fuck, I’m gonna wreck it, gonna split your pretty little cunt open– I’ll last longer, after I cum down your throat.” You whine around his cock, your cunt clenching on nothing, shivering against your hand.

Copia sounds like he’s in pain. It feels like he can’t stop himself, the way his hips are working. “Gattina,” he whines, helplessly. “Can’t– can’t last much longer, you looking at me like that.” You can feel him trembling under your touch. “D’you. You want it?” Movements a little more shallow, holding himself in check. “You want this cum in your mouth?” A rough, jagged thrust. “Little slut–!” he hisses, and he’s not quite too far gone to grin in smug delight at the way you moan in reaction. 

“Gonna cum like this?” he croons, taunting. His white eye bores into you, too bright, and he looks crazed. Deranged. It’s almost frightening, the way you can’t look away from it. Your eyes burn, hot tears on your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop rubbing your cunt if you tried. The way he’s watching you, the way he sees just how turned on you are by him using you like this. Like it’s shameful. “From me fucking your slut mouth like a little cocksleeve.” His voice is creaking, nearly out of control. “You want this cum? You want it? Hmm?”

You’re hanging on by a thread, your nerves strung out like piano wire, helpless before him. Your jaw hurts, his hand so tight in your hair. “Then take it.” He’s beckoning you over the edge, chanting, rapt. “Take it, take my cum, take my fucking cum–” he rasps, knowing exactly what will set you off, will snap the bright line of you.

You see his smile as you break, whining around his cock. How he lights up at it, overjoyed, crooked and tender. You hold his eyes the whole time, giving him as much of it as you can, letting him see all of it, the shining abyssal affection that crashes through your body for him, catching your nerve endings like fire through tinfoil. 

“Ohh–! Precious,” he says, almost crying, “my precious girl, my baby, my–” his voice breaks on your name, the syllables like a song, like a prayer, like something more than holy, like the shahada, like the shema, like it's the last thing that he knows. You never knew your name until he held it in his mouth like this, at the uttermost end of himself. He’s flooding over your tongue, slick and bitter. Like the first jet from the fountain in school, sun-warmed metal, iron from the earth, living water. 

His cock jumps in your mouth, and you’re shaking, trembling through your aftershocks and his as you swallow all of him, pull all of him into you, watching his eyes and his blissed out expression until his voice does– something wrecked. “You–!” he gasps, delighted. “C’mere, come up here, you’re too– too far away–” he’s pulling at you, babbling, delirious, so soft now. 

Copia’s pulling you up, into his arms, his lap, too quick for you to wipe his cum and your spit from your mouth. “Dunno if I like it, you that far away, wanna feel your pretty little body when you cum, you–” And then he’s kissing on you, shivering, laughing, little pecks along your jawline till he reaches your mouth. He makes a deep, appreciative groan when he tastes himself on your lips. He pulls back to look at you, almost scandalized in delight. 

You have to laugh at him. For once you can’t be bothered to be self-conscious about it. “Oh, I do like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before he dives back in, like he has to get all of it. You’re still shaky, a fine shiver all down your spine. He’s almost clumsy, licking into your mouth, a real rarity for him. You try not to feel too smug about it.

You can’t stop smiling, when you finally get your mouth back. “Acceptable, then?”

“So good. Every time, I can’t believe–” he’s nuzzling at you, his nose against yours, totally uninhibited in his affection. “So perfect, so sweet, love you so much, thank you, thank you, baby–” Nonsense babble. Incoherently effusive. He scoops your legs across his lap and runs his hands over all of your skin that he can reach. “Perfetta…sei perfetta. Angioletto,” he murmurs, and you shiver. You haven’t heard that one in a while. “Angioletto mio,” he’s saying, into your hair, your skin, and it’s rare that you blow him all the way back to Italian. “Sei tutto ciò che voglio del Paradiso.” You’re a little too fucked-out to parse that all the way, but it still snags in your heart a little.

(He knows, usually, how you still aren’t used to being loved on this much. You know he restrains himself, tries not to overwhelm you. It breaks your heart, sometimes, when you see him hold himself back, even as his consideration makes you warm.) 

Now, though, it’s good. It’s perfect. His pants are half off, his dick out, ridiculous. You think you might have snapped a garter, and you definitely put ladders in these stockings. You couldn’t give less of a shit. You loop your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck, letting out a deep, contented sigh.

Copia’s still petting you– appropriate enough. You feel like a cat in a sunbeam, even supremely disheveled like this.

He squeezes you lightly, again, and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “The, enh– the talking. It wasn’t too much?” Like he’s shy, all of a sudden.

“Noo!” You have to pull back to look up at him. “No, holy shit, sweetness, it was inspired. Even for you! Hot damn, baby. ‘Cocksleeve,’ where did that come from?” 

“Ehh– a couple of times, there, I’m, ah. Not even sure I remember what I was saying.” Is he blushing? It’s adorable.

“No, it was great. I’d tell you if it weren’t, honeybunch.” You lean your head back against him, boneless and warm all the way through. “Naw, this was awesome. Ten outta ten, go Team Us.” You hold up your hand for a high-five, and your sweet man, he’ll never leave you hanging– the slap rings loud through your living room. 

He tilts his head back onto the couch, looking up at the Devil’s Ivy crawling over your bookshelves. “Although,” he says, slow, considering. “I do seem to recall that I promised you I was gonna make you cum on my face.”

“And split my pussy open,” you remind him. “Or was you writing checks your dick can’t cash?”

“Babydoll, don’t you know by now?” He’s turning back to look at you, his mismatched eyes full of predatory adulation. “The Devil always keeps his promises.”

[deakyjoe]

Arranged & Absolute

Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV/Copia x Reader (fem, afab)

Category: arranged marriage, smut

Summary: To strengthen his new position as Papa, Copia agrees to marry someone he’s never met.

Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected p in v sex, desk sex, you get cum on the paperwork, vaginal fingering, grinding/dry humping, kissing, groping, arranged marriage, unspecified age gap, awkward first meeting, Sister Imperator being a supportive mother (but not because Copia doesn’t know she’s his mother), dead Papas (all of them, even Nihil), guilt, self esteem issues, parental issues, loneliness, poorly translated Italian, reader vaguely described as being shorter than Copia but nothing else, let me know if I missed anything!

Word count: 6.9k

A/N: I chose the gif specifically because he looks hot in it. This fic went from “huh maybe one day I could write about an arranged marriage thing with Copia but I don’t know what exactly yet since I don’t have any solid ideas” to “what the fuck have I done” in the space of less than 24 hours! Enjoy!

Consider buying me a coffee :)

Copia had thought it was a stupid idea. But Sister Imperator had insisted. So here he was. On his wedding day. Having never met his bride.

His foot tapped against the floor at a rapid pace, nerves radiating out of him, as he stood at the head of the chapel and watched the guests flood in to take their seats. He didn't fail to notice that almost everybody there was there for him, so many of them arriving in fact that they had to start sitting on the pews that were supposed to be reserved for your friends, family and kin. But he knew you'd travelled a long way, practically the only information he knew about you, so maybe no one from your home was willing to make the journey. Still, Copia found it sad.

Sister Imperator stood at his side, attempting to be supportive. "Calm down. The ceremony will go smoothly."

That wasn't what he was worried about. He knew the wedding itself would go smoothly, Sister would make sure of it, but everything else about it seemed all wrong. For starters, he'd never met his future wife. Which was bad enough by itself. But what if you hated him? From what he'd understood, you weren't too thrilled about the pairing either but your father had managed to convince you. Copia had met your father at least but he wasn't a particularly nice man.

When Imperator had initially come to Copia with the idea he'd laughed it off thinking it was a joke. An arranged marriage in the 21st century? And in the Satanic church where they encouraged freedom of all places? He thought it was nonsense. But then when she'd explained that a well thought out match would be put in place to strengthen his new title of Papa Emeritus IV... he started to realise that she was being serious.

He'd refused at first, saying that his position was enough. He was Papa now. And there was no taking that away, especially with his three predecessors dead and Nihil also in the grave. Who was there to question his authority? But Imperator pointed out his lack of legitimacy, he wasn't really an Emeritus, and how Papa Nihil had been reluctant to let him be the face of the clergy when he was still a mere Cardinal. Then he saw the cracks in his status.

So he agreed. A spouse would be found for him, to stand by his side and bring more power to his Papacy. He'd only allowed himself a brief second of panic when Imperator had mentioned in passing the need for an heir.

Copia looked at Sister, who had changed out of the usual skirt suit she wore and had chosen to adorn a dress in a nice green colour that suited her. Despite insisting that the whole thing was a formality, Copia appreciated her effort in making the day nice. "What if she doesn't like me?"

The older woman's face softened for a moment, how hadn't she realised that was what he was nervous about? He was a sensitive soul after all, constantly seeking approval. "She will adore you, C. Don't worry."

Copia looked down at his outfit, what if he wasn't dressed well enough? First impressions mattered after all. And the paints on his face itched more than usual. What if they started sweating off? But it was too late to dwell on that now. The last few people settled in the pews and silence descended over the chapel. It was time.

The large double doors at the back of the room swung open with a creak and the quartet in the corner started playing, what Copia believed to be, some sort of twist on the wedding march. He froze as his eyes landed on you, the reality of the situation dawning on him fully and sending him into a spiral. He was about to marry somebody he'd never met.

He tried not to let it show as you started walking towards him down the aisle, a train of lace following you. Nobody was walking you to him, ready to give you away, he noticed. Your father hadn't come to the wedding? Copia drank you in, the black wedding dress sweeping down the curves of your body and the matching veil covering your face. At least he had a moment to compose himself before he had to make eye contact with you.

You walked quickly, like you wanted to get the whole thing over and done with, and you were stood at the base of the steps in front of Copia before he could blink twice. He offered a gloved hand to you to help you up, which you took after a brief moment of staring at it through your veil. Copia squeezed it gently, hoping to offer some support and solidarity. He didn't know if it translated well.

And then you were in front of him, and the ceremony was beginning.

Imperator coughed quietly behind him. "C, the veil."

"Oh." He gasped and reached up the take the bottom of it in his fingertips, pausing for a second to allow you a moment to stop him if you wanted, before lifting it and pushing it back over your head.

The moment he met your eyes, Copia felt all oxygen leave his body. You were beautiful.

You sent him a nervous smile. "Hi."

Your voice was barely a whisper, so small and worried, that he barely heard you.

"Hi." He replied, sending a smile of his own and taking your hands in his.

Sister Imperator relaxed behind him, she could tell that he was smitten with you already. She’d chosen well.

The officiant ran through the ceremony with ease, the two of you repeating all the necessary parts when needed. Then suddenly it was over, the 'I do's' were said, rings were exchanged and Copia was a married man.

"You may kiss the bride." The officiant said.

Copia looked at you for confirmation that it was okay and when you gave a small nod of approval, he shuffled towards you and rested a gloved hand on your cheek. You leaned in first, which he was glad for as he felt as if his heart was about to beat up and out of his mouth, and met him halfway. Your lips pressed together for a second or two before the both of you pulled away with shy smiles.

The room cheered, a clear mix of real elation and dubious celebration. It wasn't a love match after all. But Copia didn't care, he had high hopes about the pairing now. You seemed nice enough and he found you breathtaking, he just hoped you could feel a fraction of the same about him. Which he feared you didn't, what could he possibly offer you?

The thoughts left him as Sister Imperator patted him on the back. "Well done, C."

"Thank you." He nodded at her before looking back towards you again.

Imperator looked at you as well. "And congratulations, it's lovely to finally meet you."

"Thank you, Sister. My father speaks very highly of you." You bowed your head at her before glancing at your new husband. "I think we're supposed to run out of here now. Like the wild newlyweds people expect to see."

Copia grinned, liking your attitude, and nodded his head in agreement. "That is exactly what people expect, shall we?”

You took the hand he offered to you and the two of you trotted down the few steps before speeding towards the doors of the chapel. People shouted words of praise and felicitations as you passed them which you could only smile at in return.

Once the both of you had burst out of the exit and the doors had swung shut behind you, a moment of peace was found. You turned to each other breathless, bashful looks gracing your faces.

“Hi.” You said, louder than the first time at the altar.

“Hi.” He repeated back to you. “You look beautiful in your dress, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you.” You looked down at the garment before looking back at him. “You look handsome too. I like your jacket.”

“This old thing?” Copia replied before wincing. Why did he make it seem like he’d worn an old jacket for his wedding?

But you didn’t seem to notice his slip up as you continued to smile at him. “What happens now?”

“I believe Sister Imperator has organised a banquet for us.” He pulled you closer to him as guests started to file out of the chapel and guided you in the direction of the ballroom.

“A banquet? That’s pretty fancy.” You chimed, looping your arm through his so the two of you could walk together.

“She pulled out all the stops.” Copia looked over at you, surprised at how well you seemed to be taking it all. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” You glanced over your shoulder at the crowd of people that was emerging steadily. “Can we just walk a little faster? I don’t want to be bombarded by all those people just yet.”

“Sì, sì.” He increased his pace, making sure you were tightly secured to his side the whole time. “What made you agree to this marriage? I heard at first that you said no.”

“Ah.” You paused. “I did say no at first. Nothing personal against you, I promise.”

“We did not know each other. It’s okay.” He assured before letting you carry on.

“I didn’t want to marry a stranger. But I did want to escape my father. You know who he is, correct?”

Copia nodded. “I’ve met him.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” You winced. “He’s not a nice man. But holds a high position in the clergy. I’m his only child, you see. And he’s always drilled into me that I am useless because I am a daughter. What use is a daughter? I cannot be an heir and inherit anything from him.”

“That’s not true!” He gasped. “The clergy dictates that-“

You cut him off by laying a hand on his arm. “It’s not the clergy’s doing. It’s my father’s. It’s okay, I grew used to his archaic ways. Anyway he said the only good I would be was marrying me off. At first I said no because I thought he was going to marry me off to an old, ugly man who was unkind. Then he told me that you seemed sensitive when he met with you which translates to nice. And he also told me that no Emeritus has ever been ugly. I believed him. He used to keep a portrait of Papa Emeritus III before he died so I knew there was some truth in that at least.”

Copia’s stomach twisted at the reminder of Terzo’s death, a sense of guilt still ate away at him when he thought about him and his older brothers. But he didn’t let it show in front of you. “Well, I am glad that you decided to believe that I was not unkind nor ugly. However, considering you didn’t mention anything about me not being old I am going to assume that you consider me to be ancient.”

You gasped out a laugh. “I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t need to. It was implied.” He laughed along with you as you reached the ballroom, pushing the door open to allow you to go in first. When he joined your side again, he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth as you linked your arm with his again.

“Wow.” You mumbled as you took in the expanse of the room. “You weren’t kidding when you said Sister Imperator pulled out all the stops.”

Copia led you over to the table designed for the newlywed couple. It held four chairs. One for him, one for you, one for Sister, and one meant for your father. He guessed that chair would remain empty for the evening.

You made no comment on it as you took your seat, watching your new husband closely as he sat next to you. “What about you? What made you agree to this marriage?”

He sighed deeply before looking at you. “I feared my place as Papa would be easy to shake. I didn’t inherit it officially through the Emeritus line like my predecessors. Marrying a family member of a high upper clergy member is meant to solidify my status.”

“Ah, a power play.” You nodded.

“Yes, a power play.” He frowned at that term. “But I only agreed once Sister promised she would find me a good match.”

“And what constitutes as a good match to you?” You asked, wondering what he’d requested in a wife.

A smile lit up his face. “The gorgeous woman who is sitting in front of me.”

“Smooth.” You replied, reminding yourself to interrogate him on the topic later.

Guests started flooding in, finding their seats at the various tables that filled the room. You just watched with barely concentrated attention.

You turned to Copia once the room was about three quarters of the way full. “How many of these people do you actually know?”

“I recognise most of them. I would say I probably know a third of them personally.” He shrugged. “How many do you know?”

“None of them.” You shrugged. “I didn’t have any guests come.”

“What? None of them?” He couldn’t quite believe that. He’d assumed that the people he didn’t recognise were your half of the wedding party.

“I don’t know many people back home. Those I do know… I wouldn’t want them here.” Your nose scrunched at the memory, the people you’d grown up around were not people you needed ruining what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

Copia looked at you sadly for a moment, wondering whether you were upset by the ordeal. But you seemed fine. “Well, now you have me.”

You looked at him, surprised, before a gentle smile settled on your face. “Now I have you.”

He returned the smile, picking up your hand and placing a soft kiss on the back of it. He mumbled an apology when he noticed the black kiss print he’d left on the skin there. You stopped him when he reached for a napkin to wipe it away, insisting he leave it there.

The moment was disrupted by Sister Imperator collapsing into the seat next to Copia. “You two seem to be getting along well.”

You exchanged a slightly giddy look with Copia before looking back at the older woman.

“We are.” He clarified. “You matched us well.”

“Knew I would.” She said smugly before looking at the empty chair next to you. “Your father did not attend.”

It was a statement more than a question.

A neutral smile settled over your lips, like you were prepared to discuss this. “No. I didn’t want him here. He didn’t want to be here. It was an easy enough decision.”

Imperator respected that response so said no more on the matter, only glancing towards the door to the kitchens where a group of servers were bustling about. “Food should be served soon. Then the day’s celebrations will be over.”

“No after party?” Copia sounded disappointed.

“That’ll be held next weekend. After all official marriage business has been taken care of. Ah, the food!” She sat up straighter in her chair as a waiter suddenly appeared and placed a plate in front of each of you.

You stared down at the appetiser salad that was about the size of your big toe. You hoped there were more courses to come. A lot more. Nevertheless, you picked up your fork and stabbed at a crunchy piece of lettuce before popping it in your mouth.

Copia did the same next to you before looking back towards Imperator again. “Official marriage business? Like what? We are married.”

She looked at him like it was obvious. “Well, you know what happens on the wedding night.”

He only looked more confused. “People getting drunk?”

Imperator rolled her eyes before practically hissing at him. "You must consummate the marriage."

Both you and Copia stopped chewing, forks being lowered to your plates with a clatter.

You swallowed the mouthful, straining slightly to force it down. "How- how soon?"

"Well, tonight preferably." Imperator said calmly. "To solidify your union."

"Sister, we've only just met." Your husband croaked.

The older woman looked at him unimpressed. "Are you trying to tell me you've never had a one night stand with someone you just met?"

"Well-" Copia choked. "That's- that's different."

"Different how?" She questioned, eyes flicking between the two of you. "Treat it like a one night stand. If it's terrible then you do not have to touch each other again. Well, until an heir is expected. But if it is good then see it as a lovely start to your marriage."

You ignored the talk of an heir, the thought of having a man you just met's baby being too much for you to handle in that moment. "Okay."

"Okay?!" Copia whirled on you, surprised you'd agreed that easily.

"Ah, beloved husband, do you find me that repulsive?" You grinned at him, only a hint of genuine worry in your voice.

"No, no. Of course not." He rushed out, thinking about how it was quite the opposite in fact. "I just did not expect you to give in so quickly."

"Give in?" You asked, eyebrows raising in question. "It might surprise you that the concept of sleeping with you does not sound so bad to me, Copia."

His heart, and cheeks, warmed at the use of his name. It was the first time you'd done so. It sounded nice coming out of your mouth. Out of his wife's mouth. "Eh, very well. We shall consummate the marriage."

"Wonderful." Sister Imperator clapped her hands together before standing up. "I shall inform the clergy of this joyous news."

The two of you watched her walk away, abandoning her salad, the knowledge that a group of old men now knew about your future sex lives playing in the back of your minds.

You shook the thought away as you scooted your chair closer to Copia's, lowering your voice for only him to hear. "You sound elated at the concept of sleeping with me."

His eyes widened as he looked at you. "Um, I uh-"

You smirked. "It's okay. We can just pretend if you'd like. They'll never know the difference."

"No, that's- we don't have to do that. Do you want to do that?" He took a deep breath. "To pretend?"

You looked him up and down. "No."

His ears and neck burned red with a flush. "Really?"

You let out a short giggle. "Yes, why is that so surprising to you?"

"Because I'm- and you're-" He gestured at your face but said no more.

You smiled softly. "Well, to me you are-" You mimicked his gesture to his face.

"Oh." He squeaked and you grinned widely at him. "But you're sure? So soon?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Although I would maybe like to see what's underneath all this paint first." You said, letting your eyes roam his face.

"Of course, of course." He babbled. "Maybe you will find yourself disappointed and change your mind."

You rolled your eyes. "Unlikely."

Copia liked your confidence in assuming you were going to find yourself attracted to his face underneath the makeup. He wasn’t so sure himself but at least you’d given his ego a slight boost.

The two of you exchanged idle conversation as more food was served, bigger portions to your relief, and the occasional guest came up to your table to wish you congratulations. You didn’t fail to notice the looks of envy that were sent your way by several people who eyed up Copia hungrily as they approached. You could only laugh to yourself, finding it even funnier that your new husband seemed to lack faith in his looks despite there clearly being a long line of people who wanted him.

A couple of hours passed by and soon enough the guests started clearing out, which you were thankful for. You couldn’t wait to take your shoes off or to ease up the laces on your dress. It had been a long day. But you knew it wasn’t over yet. The time was slowly approaching. The time when you were supposed to sleep with your new husband for the first time.

You weren’t nervous exactly. But there was still an element of apprehension deep inside you.

Once the last few people had departed and Sister Imperator had wished you both a good night, a very suggestive look on her face, you and Copia were left in an empty ballroom.

“Would you like me to give you a tour of the building now? Or in the morning?” He asked you as he took your hand in his, rubbing his gloved thumb over your knuckles.

“In the morning.” You decided. “It will give us something to look forward to. Besides, I can see that you’re tired.”

“Not too tired for you, I promise.” He sighed. “It’s just been a long day.”

“I know.” You agreed and stood up. “Let’s go to bed.”

The words weren’t suggestive in the slightest which is why Copia didn’t feel nervous as he joined your side and the two of you made your way out of the ballroom. He pointed out a few landmarks of the place as you walked in the direction of his rooms but everything went largely unexplored. It could wait for tomorrow.

Anxiety set in as you reached the corridor that led to his bedroom. What if you didn’t like his space? He was willing to change things, to accommodate, as he wanted you to feel welcome. But what if you hated it? And didn’t want to share a room, or a bed, with him. He supposed he would find you your own place to stay. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it would make him sad.

“And these are my rooms.” He said as he pushed his door open and ushered you in. “Our rooms, if you’d like. But if not then I’m sure we can find you somewhere of your own to stay.”

You looked around as the doors were closed behind you. It was nice. Very him from what you’d gathered so far. There was a book case, overflowing with volumes, next to a desk covered in paperwork in one corner. A large bed took up almost an entire wall, four posters with a curtain hanging around it. Fancy. He had an ornate oak wardrobe teeming with sparkly jackets that poked out of the open doors, you’d have to ask him to model some of those for you at a later date.

You turned towards Copia with a timid smile. “I don’t want to intrude. This is your home.”

He rushed towards you, taking your hands in his to reassure you. “It’s your home now too. I want you to be comfortable here. Well, not right here if you don’t want. Or if you do want.”

You couldn’t express how relieved you were at how sweet he was. “I do want. For now at least.”

His face lit up. “You’ll stay here? With me?”

You nodded, matching his positivity. “Yes.”

“Wonderful, hehe.” He paused and glanced over your shoulder towards the bed. “I will go wash my face and then… then we can…”

“Consummate the marriage?” You offered with a sarcastic smile. “It’s okay, we can take it slow.”

Copia nodded before turning and disappearing into the bathroom. You took the opportunity to snoop around a little, to get a feel for your new husband some more.

In the bathroom, he washed his face meticulously, careful not to be too harsh on his skin. He wanted to look clean and fresh for you, not like a ripe tomato from being too aggressive with a washcloth.

Once he was done Copia stared at himself in the mirror, face only slightly red from where he’d scrubbed the paint away. Faint traces of black had been left around his eyes but he knew no amount of rubbing his eyes raw with a washcloth would clean it away so he left it there. His fists clenched around the edge of the basin, nerves setting in. What if you were disappointed by what was revealed to be under his paints? You said it was unlikely you would be but a part of him still worried. The day had been going smoothly, almost too smoothly, that he thought something was bound to go wrong. And what if it turned out to be his appearance.

Pushing all of that away, he realised that he wouldn’t know any of it for sure until he just went for it. So, after letting the murky grey water wash away, Copia opened the bathroom door and stepped out with an air of faux confidence that quickly dissipated.

He found you stood next to his desk, eyes scanning his book shelves as you had a good look at all of the titles. You glanced over your shoulder at him, doing a double take when you saw him. He was standing in the arch of the bathroom doorway, backlit with light that made him glow. If you weren’t a Satan worshipper you would have said he looked angelic.

Copia shifted from foot to foot as you stared at him silently. The panic was starting to set in again as you continued to say nothing. Why weren’t you saying anything? That feeling vanished when you held out a hand to him.

“Come here.” You said quietly, tipping your head back to invite him over.

He practically ran to you, taking your hand in his but still keeping his distance by a foot or so.

You closed the distance yourself, lifting your spare hand to cup the side of his face in it. “You are so beautiful.”

His shoulders relaxed, tension leaving them, as he leaned into your touch and turned his head to kiss the palm of your hand. “That is high praise coming from you.”

You shook your head playfully. “Oh, my husband’s a charmer.”

My husband. He was your husband. He liked that. “Only for you, amore mio.”

“Don’t go making promises you might not be able to keep.” You teased, warmth flooding through you at the term of endearment he’d used. “What if we hate each other?”

“I think we made a promise when we recited our vows.” He kissed your palm again before leaving one on your wrist as well, quickly making his way down your arm until it was wrapped around the back of his neck. “And I cannot imagine myself ever hating anyone as lovely as you.”

You hummed in response, not being able to form a coherent reply as his face drew nearer to yours. His free hand reached for your waist, winding his arm around you and pulling you flush against his chest. Your intertwined hands stayed connected beside you.

He looked down at you with a half smile curling the edges of his mouth. “Cat got your tongue, amore mio?”

You shook your head slowly. “Just wondering where the shy Copia of a few moments ago disappeared to.”

“Ah, well, my gorgeous wife told me I am beautiful so I decided to toss the nerves aside.” He tilted his head to the side innocently.

“Your wife sounds wise.”

“Oh, she is.” His eyes flickered downwards. “She is also driving me crazy in this dress.”

You averted your own eyes in embarrassment. “I was hoping you’d like it.”

“Oh, amore mio, I do. I really do.” Copia decided then to push towards where the night was inevitably going to end. “However, I think I’d like it even better on the floor.”

Your eyes widened at that. But you liked it. “We better get to work then because it has a lot of buttons and a lot of lace up.”

“You are in luck. I am good with that, you see.” He grinned and gestured downwards.

You followed the angle of his hands and saw that he also had a lot of lace up. Over his crotch. “I guess we can help each other then.”

“Sì.”

And with that he kissed you. It was a lot different to the one kiss you’d shared at the altar. That had been shy and slightly awkward, hundreds of people had been watching after all. But this kiss left that one behind. It was sweet and tender, just as you expected from your new husband. But it was also hungry, like he’d been waiting all day for it. Which he had.

The arm around your waist tightened as he craned his neck to meet you halfway. He tasted vaguely of the soap he’d used to clean his face but it wasn’t unpleasant. You hummed against his lips in approval which only spurred him on, his tongue now licking into your mouth. You let your hand card through his hair before sliding it down onto his cheek again, to keep his face close to yours even when you broke apart to breathe. Your connected hands swung lowly by your sides, his fingers twitching against yours and tangling them further together.

You pulled away from him, breathless, and lifted your joint hands. “Can I ask about the gloves? It’s just I noticed that you kept them on when we did the ring exchange. It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”

“Oh, right.” He looked down at his hand, specifically to where his new wedding ring was sitting over the top of the leather. “I don’t know really. I’ve always just liked them.”

You hesitated before answering, taking in the way he was looking at you with pure open honesty, before nodding. “Okay. Would you like to keep them on now?”

Copia shook his head rapidly. “No, I will take them off.”

“You don’t have to.” You assured, not wanting to pressure him in to anything.

“No, I will. And then you can put my ring in its rightful place on my finger. Sì?”

You nodded and stepped back a pace as he slid the gloves from his fingers. You bit back a comment about how his hands were beautiful just like the rest of him and only watched until he looked up at you again. He handed you his wedding ring and offered his left hand out to you.

“You sure? No backing out after this.” You joked.

He chuckled. “I think I signed that right away when I said ‘I do’.”

You hummed and slipped the ring onto his finger, bending down to place a kiss over it once you’d done so. “Ah, perfect. See?”

“Yes, perfect.” He whispered.

When you looked back up you found that he was looking at you. You tried not to swoon.

“Are you going to help me get my dress off now that your fingers are free from leather?” You asked to distract yourself from the way he was looking at you.

“Sì, turn around.”

You did as you were told, exposing your back to him. He unfastened all of the buttons slowly and carefully, being gentle with the fabric of your dress, before exposing the section underneath with all of the ribbons that laced up your dress.

“How long did this take you to put on this morning?” He grunted as he untied the first ribbon and loosened it.

“Too long.” You sighed. “I really needed to pee by the end of it.”

Copia huffed out a laugh, his breath fanning against the back of your neck. “All for me? Amore mio, you shouldn’t have.”

“First impressions matter.” You retorted, letting out a quiet groan of relief once the second ribbon was loosened.

He reflected back on his own thoughts of first impressions only hours previously. They did matter, he agreed. He paused when you let out another quiet groan. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes.” You sighed. “This dress may be pretty but it sure is uncomfortable.”

“Should have said something. Would have ripped it off you in the ballroom if it was going to make you comfortable.” He pulled more quickly at the next ribbon, eager to get it off you now.

“Would have been a sight for your guests.” You said over your shoulder.

“No, would have got them to leave. My naked wife is not for them to see.”

“Ah, so possessive already?” You giggled quietly.

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on the side of your neck. “Would prefer it if your body was reserved for me only, yes.”

Your eyelids fluttered shut. “It is, don’t worry.”

His hum of approval vibrated against the skin of your neck. “You’re free by the way.”

Your eyes snapped open and you turned to him again, dress falling loosely around you. You clutched at the neckline for a moment, grasping it to keep you covered. “Um, this dress doesn’t really allow for underwear. So I am actually naked underneath this.”

Copia’s eyes darkened as he glanced towards where you were pressing the fabric against your dress. “Do you want me to look away?”

“No, I was just warning you.” You clarified.

“Warning me?” He took a step closer to you, hand lifting to cover your own. “Amore mio, drop the dress. Please.”

There was only a split second of hesitation before you let go and the dress floated to the ground and created a pool of black lace at your feet. Copia tried desperately to keep his eyes on yours but the temptation was too strong. And when he looked down, there was no looking back up again.

He drank you in slowly but ravenously, eyes taking in every inch of your exposed form. When he started babbling words of appreciation to the Dark One, you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore.

“It’s only fair.” You stated before reaching for his own laces at his crotch.

Copia just batted your hand away from him, grabbing you by the shoulders and spinning the two of you around. Before you could ask what he was doing, he slid his hands down to the back of your thighs and lifted you the couple of inches onto his desk.

“Your paperwork-” You started but he cut you off.

“Don’t worry about it.” He huffed and kissed you again.

You moaned into his mouth when he started pawing at you, hands gliding over your body and squeezing at the handfuls of flesh he was finding. He seemed to be doing it more for his own enjoyment than yours. But you didn’t care, happy that he was just appreciating your body.

Your hips jumped forward when his clothed pelvis met yours, a mewl tumbling from your mouth at the friction. Copia took note of that and hooked an arm around the back of your ass and scooted you forward towards the edge of the desk.

“Did that feel good?” He asked and smiled when you nodded enthusiastically. “Hm.”

He bucked his hips towards yours again, using his hand at the small of your back to guide you closer to him and encourage your own movements. You whimpered into his mouth, desperate for more. It felt good but you needed more. You needed him.

“Copia…” You whined, hoping to get the idea across.

“I know, amore mio, I know.” He huffed, shrugging his jacket off of his shoulders. “Can you get the buttons on my shirt please?”

Your hands flew to unfasten it as quickly as possible, not questioning why he wasn’t doing it himself. Not until one of his hands drifted from your waist to your inner thigh at least. You paused momentarily, toes curling, when his thumb brushed against your clit. Watching your reactions closely, Copia did it again.

You cried out, forehead dropping to meet his chest. “Please.”

“Please what, amore mio? Tell me, hm?” He kissed the top of your head gently to encourage you, the confidence he had when performing as Papa now helping him take charge now.

“More. Please more.” You didn’t have the words to describe what you needed.

But he knew. He lifted your head with his free hand, kissing you again, before rubbing a tight circle against your clit with his thumb. The noise you made cemented what he already knew. So he did it a few more times before re-angling his hand to slide a finger inside of you.

It felt so good that you bit down on his bottom lip by accident.

“Ah, fuck, I’m sorry.” You grumbled against him.

“No apologies necessary.” He replied softly, pulling his finger back out before pumping it back in again. This time joined with a second one.

Your eyes closed in pleasure, head dropping backwards and legs circling around the backs of his.

“Amore mio, you didn’t finish with my shirt.” He reminded you in a playful tone.

Your eyes shot open again, your hands racing to get the last of the buttons undone and the garment off of him. When it was done, pushed off his shoulders, slid down his arms, his hand momentarily retracting from you to get it fully off and on the floor, you immediately leaned forward and started exploring his chest with your mouth. You kissed, you licked, you sucked, you bit, you were insatiable. Copia enjoyed your enthusiasm.

So he doubled down in his own actions, pumping his fingers into you at an even faster speed, thumb circling your clit even harder. And soon enough it had you crashing over the edge and collapsing backwards on the desk, back flattening against the piles of paperwork.

Copia licked his hand clean, sucking your essence from his skin, with a satisfied hum. He then finished undressing himself, having no trouble with his own laces, before grabbing your hips to get your attention.

You lazily lifted your head, shooting straight up when you saw what he’d been hiding between his legs. “Are all Papas this hung?”

He barked out a laugh. “Yes, it’s a requirement for the position.”

You watched as he pumped himself a few times before stepping forward and running his tip through your folds, gathering your slick to lube himself up. Your jaw hung open the whole time.

Copia rested a hand on your cheek to get your attention again. “Amore mio, are you ready?”

You nodded at him. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

He slid into you with ease, face falling to meet your shoulder as you swallowed him in. He groaned lowly at the feeling, you were so warm and wet and felt so good. You made your own desperate sounds next to his ear that he couldn’t even take a moment for himself, too eager to please you. So he pulled back out slowly before thrusting in again. Your hands flew to his back, keeping him near as your nails scratched into him. He didn’t care.

Lifting his head to see the two of you meeting between your bodies, he noticed that you were doing the same thing. He couldn’t stop himself from kissing you when you made eye contact. Thoughts ran wild through his head, wondering how’d he been lucky enough to be granted you as his mystery wife. The universe must have messed up somehow, right? No, it hadn’t. Because here you were. On your wedding night. And he was inside of you as you kissed.

The kiss made mobility difficult but neither of you wanted to pull away. Copia had an arm around your waist to keep you steady and a hand on the back of your head to keep you close. You, on the other hand, just clung onto him like your life depended on it. His hips snapped backwards and forwards at a fast pace to keep the friction going but not too harshly as to disturb the meeting of your mouths. Your tongue licked into his mouth hotly and Copia could taste the desire on you. It reflected what he already felt in himself.

“Close.” You managed to gasp out during a break for oxygen.

But Copia knew that, he could tell by the way you were clenching around him. So he didn’t switch up the pace, just kept going with what he knew felt good for you. And soon enough, he had you falling over the precipice again.

He wasn’t far behind, hips rutting forward frantically a few more times before he pulled out and spilled himself over your thighs and the stacks of paperwork you were sitting on.

You giggled tiredly at the sight and looked up at him. “It’s our wedding night and we didn’t even make it to the bed.”

He hadn’t even realised that, glancing over at his large bed with fresh sheets. “We still have time.”

The fatigue washed away at that answer. “Oh?”

Copia offered a hand out to you. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up first.”

You took his hand and hopped off the desk, following him into the bathroom where he washed your thighs off. After that, Copia led his wife to your shared bed where he planned to keep you for the foreseeable future.

A/N: me staring at the title of this fic knowing full well I already have an Obi-Wan fic titled “Absolution”. It bothers me a little but not enough to come up with a new title since this one took me almost as long to come up with as it took me to write the fic itself.

[the-lisechen]

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

header by the divine @enjoy-my-swearing

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

some kind of cosmic rearrangement - ao3

(full series here)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In what way?"

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

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

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

"You need a God to tell you this?"

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

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

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

"You believe this."

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In simple terms?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By running straight to the devil."

"Eh. No half measures."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cardinal."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'By faith alone.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Precisely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sophie. That's lovely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Equally terrible, signora."

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

"So."

"Where are you taking me?"

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

"I have not."

"You in for a treat, then."

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

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

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

"You cannot convert me."

"Okay. Wasn't trying."

"If you could, this might do it."

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

"So I see."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is a nightmare dystopia you live in."

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

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

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

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

"That is the doctrine."

"Why, then, evil? Why suffering?"

"We going with theodicy, then?"

He motioned for her to continue, a little gleeful.

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

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

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

"Let us say that I haven't."

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

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

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

"No, still terrible."

"How do your people explain it, then?"

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

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

"All about control," he replied, amiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Te absolvo."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Being called. Yes."

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

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

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

"This is also an old question."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did."

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't like it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please. Do."

"I will. I will think about it."

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

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

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

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

[writingjourney]

POV: The Cardinal takes you on a date. He’s wearing the leather suit, you brought your polaroid camera. You’re having a good time :)

pictures X / X

[honeyynymphh]

I had a thought for a fic and bc I love ur writing…

copia x mile high club

first of all, thank you so much!! mile high club certainly is not something I would have ever thought of but it did give me an idea so here it is! Inflight Meal Papa IV x FemReader rating: E words: 2600 tags: dom copia, cunnilingus, sex, fucking on the job, drinking on the job, dirty talk, cheesy af, there is no resemblence to canon like anywhere in this story lmao AO3

summary: as an air hostess you are used to strange people, especially when they have their own private jet. but this was definitely the strangest one.

also Copia still has his moustache because I said so! I know nothing about flying, this is pretty silly and it is not checked so sorry for any mistakes!

Straightening your skirt you stand waiting for the passengers to board the plane. Last minute you’d been called in to help on an overnight flight to Italy by Jack—the usual pilot you flew with. Apparently, some priest was travelling back to his hometown for an important ceremony and his crew were short a few staff members. You would have refused at such a late request, especially as you had to wear a completely different uniform. It wasn’t the airlines—apparently the priest had insisted all the crew fit in with the rest of his staff.

What an arrogant prick. 

But the money had been way above the norm and you rarely were asked to do private flights. And the uniform was not much different than your usual skirt and jacket. Except it was cerulean blue with little embroidered golden details—and a strange inverted crucifix emblazoned on the chest. You were just grateful it wasn’t a nun's habit.

You heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to board and straightened your back, plastering on the practised smile. Many a jerk you’ve had to deal with and today would be no different—no matter how fancy an aircraft it was. You’d had a little snoop before. The whole aircraft was dark wood and detailed with the same shade of blue and gold. The jet was fitted with a main bedroom, kitchen, office and then the main seating area. God must be real generous, you think with a roll of your eyes.

The first person aboard is an older woman, her blonde hair styled to perfection and wearing a severe yet fitting suit jacket and skirt—all in black but detailed with the same hints of blue and gold as your uniform. She smiles at you and you gesture for her to enter, giving her a welcoming smile as you bid good evening. Next is a man…at least you think it’s a man. The smile on your face falters a moment before you right it again on your perfectly painted lips.

His dress is fine. He’s dressed all in black—though his jacket has the same little crucifix on it as yours—it’s the mask he wears that throws you. It’s silver, demonic and completely obscures his face.

Weird. But you were here to serve drinks and food, not care about the passengers and their odd choice of attire. The…man walks past you without a glance and settles into a chair before pulling out a rolled-up magazine from his trouser pocket.

You’re too busy still looking at him when a voice says, “Buonasera, Signorina.”

When you turn towards it, you’re met with a pair of mismatched eyes set in a face painted like a skull. But despite it, it’s still an attractive one and the man’s voice is pleasant—the Italian lilt to his words makes your smile genuine, if not a little bemused. He’s dressed in a dark blue suit, way too tightly fitting that it’s almost indecent.

He takes your hand, the soft leather that encases his hand is buttery soft and warm. He kisses your hand, moustache tickling your skin. He introduces himself as Papa Emeritus the Fourth before he gives you a smile and heads into the plane. You watch, bemused, as he greets the other two—the woman talking quickly and hovering around him like a mother hen. He waves her off with some words in Italian and disappears down to the back of the plane.

That cannot be a priest, you think. Maybe Jack got the information wrong. He looks too…you don’t even know. You rub at your hand. At least he didn’t seem like a complete asshole, nor had he started preaching—and really, that was all you cared about. You kept staring off down towards the back of the plane, mind still fixated on the mysterious man.

“You ready?” says Jack, ducking out of the cockpit.

“Huh?” you say distractedly, head snapping to look at the pilot. 

Another crew member has appeared, she’s wearing the same uniform as you and she’s standing there patiently waiting for you. You had only briefly spoken to her earlier, she had said her name was Sister Hayley you think. A nun. Not that the woman looked anything like a nun.

“Arm and crosscheck?” he says.

“Oh, yes, right.”

When miles above ground and flying somewhere over the Atlantic ocean you’re giving out drinks. The man in the silver mask declines anything, choosing instead to lounge on the plush seating like an overgrown cat while the woman—who had politely introduced herself as Sister Imperator—sat in one of the comfortable chairs at a small desk. You’d given her a drink—a gin and tonic—and then headed down to go find the enigmatic Papa Emeritus.

The office is empty and so you head to the bedroom, the door is closed and you knock politely before sliding it open. You find the man propped up on the bed, book in hand and a pair of glasses perched low on his long nose. He glances up at you and the darkly painted lips quirk into a pleased smile. It makes your stomach flip.

“Sir, would you like a drink?” you ask, standing there with your hands clasped in front of you. “Or something to eat?”

The man gives you a smile, easy and smug. Again you wonder why he was wearing such tight trousers. What the hell kind of church was he from?

“Si, wine, per favore. Anything from the stock in the kitchens. Pick something.” He gives you a long look. “Two glasses.”

“No problem, sir, anything to eat?” you ask. Fuck you wish he’d stop looking at you like that.

His painted lips quirk but he shakes his head. “Just bring the wine, signorina.”

You head to the little kitchen and randomly grab a bottle, simply picking one based on the label. You grab two glasses and then walk back towards the suite. You smile politely as you enter and place the glasses on the little table next to him.

“Is this to your liking, sir?” you ask, holding out the bottle for him to inspect. 

“Papa,” he says, leaning over to peer at the label before he nods. “Not ‘sir’.”

You pour him a glass and place the bottle beside it. “Is there anything else?”

He closes the book he is reading a throws it on the bed, you catch the cover—it’s in a different language but it has a picture of a goat and a pentagram on it. He waves a hand at the other glass.

“Pour yourself one as well, signorina.”

You frown at him. “That is kind of you, but I am working.”

The man winks at you, grabbing the bottle himself and pouring out a measured amount. You watch the liquid slosh in the glass.

“I promise I won’t tell,” he says, extending it out to you.

You take it and hold it awkwardly, the smile on your face fixed. You did not want to get in trouble with Jack and lose your job. But a glass couldn’t help and you’d attended to everyone. You sip it and Papa smiles.

Somehow you end up two glasses deep. It’s not enough to make you drunk but damn it’s enough to make you feel far too relaxed. And you’ve somehow found yourself sitting next to him on the bed. You really should go back though. But it’s been lovely chatting to him, he talks of his flock with affection and mentions Sister Imperator fondly.

“This might be a stupid question,” you ask, the wine having loosened your tongue, “but what exactly are you a priest of?”

He laughs and it’s such a pleasant sound that you can’t help but smile. You’ve grown used to his strange face and it’s somewhat endearing to watch the lines on his face move as he chuckles.

“Not a priest, dolce,” he says. “Once upon a time, si, but now I am Papa.”

“You say that like I should know what you mean,” you reply.

“Like the Pope.” He grins. “Less preaching about the good of man and much more sinning.”

You cannot help but laugh, it sounds ridiculous. “I thought god said sinning was bad.”

“We do not worship a false god of fabricated mercy,” he utters, voice low. You stop laughing at the serious expression on his face, but it melts away when he adds. “We worship the lord below who relishes in sin. We are human, si? So we should take comfort in the pleasures it provides.”

“You’re telling me you worship the devil?” you ask, breath hitching when he leans in a little closer.

“Si,” he says, eyes fixed on you. “And I fear I have not worshipped in his name today at all. Perhaps you can help me, dolce?”

Suddenly his mouth is on yours. You freeze a movement but when you respond, his hands hold your face and pull him flush against him. His mouth is urgent and hot against yours, tongue delving into your mouth while your legs tangle together. Your lipstick is smudged red over his face and you’re certain he’s covered yours in black—you can taste it on your own lips but it doesn’t matter. He kisses like he is worshipping, hungry and possessive. It makes your head spin and you completely forget that this is certainly a breach of conduct. Especially when he’s flipping you onto your back, dragging your legs to the edge of the bed as he pushes your skirt up to bunch around your waist/

“Sorry, dolce, but now I’m feeling rather hungry.”

You hear the snap of your garter belt and feel the tension ease around your stockings so he can pull your knickers down your legs. Before you can draw another breath his face is between your legs, his breath skating over your wet folds before his tongue is flicking against you. You moan, hands instantly grabbing tufts of his peppered hair between your fingers as he works some sort of ungodly magic on your aching cunt.

Fucking hell.

Your back arches as he draws the tension out, leaving you panting on the edge of delirium. His arms move under your thighs and pull you closer to him as he devours you. You pull at his hair and grind against his face, unable to stop yourself from seeking more glorious threads of pleasure to wind tighter around your core.

His mouth breaks away as he can come up for air. You stare at him with a heavy-lidded expression, taking in that wicked mouth all glistening and smeared with paint by your own slick. He looked like the fucking devil and you were more than willing to sell your soul if it meant he wouldn’t stop.

“Cazzo, your pussy is delicious, dolce,” he breathes, nipping at the inside of your thigh.

His face returns to press against your cunt. And that nose! It’s pressed against your clit, mouth wet and tongue searching while his moustache tickles your skin. You arch back and your hands grip the sheets as the plane suddenly rocks—turbulence. Fuck.

Jack’s voice floats through the plane’s intercom system, certainly a mood killer, but Papa doesn’t stop. 

“Please return to your seat, we are experiencing some mild turbulence.”

The craft rocks again but your eyes are too busy rolling into the back of your head as he eats you out like he’s on death row and you're his last meal.

You moan when you feel fingers, leather-clad ones, pressing into your pussy and stretching you. You bounce on his hand when you hit another pocket of turbulence, and his grip on your thigh tightens while the other hand is busy pumping into your wetness. Another pocket and another moan have you on the edge and trembling.

It doesn’t take much to have you rocking along with the aircraft as you come. You try not to moan too loudly and shove your fist in your mouth but Papa leans up and pulls your arm away from your face, that devilish visage hovering over you.

“Don’t silence such pretty sounds, dolce.”

You sigh, luxuriating in the waves that still ripple through you while the plane rocks again. Fuck. You feel his body move away from yours and you sigh. Your eyes had fallen closed as you relaxed but they snap open when you feel him crawl on top of you. He’s rid himself of some of his clothes—well, most of them. A heavily unbuttoned shirt was the only thing on him. You can see the hairs on his firm chest and when you feel his cock pressing between your legs you immediately spread them for him.

When he sinks into your welcoming pussy you moan. The stretch feels incredible and you desperately tilt your hips so he can sink in further. When he bottoms out, you both sigh. Papa has removed his gloves, and his large hands hold your hips, creasing the fabric of your uniform even further as he starts to pump into you.

You’re already so worked up and sensitive that you are already ready to come again quickly. Your walls are squeezing him and the sounds it draws from his lips are downright demonic. Your hands reach up to grip his shoulders so you can thrust up to meet him, both of your movements becoming hurried in your desperation for release.

“Do you want my cock so badly, signorina?” he growls, leaning over you and thrusting into you roughly. Your pant out a yes, or something that was meant to be a yes and only comes out as a string of incoherent nonsense as you nod your head fervently. “You have to come for me first, dolce.”

A hand moves between your bodies and he's rubbing at your swollen and sensitive clit. You cry out, not giving a single fuck that the entire plane can probably hear you. The plane rocks one last time and you hear the seatbelt sign turn off. But you are barely paying any attention to anything else except his cock buried inside you.

The tension in your core tightens again and with another deep thrust he has you coming apart for him. Your eyes shut as it crashes through you but he doesn’t stop. Your hands are gripping feebly at his shoulders, then the nape of his neck, his hair and then fistfuls of the front of his shirt to bring his mouth against yours.

You feel his cock swell within you as he growls against your mouth, teeth nipping at your bottom lips as his hips jerk. You feel him come, painting the inside of your cunt as he continues to thrust into you while his tongue does the same to your mouth. It’s desperate and you’re sweating in your uniform but you don’t care. It feels far too fucking good.

When the high finally eases and he rolls off you to lie beside you, you sigh in relief. Fuck that was something, you think.

“You call that worship?” you pant, turning your head lazily to look at him Your makeup and hair must be absolutely ruined because his is completely ruined. He looks deranged with his hair falling in his face and his paint all smeared.

He hums. “Si. My lord believes in the power of the female orgasm. Is there anything more divine than pleasure?”

You shake your head, mind still foggy with bliss. You utter the only words you can think of. 

“Did you still want your inflight meal?”

He grins at you. “Maybe in an hour or so, signorina. I just ate.”

[cupfullofpapas]

Not my best but I tried realistic, I think I'll stick to my usual style tho x'D!

[cease-your-release]

"To What Do I Owe This Pleasure, Papa?"

You are summoned to Papa Emeritus IV’s office, where a pregnant Copia awaits your attention, which you are more than happy to give him. (Fluff, 2,210)

Content warning(s): VERY light angst, mention of gender dysphoria, MPREG

I have such brain rot for pregnant Copia,,, wanna kiss his tummy,,,

As a wise someone on here once said: “I am a man who can get pregnant writing about men who get pregnant.”.

Also on AO3!

The tap of your leather shoes against the freshly polished tile floor of the ministry halls is striking and quick.

You were doing your usual duties, going about your job as normal, until the phone of your department rang. “Papa has asked for you.” Said to you the sister who answered it. To them, it may have seemed cause for concern. You knew better.

It wasn’t long at all before you reached the doors of his office, excitedly knocking at the wood. In response, you hear a voice equally as giddy call out for you to “Come in!”. You do, shutting the entrance behind you, and are met with the image of your partner, sitting behind his desk with a stupidly lovestruck grin on his face.

“Amore, what took you so long?” Copia asks with exaggerated distress, though the ruse doesn’t work as well when he can’t stop cheesing.

“It wasn’t even two minutes!” You respond with a laugh, making your way over to him. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Papa?”

He rolls his eyes and giggles. “Very funny…” His voice drips with sarcasm, turning his chair while you round the corner of the large desk.

And oh, what a sight it is.

His papal robes may hide it well enough, but to you it was unmistakable, especially in a seated position. When facing you, unobstructed by the table before him, the slight outline of his subtly rounded stomach was immediately in your focus. Copia is roughly 6 months along now, though it’s fairly difficult to tell when you cannot utilize the on-site medical professionals in the workplace, and getting an outside visit would not go unnoticed by one Sister Imperator. The others may have their suspicions about your relationship, but none were aware of his pregnancy, you weren’t even sure most of them knew of his ability to bear children. You estimated based on time frame and size, and kept telling yourselves that you would coordinate a day off to take a trip to the local clinic to see for sure. That had not come to fruition yet.

“It’s nothing too pressing, tesoro. Just that I- we… wanted to see you.” He answers your question, bringing a hand to rest atop the bump. That causes the jeweled fabric to shift, and accentuates the shape. You honestly can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not anymore.

“Ah, of course.” You say with a knowing smile. “Did they tell you that?” You lean forward to press a kiss to his forehead, which he hums happily at. One of your hands supports your weight on the armrest of the chair, the other settling over the one of his on his belly.

“Sì, they did! Bambino has been using me like a punching bag, and I could hear them calling for you. I told them ‘Mi dispiace, Bambino, Baba is hard at work, you’ll have to wait’, but…” He gestures to himself with the free hand. “You know how it is, eh?”

The two of you had thought of names by now, but nothing was truly settled on just yet, and you still didn’t know the sex of the baby. His solution was to simply call them “Baby”, like a temporary name, though you both preferred the way it sounded in his mother tongue.

You laugh at his reenactment, and nod in playful agreement. “I do know, Papa.” You say, sliding your hand down to the side of it. You go in a circular motion, a gentle caress. That earns a soft noise of appreciation from him.

“Will you ever tire of that?” Copia asks.

It was a little joke you had thought of shortly after the discovery. About a week in, you were trying your best to go about your work day like nothing was amiss, and you saw him in the hallway. A formal greeting, you bowed your head and said “Good afternoon, Papa.” and that was when it clicked. Later that night, in the safety (what little there was, anyway) of his bedroom, you revealed it to him. “Because you are Papa, and you will be a Papa!” You said. “Ahh, I see! That is very clever, amore.” He laughed along with you then, but now it was like a bad pun- and he liked those, so that meant something.

“Mm.. no, I don’t believe I will.” Is your answer to his question back in the present. He scoffs. “How are you feeling?” Your voice turns much more genuine, almost serious, and your expression reflects that. You could always be lighthearted, but the underlying worry never really subsided.

“I am… better, now that you are here with me.” He sighs, eyebrows pinching upward. His eyes meet yours, and you notice they suddenly seem much more tired than just a moment before. "Non è poi così male quando sei in giro..." Comes from him in a near whisper.

Pregnancy was no easy feat, a fact only made more evident when you throw gender dysphoria into the mix. There were good and bad days, and this one was erring on the side of the latter. You helped Copia throughout all of the steps of top surgery, and were more than happy to do so, but that was a lot of time off, of which neither of you had enough left that year. Bottom surgery was top of his list, but he had to wait at least a few months to get there. In that time is when it happened. Despite the hormone therapy and consistent protection, one day you were waking up to the sound of retching in the suite’s bathroom. That could have been a one-off, but after a week you took an unpermitted trip to the corner store. He called his doctor to figure out the best course of action, but in the end it was up to him. He mulled it over for days, you hardly talked about anything else. You made sure to tell him that there was absolutely no pressure, no need to do this if he was not absolutely positive he wanted it and was able to. In the end, he wanted children, biological if it could be helped, and it could. He temporarily stopped taking testosterone, and now here you are.

“I’m glad I can be that for you, sweetheart.” You say. The hand on the armrest raises to cup his cheek, albeit carefully so as not to smear his paint. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, since he nuzzles right into your palm. The other stays on his abdomen, which allows you to feel a most heartwarming occurrence. From within, something small presses against your fingers. Both of you notice immediately, and don matching, beaming smiles within the second.

“You see? What did I tell you? I’m getting beat up here, huh?” He jokes, each word laced with a giggle.

“I do! That one was pretty strong, I think you may have watched those ‘Rocky’ movies too many times.” You return the humor, though your excitement is palpable- you may even be a little proud. Strength is a good sign in development, right?

“There’s no such thing!” Copia replies in faux offense. A lot of his free time, especially once he started showing, was spent watching films from his vast collection. As much as he loved movies in general, the iconic boxer had always been somewhat of an inspiration for him, so they played quite a few times over the months. “I believe Bambino would like some kisses from you, caro.” He suggests, biting his grinning lip as he gazes up at you from his seated position.

“Oh, would they now?” You ask, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. “They told you that too, I take it?” He nods. You let out a small chuckle at his antics, and slide down to your knees before him. Already, you can’t wipe the smile off of your face, just loving seeing him like this. It is a nice angle. Carefully and slowly, you raise the intricately bedazzled fabric of his robes. He holds it up as you pull it past his ankles, then knees, until finally his midsection is revealed. You meet his eye. “No shirt again?”

“None of them fit anymore, tesoro.” He reminds you matter-of-factly, which is fair enough. None of his usual under-attire, anyway, but he refused to wear his casual tops with the papal getup.

You make a face as if to say “You got me there.”, and turn your attention back to the task at hand. Your gaze falls before you, to the swelled bare skin peeking out from under the bunched up regalia and over a pair of black pants. Perhaps just because it was him, and with your child, but the sight was truly something you could never stop adoring. Subconsciously, the fact that it was kept hidden may have influenced your feelings, the idea of nobody else being able to tell while you couldn’t not notice was enticing to say the least. On either side of the bump is black suspenders, which he found he had to use after not being able to properly fasten his trousers. You gently unclip them, and he sighs in relief. They did put a visible amount of pressure on the underside of it, metal clamps pushing up against his skin. “You could always just undo them when sitting here all day.” You offer, and instinctively begin stroking the flesh with your fingers where imprints of the buckles had formed.

Copia hums in response to the touch before answering. “Yeah, and if a clergy member walked in I would have to stand, and then my pants would drop to the floor.”

That was a good point… and an admittedly amusing image.

“You could wear no pants at all…” You say playfully, glancing back up at him.

“Ah, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” He replies with just as much humor, and nudges your side with his knee, which pulls a laugh from your throat.

You wink at him, but waste no more time, and lean in to press your lips to the top of his rounded belly in a soft, tender kiss. You hear a gasp, but can’t quite get a good look at his face from down here. Even so, you grin, and bring both of your hands to rest on his sides. You trail kisses down the bump steadily, all the while faintly caressing the peripheries of it, which causes him to make a series of tiny noises ranging from sharp intakes of breath to chuckles. Evidently, pregnancy didn’t make him any less ticklish. Nearly halfway down, you manage to catch a glimpse of him. He’s looking at you through one open eye, a faint flush painting his ears, and an adorably wide smile. You swear he could truly melt you if he tried hard enough- or not at all, really. After reaching the end of your path, you add a few more around less calculated spots here and there, and rest your forehead against it with closed eyes. He’s quite warm, but perhaps that’s due to your actions.

“Anche noi ti amiamo, caro.” Copia mutters after a few long moments, and brings a gloved hand to your head, lightly stroking over your hair.

You smile, then press one last kiss to his stomach, right above his belly button, which you had observed has been turning into an “outie”. You go to reattach one of the suspenders to his pants when his hand blocks your view.

“Leave them, per favore.” He requests quietly.

“Not worried about flashing the clergy anymore?” You inquire lightheartedly in response, and begin to pull the robes back down over him, watching as the fruit of your labor disappeared underneath.

“Ah, they probably won’t come see me today.” He answers with a sigh. “Besides, I might have to call you back before the day is over.”

You raise yourself from your spot on the floor, having unfolded the garment to its end. “My department is already wondering about these frequent visits, Papa.” You warn, though only half of you really cares right now. You lean over him again, your faces mere inches apart.

Copia straightens his posture, which allows him to reach you for a quick kiss. “It’s not up to me, yell at Bambino.”

“I could never.” You respond with a quickness, your tone only half joking, and reciprocate his little peck before standing upright. You had spent a suspicious amount of time in his office by now, and the both of you knew you had to be leaving soon.

“I know, amore…” He says, stroking your upper arm before watching you step back, not taking your eyes off of him just yet. “I will call and tell them that I kept you, that it’s my fault.”

Before you can tell him not to worry his pregnant head about it, the landline on his desk rings.

He presses his index finger to his lips, and with his other hand makes a “shoo” motion. You blow a silent kiss to him before opening the door and stepping out, trying to fix your expression to be anything less than elated.

You know he’ll send for you again.

Translations (kind of):

"Non è poi così male quando sei in giro..." : "It's not so bad when you're around..."

“Anche noi ti amiamo, caro.” : "We love you too, dear."

[lovesomehate]

Dew and Copia making me stop everything just to make these 🧎🏻

[i-fondued]

Kinktober 2022 | Ghost - Punishment

When Cardinal Copia catches his favorite Sister of Sin out of bed after curfew, and with Terzo no less, he knows he must dole out the punishment himself…

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x Reader/Sister of Sin Rating: Explicit Warnings: Dominate/Possessive Copia, spankings, dirty talk, Terzo being Terzo, and once again poor google translate italian A/N: This has been in the works for two days now and I have needed about 5000 mental cold showers, my praise kink is surely coming out with this one ahahahaha enjoy!!!

For those of you who prefer to read on AO3 HERE is the link!

I couldn’t sleep, the thunder outside rumbling and echoing down the dormitory hallways. Tossing the blanket and sheets aside I slipped out of bed, huffing as I pulled on a pair of thick socks.

“Cup of tea and right back to bed…” I grumbled to myself as I pulled on my robe and tied the belt tightly. 

I peaked out of my door and checked the hallway for any senior sisters. I myself was a senior sister but this late at night it wasn’t always a good thing to be caught out of bed. I closed the door as slowly as possible, the door barely creaking as I shut it. Silently as possible I snuck past Sister Imperator’s room, down the back stairs to the ground floor. I followed the long hallway, past the library I called home, and found the large cafeteria. Creeping in the shadow, I slipped through the galley doors and sighed, knowing I was at least out of sight if someone was to peek in the room.

Putting a kettle on I went through the motions to ready my teacup, two scoops of sugar and two teabags. I leaned against the countertop and crossed my arms while looking out the windows to outside. I could see the storm brewing, lightning flashing every so often. Lazily I let my mind wander, just thinking back on the events of my day and what I had planned for tomorrow, so engrossed that I didn’t hear the doors to the kitchen swing open. 

“Bene ciao, Sorella.”

“What the fuck!?” I jumped what felt like fifteen feet in the air, hand on my chest as my heart felt like it was going to pop right out of my chest. Turning towards the sound of the voice, I couldn’t help but clutch at my robes. “Satan below, Papa.”

“Ah, mi dispiace.” Papa Emeritus III, Terzo, smirked at me. He looked me up and down, coming over to lean casually against the countertop across from me. “I heard the sound of someone moving around the halls, just wanted to make sure no ghoul went…ah how you say? Prowling.”

“No, I’m sorry Papa.” I looked away from his mismatched eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d make myself some tea.” 

“Si, si. I understand.” He stepped towards me and I shied away slightly. His hand came up to brush my hair off my shoulder, I shuttered as my face flushed. “I’ve not seen you with your hair down, Sorella. It suits you…”

I flushed bright red, I’d never been all that close to Terzo like this. Sure, all of us siblings of sin looked up to him as the figurehead of the church. But since I had joined the ranks of the Siblings of Sin Terzo had been on tour and never seemed to have lots of time to spend with the siblings beyond meals and mass. He was hypnotic in the way he moved, his mismatched gaze seeming to pin me in place has he prowled towards me. I felt his hands slip down my arms and slide to my waist. Faintly I heard the whistle of the kettle but I didn’t move.

“Papa, I-“ 

“Call me Terzo, Bella…” He gripped the counter on either side of my hips and began to lean towards me. My heart beating rapidly in my chest, frozen by his eyes locked on mine. I leaned back slightly, unsure of what to do while my eyes slipped from his white eye to his lips.

Suddenly the kettle stopped whistling and someone cleared the throat. I turned away from Papa, looking towards the sound, but he turned first heaving sighing as he moved to brush his hair back from his face. 

“Ah, buena serata, Cardinale.” Papa said jovially, I however wanted the ground to come up and swallow me whole. 

“Papa,” Cardinal Copia spoke, I slipped from behind Terzo with my eyes cast down. “Sorella…”

I looked up at the Cardinal, his face may have looked neutral to anyone else but I knew him too well. He was furious, his face just slightly flushed as he had his hands behind his back. Copia didn’t even look at Terzo, no. His eyes were locked on mine. I noticed he was still dressed in his everyday black cassock, biretta perched on his head. It was silent for a moment, the only sound in the room coming from the steam from the kettle and the sound of leather gloves creaking as he flexed his fingers.

“Cardinal, you see the Sorella and I-“

“I was just getting some tea and then heading back to bed, Sir.” I blurted, cutting off Papa who looked shocked that I even spoke. “I’ll head right back to my room now…”

Stepping away from Papa, my eyes looking only at Copia, I started to pass by the Cardinal. I felt his hand grab my wrists. I looked down at his hand then back up at his face, feeling the leather of his gloves against my skin as he gripped tightly. 

“You are to come with me, Sister.” 

His voice left no option for argument. I bowed my head to him slightly, unable to look him in the eye. 

“I do not think that is entirely necessary, Cardinale…” Papa started and Copia finally broke his gaze on me to glare at Terzo.

“Sister has been caught out of bed, I will handle her punishment.” Copia gave Terzo a dirty look before leaning closer to him. Papa seemed taken aback by Copia’s attitude, so used to the mousy version of him.

“Cardinale…”

“Go find another Sorella to warm your bed, donnaiolo.” He spat at him, before tugging me along with him. 

I looked back at Papa with shocked eyes, surprised that Copia had the gall to say anything like that to anyone, let alone Papa himself. Terzo just had a wild smile on his face as he shook his head before turning to pour the kettle into my cup. He nodded at me, lifting my cup in my direction in a mock cheers before Copia pulled me along and I lost sight of Papa.

Retracing my path from the kitchen to the main hallways, neither of us said anything. I followed along, struggling to keep up the pace set by Copia, until we turned down a long corridor full of the many apartments of high ranking men of the church. Confused, I pulled back against his grip on me, but despite his size he was incredibly strong.

“C-copia..?” I whispered, he looked back to shush me before he pulled open the doors to the rooms at the very end of the long hallway. The Cardinal practically tossed me into the room, shutting his door as quietly as possible before turning his furious mismatched eyes on me.

“What was he doing down there with you?” He hissed, stalking towards me. 

I couldn’t help but back away from him slowly, a small amount of fear caught in my chest and my throat. I’d never seen him like this before, fury written on his face and his one white eye practically glowing in the low light of the room. Copia’s chest was heaving with ragged breaths, my own heart thrumming painfully in my ribcage.

“N-nothing! I couldn’t sleep because of the storm. I went downstairs to make some tea, Papa snuck up and startled me, that was all.” 

Copia didn’t say anything at first, instead slowly he stalked towards me and forced me to back up into the wall behind me. His eyes drifted from my eyes to my lips, pausing momentarily as he licked his own lips before turning his dark gaze back on me.

���Did he touch you?”

“W-what? No!” I stammered, completely taken aback by his statement. My cheeks flushed and a small spark started something deep in my belly. I would be lying if I said this total change in his demeanor wasn’t doing something to me.

“Don’t lie to me, Sorella…” Copia’s voice was low and deadly as his hand came up to wrap gently around my throat. My heart rate skyrocketed, pulse thrumming in my neck. “I am not someone who shares, ne sono un uomo paziente.”

“I swear Cardinal.” I mumbled, unable to stop myself from the small pants that slipped past my lips. His lips quirked slightly, brow razing as he smirked. 

“Hm…” He murmured, his fingers brushing against the bottom of my jawline and pulling softly at my bottom lip. “What to do with you, Cara Mia…”

Copia’s free hand came to press against the wall, cornering me so I couldn’t escape him. My heart felt like it was going to bust out through my sternum, my eyes frantic as they locked on his. My face was red hot as his fingers gently squeezed my throat, a small strangled whimper slipping past my lips. 

“Cardinal..?” I squeaked, his hand around my throat slipped down pushing my robe to the side and undoing the belt. I stood there, shivering slightly as he exposed my nightgown. I hadn’t worn anything under the soft, simple cotton fabric. My nipples pebbled beneath the fabric as Copia’s leather clad hand skimmed gently over my breast. 

“You have been caught out of bed after curfew, Sister.” He purred, voice dangerously low. “And with our Papa no less…”

“I would never, Cardinal…” I whispered as he leaned in, his hand gripping my wrists again and pinning them above my head. His lips hovered just barely out of my reach.

“I must punish you somehow, cara mia.” Copia’s lips brushed against mine as he spoke and I couldn’t help but squirm against him, my thighs trying to find some relief for my aching core. “…ma come punirti…”

Copia’s eyes locked with mine before he surged forward, lips stealing my breath away as he kissed me. His free hand came up to tangle in my hair at the back of my head, tugging on the curls to angle my head in the way he liked. I moaned into the kiss, my hands scrambling to try and reach out to touch him. He pulled away from me then, I couldn’t help the disappointed gasp that slipped from my lips. He paused for a moment before letting go of me and walking away towards the small sitting room that was in the entrance of his chambers. 

The room was dimly lit by the fireplace, a small fire keeping the room warm but not unpleasantly so. In front of the fire was a small sitting area; a couch on one side of a coffee table with a pair of chairs on the other. The space reminded me of his office with bookshelves filled with his own personal collection. To the side there was a large ornate cage and I could see at least three of Copia’s pet rats curled up in a ball, all of them cuddled together. 

Behind the sitting area I saw a pair of pocket doors, the doors open enough that I could see the slight shape of Copia’s bed. My face flushed, feeling like I was trespassing in his space, as I followed behind the Cardinal. Despite everything he and I had done together, we’d never come to his rooms before. We both had a serious fear of being caught by Sister Imperator or Papa Nihil, and even worse was the idea of being caught by any of the Papas again.

Copia stalked over to the couch, sitting down and leaning back. He sat with legs parted widely, I could see the outline of his cock hard under his cassock and I felt my core thrum with heat. I stood a few steps away from him, blushing furiously as I laid my robe over the arm of the chair and crossed my arms.

“Come, Sorella.” He growled, his anger still simmering below the surface. 

A thrill shot down my spine as he beckoned me forward with his fingers. He pointed to the floor between his legs and I obediently kneeled for him, knees digging into the rich Persian rug on the floor. My eyes looked up at him, the light from the fire casting shadows on his face and his one white eye standing out boldly against the black paint. My hands sat in my lap but they itched to touch him, to convey all my love and adoration for him so he always knew it was only him. I knew better though, Copia was rarely ever the one in control in our encounters but when he was I relished at primal instincts he had.

“Cardinal..?” My voice was hoarse and deep as I tried not to squirm under his eyes. “Can I-?”

“Silenzio, Sister.” He hissed, leaning forward suddenly and gripping my chin. I jumped slightly, heartbeat stumbling, and my breathing grew harsh. “Come.”

He gestured for me to lay across his lap. I moved quickly, slightly shy as I laid across his strong thighs. I could feel under my stomach as the muscles in his thighs clenched as he helped shift my weight so I wasn’t digging my hip bones into him. My top half was at an angle so I could rest more of my weight on the couch, my hands already coming to grip the fabric of the cushion as I looked over my shoulder at the cardinal. His left hand was pressed firmly against the small of my back, pinning me down. My thighs clenched again, I could tell I was already soaked and ready for him. I knew if he even brushed against the apex of my thighs I would have slammed head first into my orgasm right then and there.

My eyes were locked on his as he bit the middle finger of his glove on his right hand, pulling the leather away to reveal his pale hand. I bit my bottom lip, a small shiver running down my spine, as I felt his hand slide up my calf and caress my inner thigh. I moaned softly, burying my head in the couch cushion as he chucked at me. 

“Ten marks I think are a fitting punishment, Si Sorella?” Copia murmured, his voice thick with arousal as he slowly pulled my nightgown up to explore my bare ass. He swore under his breath, something Italian that made my ears burn with heat and embarrassment, as he realized I wasn’t wearing any underwear. “Cazzo, Sorella, you are una ragazza sporca…”

His hand brushed against my bare skin and I couldn’t help as my hips bucked back into his caress. Copia teased me a few times, letting my hips roll against him as I panted in his lap. I could feel his cock straining against the fabric of his robes as Copia tried to remain composed, his thighs just barely flexing beneath me as he fought to keep from pulling me into his arms and sinking deep inside me. 

“I want you to count with me, dolcezza.”

“Yes, Cardinal.” I whispered, his hand caressing me one more time. Before I could even tense up I felt the impact of his hand on my bare ass, heat and sting blooming to life. I gasped, flinching and looking over my shoulder at him. 

“Sister?”

“O-one.” I stammered, fingers clenching the cushion as I squirmed under his eyes. 

Again his hand caressed the spot he just spanked me, a slight burning feeling but not unpleasant and I couldn’t help as I arched my back against his soft touch. A pause and another spank hit me, this time on the other cheek. I flinched, my breath coming out as a hiss and my eyes squeezed shut.

“Two.” I gritted my teeth, my breath shuttered through me. 

Copia’s fingers brushed slightly against the welt his hand left and I arched into his caress. Another moment and another spank, this time he hit the same spot as the first mark. I cried out this time, tears forming slightly in my eyes, and I felt Copia pause before his hand on my lower back caressed my shoulder gently. 

“The count, Cara Mia…” His voice soothed me slightly as the rhythmic feeling of his left hand, still clad in leather, caressed my bare shoulders and upper arm. 

“Th-three.” I whimpered as the sounds of our haggard breathing mixed. I felt his bare right hand drift between my legs just slightly, fingertips ghosting against my soaked slit. I felt him take a deep breath, his thighs clenching tight.

“Santi sotto…” Copia groaned, his hand once again spanking me. I cried out this time, legs twitching against his as rubbed my thighs together. The tears spilled from my eyes this time as I focused on the intricate pattern weaved into the fabric of the couch. 

“Four.”

Another crack echoed in the room, my skin burning while my face felt hot and the warm tears continued. 

“Five.”

“Only five more, Sorella.” His voice was husky, my breathing was coming in short bursts and my fingers itched to touch him. The sensations were too much for my overly sensitive skin. 

“Yes Sir.” I spoke and my voice was low and soft, sniffling slightly. I heard Copia groan as I called him Sir, his hips grinding up against me. I felt his cock stirring against me and I longed to pounce on him but I was deterred to finish my punishment.

Crack.

“Six.”

Crack.

“Seven.”

Crack.

“Eight.”

Crack. 

“Nine.”

I was panting, there wasn’t any way to hide it from Copia, and I didn’t even care. I must have looked like a mess to him; grinding against his thigh to cause any sort of friction to my clit, my nightgown hanging off my shoulders as he had his left hand on my back pinning me down. I knew I had tears in my eyes and wet trails from the ones that had already spilled down my face, I’d been gnawing at my lips to keep as quiet as possible to not wake any of the other clearly members. I felt his hand leave my back and I couldn’t help but turn to look back at him. 

Copia was flushed with arousal, his mismatched gaze filled with lust and heat that made me whimper when his eyes locked with mine. His hand that was previously on my back ran through his hair, his biretta long discarded and tossed onto the coffee table. I was mesmerized as he took the leather glove off his other hand, tossing it behind him as he leaned down towards me. He pulled my nightgown down, snapping the thin strap on one side in the process. He kissed between my shoulder blades, I moaned softly and arched up into his touch as he soothingly caressed the red splotches on my bottom. 

“One more, Sorella.” He murmured as he leaned over to brush the tears from my eyes. “Sei stata una brave ragazza, si, a very good girl…”

Without any warning he spanked my ass, the hardest of all of them. I cried out, louder than before as he scooped me up in his arms and brushed the hair from my face. 

“Ten.” I whimpered, my hands finally reaching up to tug him down to me. He peppered my face with soft kisses as I sniffled against his chest, cheek pressed against his thrumming heart beat. 

“You did very well, mia amata.” He murmured, kissing my forehead and rubbing my back. His other hand came to my chin and tilted my head back. I gasped at the look of his eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal. Copia leaned forward, pressing his lips to mine gently at first before I was squirming in his arms, desperate for more. 

I’d never been so turned on in my life and I needed relief, the dull ache of my redden ass was nothing in comparison with the inferno between my legs.

“Copia, please.” I begged as my hands pulled him to me, kisses becoming more frantic as his tongue slipped into my mouth coaxing and teasing my own.

He pulled away from me and I fought back a sob from my throat. Copia helped me stand, taking my hand and tugging softly towards his chambers. My eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly. The back wall was taken up by three massive stained glass windows which shone in the dim moonlight, his bed was at least a king size four poster made of solid wood with thick velvet curtains that were tied back. His bedding was a deep, blood red and his bed was made with almost military precision. 

Turning me towards him, he slid the one flimsy strap of my nightgown that was still attached from my shoulder. The cotton fabric slipped down my body and pooled at my feet, I stood there naked and squirmed under the intense gaze of the mysterious Cardinal. 

His hands came up to cup my face, and he kissed me like a man possessed. One hand slipped to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair before tugging sharply. I moaned quietly, my own hands reaching out to grasp at Copia’s cassock to steady myself. His lips trailed down my jaw, nipping at my neck before he traced my pulse point with his tongue before biting down and sucking at the sensitive skin. I cried out his name as I pressed myself against him and groaned as my forehead rested against his shoulder. His lips traveled from my pulse to my shoulder, leaving another love bite, before he came to suck and nibble on my collarbone. 

Suddenly he began to back me up towards the bed, the backs of my legs pressing against the edge, and sat me down. I leaned back slightly as he kissed my lips, his hand cupping my face gently. He pulled back and I looked up at him standing above me quizzically. 

“C-copia?” I stammered, heartbeat thrumming in my chest. 

“You are mine, Si, Sorella?” He purred, his voice dangerously low.

“Of course,” I couldn’t help the blush spreading on my face as I reached out to cup his cheek, feeling him lean into my open palm. “Only ever yours, Copia. Nobody else…”

I’m not quite sure what came over us then, if it was the confession or if he finally understood that he had walked in on something innocent in the kitchens but suddenly it was like a race to undress Copia from his many layers. I pulled his ornate belt off, throwing it to the side, as he started unbuttoning the cassock. I started to unbutton him from the bottom, our hands meeting in the middle. He surged forward as I pushed his coat from his shoulders, his lips crashing into mine. 

Our breath mingled, I let out a strangled moan as I pushed the suspenders from his shoulders, nails scraping down his back and leavening marks in his skin through his thin undershirt. He grunted, leaning down as we teased each other’s tongues, to haphazardly pull his shoes off and throw them behind him. I tugged at his shirt to untuck it from his trousers; desperate to finally, for the first time since our stolen moments began months ago, feel his bare skin against mine. Our mouths parted for only a moment as I pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the side before we crashed together again. 

“Sorella…” Copia groaned as my hands tugged at his trousers, unbuttoning them and slipping my hands in to begin to push them down his hip. Copia’s forehead rested against mine, his eyes closed and I smiled, leaning in to kiss his forehead tenderly. 

I leaned back on my elbows against the mattress, sliding back slightly, and locked my eyes with his own as I opened my legs for him. His eyes widened as he watched my hands drift from my breasts, teasing my own nipples with quiet moans, to slide down my body to slip in between my legs. Before I could touch myself however he was on the bed, his hand grabbing mine and pinning them above my head. Copia was leaning over me, his breath coming out in sharp pants as he looked at me with hooded eyes. 

“I do not think you have earned relief yet, Tesoro.” His voice was thick with desire, his hips slotted against mine as he rolled them against me. 

We both moaned, Copia leaning down to lick and suck a trail from the sensitive part of my neck to my breasts. I desperately wanted to thread my fingers through his hair but my hands were pinned to the mattress in his grip, I tugged slightly and whimpered as he slipped his tongue to tease my nipple. I arched up into his mouth, greedily searching out more of the sensation that sent shockwaves to my core. I rolled my hips against him again, a needy sort of whine slipping from my lips, as I felt Copia’s smirk into my skin. 

“Please…Copia.” I begged, tears of frustration back as he took his time to tease me till I was panting beneath him. His free hand slipped between us and ghosted over my aching core. I moaned loudly, hips surging forward to find any sort of friction. Copia moved his fingers so they barely brushed against my soaking wet slit.

“Ah, mia bella, is this all for me?” He crooned in my ear, his lips brushing against the outside of my ear. A shudder ran through me and I thought I was going to simply combust if he didn’t touch me. “You are so wet for your Cardinale.”

His fingers finally slipped into my wet heat and my back arched as they slid against my clit. I cried out, wrists tugging against his vice grip, and closed my eyes as I felt the warm sensation of my slowly approaching orgasam coming. He teased me, my cunt clenching his fingers every time they just barely entered me. When he pulled his fingers away entirely I practically sobbed till I felt the head of his cock sliding up and down my sopping wet slit. 

“Copia, please…” I pleaded, my finger scratching at his hand as I desperately fought to get out of his grip.

He didn’t answer me; instead he gripped my right thigh, hiking it up over his shoulder before he slammed fully inside me. I practically shrieked as he bottomed out inside me, our hips pressed flush together. He groaned, burying his face in my neck to suck and bite at my heated skin. He pulled out of me almost completely before snapping his hips and slamming back into me. I moaned his name, over and over, as my ass throbbed below me from sliding against the bedding beneath me. 

He set a brutal pace, the sounds of our bodies coming together were borderline obscene in the quiet of Copia’s bedroom. The heat settling in my belly was consuming me, my body felt flushed and hot as I writhed underneath him. Copia’s free hand came to rest next to my head, he pushed himself up and finally let go of my hands as he tossed my other leg over his shoulder. His hands came to grip my hips tightly, pulling me along to match his thrusts, and he groaned deeply. My hands reached out to touch the exposed skin of his chest, nails raking through his chest hair and down his belly before I let them drift to grip onto his forearms. I held onto him, nails coming to dig into his skin, as I panted. 

“Copia…I’m close.” I groaned, back arching as his hands moved to grip my shoulders, pinning me beneath him as his pace quickened.

“Sei mio, Sorella. Only mine.” He grunted above me and I nodded my head.

“Yes,” I panted, the coil in my belly curling tightly as my orgasam approached. 

Suddenly Copia stopped, pulling out of me entirely. I cried out, the inferno in my belly blowing out to only a dull ache. Before I could physically attack him, Copia flipped me over on my hands and knees with strength I didn’t know he possessed. He curled around me, taking my wrists and pinning them down again in his hands as he slipped into my aching cunt. He slammed his hips against me, pace brutal as he fucked me harder than he ever had before. 

The feeling of his hips slapping against my bruised ass was just on the right side of agony when matched with the feeling of his cock hitting deep inside me. I felt the tears pricking in my eyes. I felt like I was going to lose my mind, all I could focus on was the feeling of the man behind me who was using my body in such a delicious way. 

“You cannot come, Sister. Not till I tell you too.” Copia’s voice was strained but dangerously low. 

I nodded, not able to trust my voice but I felt his hand let go of mine and wrap around my throat. He squeezed firmly, a shockwave running down my spine and turning the coil of pleasure in my belly tight, I let out a strangled cry.

“Say it, amore.”

“Yes, Cardinal.”

“Who do you belong to?” He panted, hips shuddering in his rhythmic thrusts. I arched my back against him as he curled around me, his mouth coming to press frantic kisses to my shoulder. 

“You Copia.” I cried, tears now streaming down my cheeks as I fought my orgasam. I was right on the edge, my cunt clenching against his cock as I tried to hold back. 

“Who can touch you?”

“Only you.”

“Chi possiede la tua fica?” He growled in my ear, teeth digging into the flesh where my neck and shoulder met. 

“Y-you!” I cried out “Copia, please! I-I cant…”

I felt a shutter building in my core and my hands reached back, digging my nails into his strong thighs as I panted below him. His grip on my throat tightened and my cunt clenched against his cock, a strangled cry slipping from my throat as he cursed in mumbled italian. His free hand slid between our bodies, his weight crushing against my back, and as his finger brushed my swollen clit he mumbled in my ear. 

“Vieni a prendermi, Principessa.”

The grip on my throat flexed again and I felt the spring in my belly snap suddenly, I came harder than I ever had in my life. I practically screamed Copia’s name, muffled by my face buried in the bed at the last second. I felt a sharp pain bloom in my neck as Copia drilled into me, he had bit down on my neck so hard I knew I would have teeth marks for days. I didn’t care, I was barely coherent or even on this planet. Faintly I was aware of his thrusts losing his rhythm before his hips snapped roughly into me one more time. I felt his cock twitch as he came sharply, thrusting weakly through our aftershocks as shutters ran down my spine.

“Cara mia…” he whispered, his lips pressing soft kisses to my bare back as he eased me from my aching knees to my belly. His hands rubbed the back of my thighs as he pulled out of me, coming to curl around my body. “My good girl, absolutely perfecto…”

“Copia.” I murmured, a soft smile on my face and my eyes barely open as I turned on my side to face him. I felt his strong arms pull me towards him, our legs tangled together as we basked in the afterglow together. “That was…”

“Si, si.” He chucked, leaning forward to press a kiss to my forehead. “I-I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay, Cope…” I mumbled, burying my face in his chest as he smoothed my hair back and away from my face. I didn’t even register that I’d given him a pet name. “I think I could get used to that…”

“Oh mio amore…” Copia sighed, hand brushing against my cheek. “Stay tonight?”

“I don’t think I could make it back to my room if I tried…” I laughed, my eyes drifting open to look at his face. His paints were a complete mess and I smiled at him. “Go wash your face, I’ll fix the bed.”

He kissed me softly, fingers brushing against the love bite on my shoulder before he stood and walked over to where his bathroom must be. I couldn’t help but watch his thick thighs and ass wobble as he walked away, a familiar ache starting in my belly again. While I listened to the water running I slipped from the middle of the bed to the top, sliding under the covers to find silk sheets. 

The rhythmic sound of the water made my eyelids slide closed, I didn’t even notice Copia come back into the room till I felt the bed dip slightly. I fought to open my eyes but he kissed my brow, tugging me to him again.

“Dormi, amore.” He chucked as I stifled a yawn. “You need rest.”

“Goodnight, Copia.” I mumbled as I buried my face in his chest, my legs tangling with his. 

“Goodnight, mio amato.” He murmured in my ear as he kissed me softly. I was asleep before his lips left mine.

[korn-y-copia]

Popia at Disney World (feat. the ghouls, Sister Imperator, Papa Nihil, and Mr. Saltarian)

So I am at Disney this week, but the Copia brainrot is so real he has seeped into every thought and every scenario in my head, so here are some headcanons I came up with while in the parks!!!

Starting off with Epcot: on “living with the land,” the ghouls (Aether specifically) go wild.

There’s a section of the ride where produce is being grown, and there’s always a banana tree. Aether gets a little hungy, and jumps out of the boat to absolutely devour the fresh fruit. The ghouls follow behind, climbing out of the boat, eating edible (and inedible) plants alike until they are promptly escorted off of the attraction

Meanwhile, Copia remains seated pinching the bridge of his nose like a disgruntled chaperone.

Copia absolutely loses his shit on “Remy’s Ratatouille Adventure.” I mean, ‘nuff said, the guy loves his rats, and the idea of sitting in a rat-shaped ride vehicle while being (literally) surrounded by rats, is just the neatest concept to him.

He would definitely be all “oh, haha!”—kind of like how he is at the beach house in Chapter 13. It would definitely be his favorite ride (because, as part of the fandom has headcanoned, I wholeheartedly believe “ratatouille” is his favorite movie, or up there in terms of his favorite movies anyway)

On that note, he probably sings the song from the movie—“Le Festin”—to his rats before bed every night, but definitely stops when he finds out the meaning of the song, and sobs.

Magic Kingdom: I think Copia would get a set of Mickey ears—like the classic ones (with “Cardi” or “Cardi C.” Embroidered on the back)

He also buys all the snacks: popcorn, Mickey ice cream, you name it—and yes, it gives him tummy aches, but it heals the inner child in him who didn’t to get to have these kind of experiences with, well, anyone 🥺

Haunted mansion: enough said, this is the ghoul’s favorite ride—Copia too enjoys it. (Ghosts dancing in the mansion? Call that “dance macabre” 🥴🥴🥴)

Hollywood Studios: While it’s no longer there, Copia would’ve loved “The Great Movie Ride.” In this ride, you got to go through recreated scenes from classic movies (I’m still not over them getting ridding of it, so maybe I’m projecting just a little bit?) and I could just see him being so excited, and epically misquoting them with not a care in the world ❤️❤️❤️

In the “alien” portion, where aliens would pop out of the ceiling and the walls, I could def see the ghouls screaming their heads off, Copia too probably.

This one is kinda mean I am so sorry, but I feel like Copia doesn’t like roller coasters and I could see the ghouls convincing him that the “Tower of Terror” is not a roller coaster, despite the screams that are coming from it as they approach.

He is totally inconsolable afterwords and refuses to talk to the ghouls so they have to buy him a Mickey ice cream or a churro to make it up to him (which it does) but now he just has another tummy ache again.

Okay, now let’s add Nihil and Imperator + Mr. Saltarian to the mix (briefly)

Even though Nihil is a “phantasm,” he’s complaining about all of the walking he has to do, so he makes Copia wheel him around instead because he wants to spite him or hate him or both idk what the fuck is up Nihil

Imperator makes Copia put on sunscreen every two hours because he has sensitive skin

She also maybe, but definitely does (albeit begrudgingly) carry around snacks for Copia and the ghouls—probably Scooby Doo fruit snacks or some shit

Copia is definitely internally screaming because he can’t just get one goddamn vacation without Nihil or Imperator inserting themselves

Saltarian is there too probably, but what is he doing? I have no idea, the man is an enigma.

I hope these are okay. If they are so absolutely ooc, please let me know! I just thought of them and wanted to share, thank you for reading!

[quaildoodle]

K+C <3

[the-lisechen]

~5.7k. copia/f!oc. rated gen. she's a bride-to-be of christ. he's sworn in service to satan. they have dinner. 2/2

(banner and unwavering support by @enjoy-my-swearing)

find part one here and here!

say it slow and perfect, chapter 2/2 - ao3

Copia slid in the other side, and Sophie turned her head to look out the window, unprepared for just how close he was on the faux-leather bench seat. Two handbreadths away. She wasn't actually seeing anything outside, her brain gone to static and an alarm both formless and very loud. He was saying something to the driver, her brain couldn't quite process what, while old soul music warbled on the radio. Sam Cooke? Something smoother than Otis Redding, in any case. It was the perfect Lynchian touch to her unfounded panic. His sudden proximity. That cologne, leather and smoke, with an underlying sweetness that could have been vanilla or myrrh. 

He'd been speaking. He'd been speaking to her.

"--Have you been to Charleston before?"

"No." She thought she'd recovered without the lapse being immediately obvious. "No, not here. I'm from Appalachia, this here's low-country. Different flavor of south."

"Appalachia?"

"No, no. It's Apple-latch-uh. You say Appa-lay-chia, I know not to take your opinion seriously."

"Your American South, this is a strange place, I think. A country in and of itself. Certainly it is where we get the most trouble. Yet you speak of it as if you love it."

"I do. I do love it, it's home. Even if it wasn't, there isn't anywhere in America I'd rather live."

"Even with the continual human rights violations, and the racism, and the outright hatred?"

"Even with that. But that isn't--"

"--isn't all that it is, you are going to say?" His smile was sharp, but fond, she thought. 

She had to turn to look out the window, a little rueful. "Hate to be predictable, but yeah." Maybe she should have stopped herself from talking, but it was a familiar topic, and with him so close, she didn't have quite enough nerve left to restrain herself. "It fails because it's been failed. After the Civil War, the collapse of Reconstruction fucked it up real good. Things were looking up there for a little bit before the Klan really got rolling, we had a bunch of Black legislators, reparations might'a been a possibility, and then Grant backed down on his way out of office, and-- poof. But I love it. I do. The food. The history. The music. The land. The legacy of struggling for something better."

"I sense a pattern, with you," he said, and she looked back to see him watching her with mingled amusement and respect. 

"I'll allow that you might," she said, amicable and implacable. 

He took his eyes off of her, watching the city slide past, and it was a little easier to breathe. "Beautiful and beyond repair. And you won't cut your losses."

"I mean, I figure that if you're committed to harm reduction, makes sense to go to the places that've had the most harm."

"'The least of these.'"

"Yessir, that's exactly right." She sank further back into the seat. Yes, that was definitely Sam Cooke. Swing Low? or was it Mr. Soul? She couldn't place it. "Where you taking me, anyhow?"

"A restaurant, unless I am fundamentally mistaken. It should be close now, I believe it is attached to the hotel in some way."

"Sounds fancy. I don't-- am I underdressed, here? I didn't think to bring--"

"No, you're perfect," he waved her off, thankfully missing how that small turn of phrase hit her. 

She recovered after half a breath, glad he was looking off down the street. "That's kind of you. I clean up pretty fair, though this ain't cleaned up. But if you're sure."

"Ehh, I am quite certain. Ah, yes. Here." The taxi pulled up, and Sophie had a brief stutter of surprise as Copia again got out first, stepping around the cab to open her door. He made an odd aborted little movement, and Sophie realized he had meant to actually hand her out of the car, as if this was some kind of fucked up Austen novel. She found herself both charmed by the intent, and warmed by the restraint. 

She fell into step beside him, and he led her to an old storefront building, a red lantern completely overshadowed by an old hotel with an elaborate awning. The antiquated gaslight spilled over the cobblestoned street, through palm trees, magnolias. 

"Oh, this looks interesting. Where'd you find it?"

"You must let me preserve a certain air of mystery, Miss Turner."

"Would you say that you move in mysterious ways?" she asked, with a grin that could only be described as shit-eating. He groaned and she outright cackled, too delighted to be embarrassed by her decidedly inelegant laughter. Nobody was ever going to describe it as musical. 

"You are too much, signora." But he was still smiling as he held the door for her, and she had to smile back. She stepped through that leather and smoke. Best not to think about it. She took in the restaurant as he spoke to the hostess. Low light, exposed brick, pressed tin ceiling, Peggy Lee on vinyl. A whole Vibe. She decided she liked it. 

A voice broke through her woolgathering. "--have your reservation. If you'll come this way, sir?"

Copia reached out to her, stopping short of cupping her elbow. "You will like this, I think."

She followed, scoping out elaborate cocktails and elegantly plated dishes, stunning artwork on the walls-- bright florals on stark black backgrounds, a whole series of them. The hostess led them up a wrought iron spiral staircase that had to be a bitch to carry cocktails through. Up, and out onto a rooftop filled with fairy lights and trellises draped with sprawling lilac, honeysuckle, jasmine, all framing a stupidly gorgeous view of the harbor. 

Sophie gawked. She'd never been good at controlling her face, but when she caught him smiling at her dumbfounded expression, she pulled herself together. Her cheeks felt hot. It never failed. She'd make a lousy poker player. Well. At least he didn't make any smart-ass comment, other than looking supremely smug, which was comment enough. 

Once the hostess had walked away, she kept her eyes demurely on the menu. "You made a reservation, huh? And you didn't think I was coming?"

She was proud of herself for containing her glee when he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat a bit. "Ehh, well. We wait in joyful hope, don't we?"

"You really do think you're funny." Hard, now, to bite back her grin, but she managed. Somehow. Turned her attention to the menu. "My goodness, where have you taken me? 'Blue cornbread, chicken confit, cheddar cheese and blueberry reduction.' Good God almighty."

"I believe the phrase is, eh, don't knock it," he said, keeping his eyes on the wine list, "until you've tried it."

"I'll admit I'm intrigued. What the hell, I'll give it a shot." She tossed the menu down lightly, and sank back into her chair. Absurdly comfortable, odd for outdoor furniture. The space had a couch as well, a low coffee table, scattered chairs, and-- was that a chiminea? She took in the warm lights, the crosshatched trellis, the hanging flowers, the view. Jasmine and lilac. "This is," she said, "incredibly nice. I'd never go somewhere like this on my own. So, y'know," she darted a sidelong look at him, a little shy. "Thank you."

"Hmm." He smiled, and something in it made her safe. "You are very welcome, Miss Turner."

She nodded, once. She was safe, here, with him. It was as if something had been decided, and-- 

--the waitress came for their order. Pork shoulder for him, the blue cornbread chicken monstrosity for her, and she kept her face fairly steady when he quietly asked for a bottle of a Paso Robles '17 Zinfandel. So they were going to be here for a while. That seemed alright. 

"Where were we? Mysterious ways, I think."

"Just so. tell me-- Dominican, was it not?"

"That is correct, yessir. By way of the Maryknoll Sisters."

"Hm. what is the process like? The-- how is it. Formation, I believe it is called? I understand that this takes some time."

"It does. It certainly ain't for everyone. Different orders do different things. Jesuits, they take seventeen years sometimes. Masters degree just in theology, not to speak of whatever other kinda specialty they got going on. Jesuits are hardcore. Dominicans ain't so bad, in comparison."

"Ah, but we aren't speaking of the Jesuits. It's you I'm interested in, Miss Turner. The Dominican order. You said Maryknoll? Your formation, your process. How did you come to this?"

"Well. Me personally-- discernment took a while, but that's different for everyone. I was in the congregation for a year, communal living, you know? And that was a learning curve, right there. Formation itself generally takes two years," she smiled, a touch wry. "I needed two and a half. Not always the brightest bulb, but if you can pound a concept into this thick skull, it tends to stick."

"I highly, highly doubt that. There is a level of modesty that borders on disingenuous, you know. And you haven't answered my question. Why this? Why a Rule. Couldn't you find an easier way to serve your God?"

"I found it, I dunno. Elegant. It's spare, but in that spareness there's room to maneuver. Like a sonnet, you know? The inherent structure of the thing makes a framework, but within that framework you can do anything. It's the structure that holds it together, and it seemed to me that-- in that way, you could make your life art. Into prayer. You understand? It's like--" and she gestured at the hatched trellis holding the jasmine vines up-- "you see this? How it grows on this framework. It seemed to me that the best way to get closer to God would be to climb a ladder that other people had found to be reliable. And I think that all my life, I've really wanted nothing more than to be closer to God."

"Are you?" he asked, his eyes soft but assessing. "Closer to your God?"

The waitress came with their order. Sophie was grateful. Copia leaned back, letting her go, for now, with murmured thanks to the waitress. He poured the wine while Sophie took the first dubious bite of this blue cornbread concoction-- and froze.

"This is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth."

Copia blinked at her and grinned, as if she'd made a particularly good joke. "Is it, now?"

"Oh, yeah, here, you gotta try this." She pushed the plate at him, gratified when he picked up his fork, and even more so when he stared at her. "Right? This was a great choice, well done."

"You see why I am known for my impeccable taste," he said, wiping his mouth with great gravitas, as she barked a laugh. "This is, what? You call this collard greens?"

"Yeah, that'n might be more of an acquired taste, you'll have to let me know what you think."

"Hmm." He busied himself with fork and knife, and they applied themselves to the very serious business of food. Which was, as bitter as she could be about a certain class of gentrification, phenomenal. She just about thought she'd gotten away with it, when-- "I do notice, signora, that you have dodged my question. Do you feel closer to your God, in your discipline?"

She chewed at that really marvelous blue cornbread dish, giving herself time to solidify an answer. "I think," she said, carefully, "I would say that I most clearly feel God when I am acting in service to His children." She sat back with her glass of wine, and at his raised eyebrow, she continued. "Look, if you're asking me if I hear His voice or something, I dunno what to tell you, except it's not for the likes of me. That's for mystics and possibly schizophrenics. All I know about God is love for His creation. Anything else is above my pay grade. What, you gonna tell me Satan speaks directly to you every night?"

"And what if I did?"

"Then I'd thank you kindly for the meal and a lovely evening and back away slowly till I got far enough away to run."

"Yet you will dedicate your life to this, eh? A nun. A bride of an intangible Christ you will never hear, or see, or feel."

"You wanna get technical about it, I'm not gonna be a nun-- that's for the contemplatives. I can't imagine spending my life in a convent. That there's a level of discipline I can't even wrap my head around. No, I'll be what's called an active sister. Out in the world."

"So you are not a Julian of Norwich, contemplating from your cell, merely tugging on the strings of the outside world."

"No, not an anchorite. I'm not much of a theologian, be honest with you-- more about praxis than theory." She picked up her glass and stared into it, swirling the contents as if she'd find an answer or an out there. "No. I am-- will be-- a missionary." And why had that word been so hard to get out?

She dared a look up to his face and saw why. Something like loss, or horror-- she had such a hard time reading him sometimes-- but the dismay was there before he wiped it away. "Ah." It was his turn to look down, although he recovered admirably. "Laying aside the, eh, colonialist implications--"

"Thank you for that."

"--a missionary to where?" Was she imagining the tension in the tilt of his head?

"Colombia, probably. Healthcare, food insecurity, that sort of thing. Not a lot in the way of conversion, if that's what you're thinking. Already a Catholic country, not much there to convert. I'm going to learn, not to proselytize."

"No, that doesn't-- it wouldn't seem to be, ehh. Your objective." His eyes wouldn't stay on her face. He fussed with the stem of the wine glass. "It is far from home."

"Yes. It will be that."

"And yet you are not afraid."

"Oh, I'm terrified, I can't even get my head around it yet."

"That, I would not have guessed." He looked up from under his lashes at her, oddly coquettish. "You do not think your God will protect you?" And by now she could catch the smile he was biting back. 

"Don't be an ass. Ain't like that."

"What are you afraid of, then?" It seemed an honest question, not unkind. 

She turned the glass under her fingers, a quarter turn, half. "...failure, I guess. There's a certain amount of trust implied, job like that. One tries to keep one's word, you know? And there's a degree of responsibility that you take on."

"Of course. But how are you defining failure? I have a hard time picturing you shirking your duties."

"Mm. That's kind of you. It comes back to service, I suppose. I wouldn't want to not be able to take care of the people I'm there for."

"Service I understand. Responsibility for your people. They've been entrusted to your care, yes? Your-- is it a congregation if you are not officiating the liturgy?"

"We can call it that, for lack of a better word." She watched the candlelight, took a slow sip of her drink as she screwed up the courage to look him in the eye. He'd been watching her, intent, and meeting those mismatched eyes with sincerity left her feeling exposed. "They love you. Your people. That crowd."

"They do."

"Your flock."

"'Flock' implies sheep, Miss Turner. And we are not that."

"As you like. Still, the responsibility of it-- it must be a strange weight to carry."

"It is. But there is also, I think, gratitude. For the trust, just as you say. I care for them as best as I am able." Being the focus of that incisive and mismatched gaze wasn't going to stop being unsettling, she thought. Even if he was smiling. Maybe especially then. "Are you asking a Satanist for advice on pastoral care, Sophia?"

"Just because it isn't my ministry doesn't mean I don't recognize it for what it is. You're good at it." She watched him react to that, the infinitesimal widening of the eyes, the drop of his mouth, before he filed it away. "You are. I just got done watching you taking care of your people. I wouldn't bullshit you, not on this."

"I think you are perhaps incapable of bullshit." Dry, and a little arch. He wouldn't meet her eyes, shifting in his seat. "You know, a focus on the individual does not exclude one from taking responsibility. They belong to nobody but themselves, of course. But as you say, you've seen them. How can I not give what I can, in the face of that?"

"Because you're a good person, probably. Look, I--" She was drawn up short by the look on his face, the plain bafflement. "What? What is it?"

"It is-- not what I would have suspected, from a committed Christian."

"Why on earth would you think that? I think you're wrong, that doesn't mean I think you're bad. When did I ever say otherwise?" She sat back, surprised at just how badly that stung. "Did you really think so little of me?"

"Ah." Whatever the look was on her face, it made him drop his eyes. "I--. Ehh, it, it may be that I have some-- preconceived notions. Not so little of you, no. What it is that you represent. Your Church." He glanced up at her, briefly, and then back down, took the glass in both hands, maybe just to occupy himself. "You are-- you have been a surprise to me."

"I can't say that I was expecting this, myself," she said, a little dry, still smarting from the implication. "Certainly not how I pictured the tail end of my postulancy." She took a sip from her glass, buying herself a little time. It really was a good Zinfandel. 

"And yet. You do think I am damned to Hell. Don't you?"

"Is this some kinda self-flagellation thing for you, right now? Because I feel like you're horning in on territory my people traditionally occupy."

"You are unusually open-minded, but surely, there are some things you cannot  condone. I don't understand how you can believe what you believe and still be here."

She tapped her short-cut nails on the wine glass. "...you heard of Gregory of Nyssa?" He shook his head, and she continued. "You'll like this one. Or you'll be so offended you'll throw me out, not sure which." She took another sip of the wine, leaving perhaps a swallow left in the glass. "So he has this theory, yeah? A little logic exercise. If God's love is infinite, and if eternity is infinite, then, it just stands to reason-- 'no being created by God will fall outside of the Kingdom of God.' Universal reconciliation. In the fullness of time, everyone gets saved. Just might take some folks longer than others."

"That is. Tremendously insulting," he said, but his eyes sparkled at her. It made her nearly as warm as the wine did. 

"Yeah, pretty sure it's heresy. And free will is kind of an essential part of the doctrine. I think he mighta meant it as a thought experiment more than anything else, but it's a warm and fuzzy thought, isn't it?"

"That everyone will come to your Christ?" He took up the bottle, topped her off with an efficient movement of his wrist while she raised her glass. "I cannot say that it is."

"I don't think that a God that would throw anyone to eternal suffering would be worth following. If that's what I thought, I'd have a duty to rebel." She flicked her eyebrows up at him, mollified by his slow half-grin. "Laying aside that I think that's a pretty mean and shitty and shallow way to think of God-- also I might circle back to this wretched conflation of punishment with justice, though I've been guilty of it myself-- think we're getting a little further afield." He propped her chin on her hand, watching him. "You really need my approval for what you're doing? The pastoral work."

"Need? No. But I would not mind, say, comparing notes."

"I haven't done the damn thing yet, all I got is theory, just at the moment. Also I kinda feel we might have some differences here."

"You think so? How is that?" Maybe it was the wine, or maybe she was finally catching on to one of the kinds of social cues she'd always been abysmal at identifying, or maybe she was just getting a feel for the man-- the way he was watching her, the tension at the corner of his mouth, the banked amusement glittering behind his right eye-- she still couldn't read the white one at all-- he was enjoying this. Winding her up and watching her go. Playing with her. "Other than your God being a tyrannical despot and your Church being the source of incalculable suffering and the true author of every imaginable evil. Aside from that?"

"Tell me, once you get done sacrificing infants and bathing in their blood, is that when y'all start the orgies with the goats? Or is it the other way around?" She did manage to keep a straight face, but it was an effort. 

"Orgy, then sacrifice. Blood gets everywhere, dries sticky, and you very much do not want it near your, ehh-- bits. It is not sexy."

"I'll keep it in mind for the next time I find myself at an orgy. I always wind up so confused at those." She shook her head, tracking the corkscrewing flutter of a bat diving for bugs in the wash of the streetlight below. "Jackass. No, but this is where we actually get to praxis, right? And different situations are gonna call for different approaches, different priorities. How you deal with someone suffering from malnutrition is different from how you deal with someone suffering spiritual malaise, but also one of those things is gonna be a lot easier to detect. I don't get the impression you deal with a whole lot of hungry kids in your day to day practice, so how do you approach it? What's your biggest challenge?"

"Hm." He leaned back, hooking an elbow over the back of his chair, glass in hand. "Day to day?"

"Yeah. Other than whatever crazy shit happens while you're on tour, I imagine that's its own particular brand of difficult."

"It very much is. You would not believe." He rolled his eyes, witnessing some internal horrors, and took a drink of wine as if to clear his thoughts. "In the day to day-- we have a Ministry, yes? And our own kind of monastics. This is where I spend the bulk of my time, when I am not doing," he gestured expansively with the wine glass, "all of this. I think I would say-- Hm. Most people are not raised by Satanists. Primarily my charges are converts, and there is so much internalized-- guilt, I suppose. Shame. Even when you know you have nothing to be guilty about. There is much to deprogram. We do not have confession, as such, but I do serve as a spiritual advisor. They come to me with their fears, their uncertainties. Their... needs." He raised his glass to his lips and lingered, expression neutral, watching her. His right eye was very dark. "I find I spend a great deal of my time helping my people unlearn the idea that there's anything to be ashamed of about desire." As if he didn't know how he looked, with his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed just so at the ankle, his arm sprawled over the back of the chair, the long lean languid line of him. 

Sophie hoped that she kept her face still. She couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't look at that eerie white, how it burned, how it seemed to see so much. The weight of it was almost physical. She focused on his hairline, and kept her voice even. "That must be very challenging." 

"...Yes. Well." He looked down at his glass and she could breathe again, with his eyes off of her. He leaned forward slowly, folding in on himself, to set it down, almost apologetic. "It becomes reflexive."

"I see." It was too much for her. Nicotine was suddenly imperative. A small sharp noise as she set her glass down on the table between them, and she pulled her purse to her, reaching past her sunglasses and a bottle of hand sanitizer for her cigarettes. "How do you-- it's gotta be tough. What I'm having trouble getting my head around, what I'm worried about fucking up, is-- how do you build that kind of rapport? That they feel safe enough to come to you with their problems?" At least she didn't have to look at him, fishing the pack out of her purse. 

"That was not easy. You must seem enough of an authority that you are capable of solving these things, but also approachable enough that they will not think of themselves as-- ehh, bothering you. Or a burden. It is a delicate balance. You must project confidence, yes? Don't let them see you sweat. That was a challenge. Is still a challenge. But people? Trust? There, it is--" He spread his hands. "You just-- pay attention."

"And attention is the highest form of generosity." 

"Just so. Is that... Simone Weil?"

She had to stop, with her cigarette halfway to her lips, utterly delighted. "Copia. Did you actually read Gravity and Grace in between here and Asheville?"

He looked down, straightening the edge of his suit. "Ehh. There was time, on the bus. Not all of it, it is fairly dense, but some."

"I'll be damned." She shook her head, sparking her zippo and bending her head to the light. "Believe I said this before, but it bears repeating: you are very good at your job." The smoke drifted towards him, and between that and the strange expression on his face, she couldn't look at him. She got up and moved to the ledge, downwind, leaning her elbows on the railing, looking over the Charleston skyline, such as it was. Live oak and Spanish moss, streetlights like fireflies in the gloom. It all seemed very Southern Gothic to her, ostentatiously so, the faint sounds of conversation and traffic floating up, a glass breaking and a chorus of drunken laughter. The wine hit her in a rush, warm all the way through and a little unsteady. 

Copia had moved to her elbow, following in her wake. He reached for her cigarette and she passed it, a thoughtless and fluid motion, and it was only after he was taking a drag that she realized she'd done it like they had been doing this for years. It scared her badly, much worse than his heavy-lidded eyes when he had spoken of desire, and she couldn't articulate why. 

"You really think this," he said to the skyline. 

"Why does this surprise you? I'm missing something here, I just don't know what."

He tapped ash off the cigarette, a little fussy. "Most of our people are converts."

"So you said."

"I am not. I was-- it was expected, that I would go into the clergy. I was not called, as you were." And at her look, "I do enjoy it, I am fortunate, as I have said. But it is not, ehh. Second nature."

She took that in for a moment. "I wouldn't have thought you were a man given to much self-doubt. What would you be doing, if not this?"

"Ehhh." He gestured expansively with her cigarette, passed it back to her, and she took it without thought. "Honestly I do not know what. I am, largely, content. Truly, I am, you don't have to look at me like that. But I wonder, from someone who was called-- what is it that makes you say so? That I'm good?"

"Good at this, or just good?"

He shrugged, laced his fingers together, looking out at the city as if he couldn't meet her eyes.

"It comes to the same. It's attention. You pay attention. To your people. To me, and you have absolutely no reason why you should pay attention to me. You're leading them, and it looks to me like you don't even have to think about it, and I don't know if that's because you're a natural, or because you've worked really hard to look like a natural." She took one last drag on the cigarette, resolutely not thinking about how it had been between his lips a moment before. This wasn't the time. "I have seen bad at this, and you ain't that. The leadership-- I don't understand that at all, and it's probably where I'm gonna fuck up."

"Believe me when I say that I have every confidence in you. You will be just fine. Sophie." Something in his voice made her turn to look at him, and his eyes broke her heart. "You are going to be magnificent."

He was so close, she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. It ought to have scared her more than it did. "I. What makes you say that?"

"You care. You care about things so much. You are on fire with it. The light you give off-- I could find you from miles away.  You are so-- you're so warm." The way he was looking at her. And then she was afraid, suddenly. "Who wouldn't want to come in from the cold?" Those mismatched eyes, seeing so much, catching her like a butterfly under glass. 

She had to turn away, before she did something she couldn't take back, put space between them, and never mind that it felt like running. "That's kind. Thank you." She dropped herself on that elegant little couch, feeling shaky. 

Copia was leaning back on the railing, watching her. "Kindness has nothing to do with it. I am right, is all. You'll see. I have faith."

She had to laugh, running her hand through her hair. The drive, the show, the wine, whatever strange thing she'd narrowly avoided, it was all catching up with her. She dropped her head back onto the couch, and closed her eyes. "You are funny."

She felt the other end sink under his weight. "And here I was under the impression that, eh. I only thought I was funny."

"Didn't wanna inflate your ego too much, there." Whatever danger he had posed had passed, and now she was just tired. Tired, and safe, and fading fast. 

"Sophie?" Her name in his mouth. Strange. Vaguely, she had the thought that she liked the sound. 

"Mmm?"

"Are you falling asleep?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

"As you like."

The sound of crickets, distant drunken laughter, cars going by every so often, a faint Etta James song. She drifted. 

Some indeterminate amount of time later, someone draped something over her shoulders that smelled like smoke and leather and safety. Turning inward, she  laid her head on something warm, and slept. 

*

Sophie woke gradually, soft peach-colored light the first thing she was aware of. Sunrise over Charleston harbor, ridiculous piles of fluffy pastel color, pink and purple and that orange sherbet that seemed unreal, a frame in a Miyazaki movie. The water reflecting the color of the sky, framed by the scant few blocks between here and the waterfront. It had been an impressive view at night. In the morning it was ridiculous, absurd, a feeling of total unreality. 

The second thing she was aware of was that the warm surface under her head and hand was moving in a slow rhythm. And, it seemed, snoring very softly. 

Carefully, she did not freeze. 

Giving up sex was one thing. It was fine, sex, pleasant enough but not a harrowing loss. You could do without it. At times she would have spells of arousal so intense it was like a thunderstorm rolling in-- impersonal and connected to no actual human or image or sound, passing through her internal landscape with the insensate, thoughtless force of a natural disaster-- but these things passed away just as easily as they had blown in. And anyway she had two good hands. She could take care of herself. 

But this. 

This warm body under her cheek, the tidal rise and fall of his breath displacing her weight by millimeters, a cycle perhaps a third of a second slower than her own. The steady and organic cadence of his heartbeat in counterpoint to her pulse. The smell of him, wool and sun and leather and myrrh and a trace of something sour, like wine, or maybe sweat. The weight of his arm over her rib cage, pressing her closer into him, anchoring her. 

To give this up. The simple animal comfort of being half-held. He didn't even know he was doing it--! To wake up curled into the side of a person you knew you were safe with, who held you in some sort of regard-- intolerable. An unimaginable sacrifice. Too much. 

Well. She didn't have to give it up this instant. 

She lay there, listening to his heart, and watching the colors change in the sky, and carefully did not think about things coming to an end. Until, at last, she heard a sharper intake of breath underneath her, a stiffening of muscles. He froze, and held his breath. She heard his heart rate pick up, felt a featherlight touch over her hair. It lingered, the barest suggestion of pressure, and then she felt him beginning to try to extricate himself. 

"No," she said. 

He went absolutely rigid. "Signora, my apologies, I did not mean to--"

"No, I mean. Can we stay like this? Just for a little while longer."

He settled under her, a slow unspooling of tension. Tentatively, he put his arm back around her shoulders, cautious, as if she were a wounded bird that would try to thrash away if startled. "Anything you wish, Sophie." She felt his voice as much as she heard it. What a thing, to feel a voice. "Nothing you do not."

Together, they watched the light spill back into the world.

[copiousloverofcopia]

Could you do headcanons for Popia trying to propose to his S/O, but things keep going wrong (the ring mysteriously vanishing, them being interrupted right as he’s about to do it, S/O having lots of work/chores to do that day so they have to work late and cancel the date he had planned in order to propose, ect ect, basically the entire universe is determine to prevent this proposal)?

Wonderful ask Anon... 💒💍

Definitely sounds anxiety inducing something we all know our beloved former Cardinal turned Papa would "love" lol

Anyways.....

According to Plan

Also available here on A03!

SFW, below cut for length

Copia has been planning this night for weeks. Although if he were honest with himself, he's been planning since the day you met. It seemed from the moment your eyes met across the nave, you were Hell-sent just for him. Staring into those eyes and being held in your arms every one moment thereafter—more paradise than anything else the rest of the world could offer him.

You just understood him—down to his core. While others may have snickered or laughed, you found his nervous habits and quirky personality endearing. He knew that only you loved him for who he truly was. Despite all his faults and perceived shortcomings, you still had eyes only for him and he, absolutely, worshiped you.

The time came when, nerves be damned, he needed to make you his. Before Lucifer, the church, and everyone else—all he wanted was to spend the rest of his life with you. So he bought a ring, one he was sure would look beautiful upon your finger. His next step was to enlist the help of a few select ghouls to set up a romantic candlelight dinner deep within Primo's garden.

Everything was planned out to a T and when the morning of the proposal came, Copia was more than excited---he was ecstatic. He went downstairs, you having already left for your duties, patting the ring in his jacket pocket as he made his way through the main hall. It wasn't long before he bumped into Cirrus and Cumulus. The two ghoulettes, giggling to themselves as they saw him. Copia knew instantly that it was because Aether couldn't keep his mouth shut and told them.

"Shhh…not a word lionesses, sí?" He said, the look of anxiety painted across his face—so thick even his skull paints couldn't obscure it.

"Of course Papa, anything for you." Cirrus chuckled before the two of them scurried off. Copia felt relieved, dabbing the cold sweat carefully from his brow. He continued down the hall, tipping his head to those he passed. A noted pep in his step that made it obvious to the whole Abbey he was feeling happy.

He went to find you in the library, your common stomping grounds. Your frequent partner in crime, Mountain, helping to return books to the high shelves as he walked in. Copia peered past the ghoul down the aisle, not seeming to find you. Mountain noticed the shift on his face, setting the stack of books down beside him on the desk to inquire.

“Morning Papa, what can I do you for?” Mountain asked him, his sweet smile pinned ear to ear.

“Have you seen mio amore? He asked him, the Ghoul tilting his head and thinking.

“Can’t say that I have. Maybe she might be with Sister Imperator. I know she was telling me the other day that today was going to be a busy one with the new siblings arriving this week.” Mountain explained. Copia put his face in his palm, rubbing his aching head. With all the ideas, plans, and preparations of the proposal he completely forgot how today you might be next to impossible to find. It was worth it to look, after all he hadn’t even invited you to “dinner” yet. Copia, shaking his head at himself for forgetting.

He did as Mountain suggested heading to Sister Imperator’s office, only for her to chastise him for interrupting a rather lewd meeting with Papa Nihil—you were still missing. Copia headed down into the chapel, another favorite spot he knew you enjoyed when the stress of the day was too much. He was feeling it already and wondered if maybe you were too. Alas, still no fiancée in sight. He decided to check the refectory since it was nearing lunch time, maybe you were in there?

Copia walked to the archway of the refectory and saw you sitting there. A group of siblings and ghouls by your side as you laughed the afternoon away, a half eaten apple in your left hand and a clipboard in the other. The Papa let out a sigh of relief as he walked towards you. His furrowed brows, now replaced with a smile.

You looked even more beautiful today, Copia not sure how that was even possible. He went to pat his jacket once more, no longer feeling the ring inside it. He panicked, his heart jumping up in his chest and head ready to explode. How could this have happened, he thought to himself, frantically digging into his pocket only to be met with a small hole.

"Damn it Ravioli! Another hole you've chewed through…this time at great cost." Copia bellowed. His small rat companion, having had a frequent chewing problem as of late. Many a Papal robes turned into a tattered mess in his wake. Copia slumped down on a bench, his head in his hands, feeling hopeless.

He looked up, hoping to see you. To have just the sight of your face make everything better again, but you weren't there. He knew you were busy, probably didn't even notice him there before you left. He still turned around to search the room. His head swiveling so fast, he might have given himself whiplash. Suddenly Aether put his hand on his shoulder. Copia looking up at the ghoul with tears in his eyes.

"Hey boss, everything ok?" The ghoul asked him. Copia sniffled back, trying his best to hold in the intense emotions that were bubbling up inside.

"I've lost the ring, there was a hole…it's gone. Now what do I do?" He asked. Aether squeezed his shoulder and Copia turned to face him.

"Alright ghouls, we got a mission!" Aether called out to the crowd. "I need everyone to look for Papa Copia's scent on the grounds. He lost something very precious. We must help him find it." With Aether's directions, the ghouls all did as they were told, all of them sniffling at the ground like wild dogs, waiting to catch a hint of Copia's scent. After only a moment from the front of the room, Rain jumped up off the floor. A round gold band within his fingers, black diamond glinting in the light.

"Found it!" He called out. Copia hopped up from his seat on the bench, running over to the ghoul with his arms held out.

"Oh grazie Lucifero. Thank you, you beautiful water ghoul you!" Copia cried, throwing his arms around Rain and hugging him tightly. Copa returned the ring to his pocket, one he was certain contained no holes. Things were back on track and Papa was so grateful. He thanked the ghouls profusely for their help and set off once more trying to find you.

Copia made his way back down the hall, seeing Primo approaching in the distance. The old man smiled gently at him. His sunhat still on his head from being out in the garden and a smidge of sweat on his brow. Copia walked to greet the retired Papa, taking off his hat in respect.

“Papa.” Copia said, his head bowed in reverence.

“Papa. How are you this fine afternoon?” Primo asked. Copia scratched the back of his head, trying to keep his optimism.

“Honestly Papa, it has been a bit of a day.” Copia sighed.

“Wouldn’t be because you're planning on popping the question to your sorella is it?” Primo asked, his gentle smile turned coy. All the color drained from Copia’s face, clearly the word was spreading. He wondered which of the ghouls decided to let the cat out of the bag. Praying to Satan that you had not learned of it.

“I…I…well you see Papa. I am planning on asking her tonight. I have made special accommodations with—” Copia began, Primo holding up a withered, but commanding hand.

“No need to explain, I too was in love once. You are looking for her, sì?” he asked him.

“Sì, do you know where she is?”

“She is with Terzo. Last I checked.” Primo explained, sending Copia on edge. It wasn’t bad enough that the universe seemed to be throwing him all the curveballs, but now you were with “Papa Cassanova ''. Copia was certain of your love and loyalty, he didn’t have that same trust with Terzo, his lustful endeavors knowing little boundaries. Copia thanked Primo for the information and made his way to Terzo’s office on the third floor.

As he approached, all manner of things went through his head. Would he find you there, succumbing to the affections of Terzo? He wasn’t sure but he had to push on. He knocked on the door, the third Papa beckoning him inside.

“Ah Copia! What brings you here?” he asked him. Copia walked into the room and took a quick look around. You weren't there, both a relief as well as a disappointment washed over him.

“Ah scusami Papa. I was told that I might find…that my…that she—” Copia muttered, his words falling apart before they could even escape him.

“That your amore would be here? Sì she was here a bit ago, but I have sent her on an errand in town. She will be back sometime late this evening.” Terzo explained turning his attention back to the mounting paperwork on his desk. Copia couldn’t believe it, this had to be a joke.

“You can’t be serious?” he asked him, Terzo raising an eyebrow at him.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I needed some errands done and she volunteered. I assure you she will be back before you know it.” Copia nodded in defeat, seeing himself out of the office. Terzo didn’t even raise his eyes back to him as he left.

Copia traveled down to the kitchen, checking on the progress of the meal. He had wanted something fancy but settled on Tagliatelle al Ragù—he was your favorite. The kitchen staff was working hard on the meal. The one and only thing that seemed to be going as planned.

As the day turned to evening and the sun began to set, the fourth Papa found his way outside, roaming the grounds until, without even trying, he found himself within Primo’s garden. The rest of the day had been a fog, Copia lost in thought and stressing about just how badly his plans had been going. He was pleased to find the table set up by the ghouls. A beautiful blue and gold hand-painted linen tablecloth draped over the table, two black candles a top golden candlesticks, and place settings for two. A simple but elegant set up he knew you’d appreciate.

He sat at the table, his leg crossed over the other, pulling the ring from inside his pocket and staring at it blankly. He felt a tap on his shoulder, turning once more to meet with Aether’s gaze. Copia tucked the ring back in his holeless pocket and spoke.

“Aether, is everything ready…it's almost time? I will need to go fetch her since I have yet to be able to tell her. I'd like to be able to bring her here myself.” Copia sighed.

“Well actually that's what I was coming to talk with you about.” Aether, tensed. Copia could tell, whatever the ghoul had to say, it was bad news.

“What is it?” Papa asked him, hoping somehow he was wrong.

“Well…I just got a call from the group that–ah went into town.” he explained, the ghoul hesitating to finish.

“They are gonna be late, Dew may uh…may have bitten someone.” Aether laughed nervously. Aether could tell Papa was not doing well, Copia's eye beginning to twitch and his jaw tightening. Aether tried to comfort him. The ghoul, knowing just how badly this whole thing was going but Copia wasn't having it. He stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the table looking like he was moments from a full blown meltdown. “Pap–” Aether began, cut off at the quick.

“No…” Copia chided. It got quiet between them, the candles flames fighting against the breeze as the sun sat just barely on the horizon.

“But I am sure they will be home…”

"Listen, just stop! Non riesco proprio a crederci, cazzo. None of this has gone right. I don't know why I even bothered…it's probably just a sign that she will say no anyway. After all, who wants to be with someone like me?” Copia asked, turning to face away, ashamed at how upset he had become as he looked over the hedges and beyond the garden.

“Cope? What's all this?" you asked him, his back still facing away from where you and Aether stood. He slowly turned around to face you, convincing himself he had hallucinated your voice. When his eyes met with yours, the tears fell from Copia’s eyes as he dropped to his knees before you.

“Cara, am I seeing things, is it really you? Today has been awful, nothing has gone right…you must be an illusion?” Copia cried, clutching the fabric of your habit tightly in his hands. You laughed a bit, not realizing just how much chaos had ensued.

“Amore, what are you talking about?” You asked, your eyes looking over him and seeing the beautiful and romantic set up in front of you. “What is all this about?” Copia got quiet for a moment, bringing his hand into his jacket and looking up into your eyes. The soulful and loving eyes, holding you. You could get lost in them for all eternity. Just him being near you, looking at you the way he did, sending your heart aflame.

“Sorella, amore, my life, my everything. I tried so hard to make this perfect. You deserve the world. All the beauty and grace that Lucifer has to offer. I wanted this to be so special for you and I have failed.” Copia said, his words filled with regret.

“Copia, what are you talking about?” you asked him, wondering why you being late for a surprise dinner was making him so emotional. Copia pulled his hand from his jacket, a golden ring revealed as he took your left hand with his.

“L'amore della mia vita, I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I feel your soul calling to mine as if they were once one." He began, his voice slowly gaining confidence as he spoke. "I can’t think of anything that would make me happier than to have you as my wife, my Prime Mover…will you marry me?” Copia asked you, your heart pounding loudly in your chest. He was right, you felt just the same. His life and yours feeling destined to be joined as one. You smiled at him, watching as he slipped the ring on your finger. You lifted it up to see its brilliance in the fading sunlight.

“Will you amore?” he asked, you just realizing that you hadn’t yet answered. You helped pull him up to his feet. Both of you face to face as the tears streamed gently down both your cheeks as you spoke.

“There is nothing I want more in this life or the next than to be your wife.” You vowed, Copia picking you up and spinning you around in the air. Both of you, dizzy and drunk in love and glee. Aether watched as Copia picked you up and carried you to the back of the garden. The two of you disappearing from view, the table for two left abandoned for more carnal celebrations. Aether laughed to himself.

“Well I guess things went according to plan after all.”

Notes:

Oh grazie Lucifero- oh thank Lucifer

Ah scusami Papa.- Ah excuse me Papa.

Non riesco proprio a crederci, cazzo.- I just can't fucking believe this.

L'amore della mia vita- Love of my life

[my-mummy-dust]

Help writing like, you need an idea? If so, I submit for your approval a request for a little sumptin sumptin...shy Copia meets new shy sister of sin who happens to share his love of rats? (She has one as a pet)

Them Rats

Word count: 801 Warnings: none, just a flustered sister and sweet Papa Copia

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

The rain pelted on the church windows. The halls were completely silent aside from the rain and the clacking of shoes on the stone floor, and your confused mumbles. You were the newest sister of sin, and now you were lost in the large, old church. You were on your way to Sister Imperators office as you ordered more rat food and she picked it up for you. since you had been busy unpacking for most of last week, you really haven't had much time to do anything else; between the tours of the church, going over basic protocol, and getting to know the ghouls and other sisters of sin- spare time for you was few and far between. You were looking at a crumpled piece of faded paper you sighed, leaning against the wall and shoving the piece of paper in your pocket you stared out the window; zoning out at the rain, once again being consumed by your busy thoughts of all the other things you have to do.

“Eh-you’re the new sister, si? I have not met you yet.”

You heard a thick Italian accent behind you. You turned to see who it was, it was the new papa you had only heard about. You knew it was rare for a sister of sin who wasnt assigned to help him to just- see him. You immediately thought of at least 10 sisters who would kill to see Papa.

“O-oh Papa,-“ you bowed out of respect, remembering that Sister Imperator mentioned that once before. “Yes…that’s me, i guess we haven't met yet- n-nice to meet you. can I help you with…anything?”

you held your hand out to shake. he gently shook your hand and gently kissed the top of it before letting it go. you noted his leather gloves and the way the church's silver symbol glinted in the dim lighting of the halls.

“Gratzie, sorella, but I’m alright. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Seestor mentioned there was someone new. Anyways, I noticed that you just look a bit…eh…lost?”

He raised a brow, somehow looking just as confused as you were. You nodded, finally admitting defeat.

“I'm trying to find Sister Imperators office…to pick something up..”

You admitted tiredly, ashamed that this was his first impression of you.

“Oh my Satanas, how did you end up here? Her office is on the other side of the building….May I see the map you were using?”

You nodded once more and pulled out the crumpled, faded piece of paper and tried to smooth it as best as you could, and handed it to him.

“Sorella, i'm afraid you were looking at it backwards…”

You felt your face getting red and hot, and you heard your heartbeat in your head. You reached for the paper with a shaky hand and shoved it back in your pocket. You looked back at papa and he was…smiling? And now he was laughing a little?

“S-sorry….Papa, I’m not very good with directions…again, I’m sorry, don’t waste your time with me, I’ll find my way there eventually..”

“No no-! I insist, I have nothing planned for the next hour so I have time to spare, please sister, come this way”

He started walking and you followed him, stalking just a few steps behind him. He slowed down to walk next to you, And after a few minutes of silence, the rain on the windows and the sound of your shoes clicking on the stone floor he finally spoke. His accent is a little lighter, but still very prominent.

“May I ask why you’re making your way to seestors office? The only time anyone rushes there like you are is when they are in trouble….not that I am speaking from experience…..heh”

“Oh I’m uh….picking something up..for my pet”

“Ah! A pet, who is the little guy?”

“His name is McCheesy…he’s my pet rat”

His eyes lit up like the night sky on the Fourth of July. He started to smile a large, goofy smile but he stopped himself. He walked a little faster and you had to speed up to keep with him.

“You have a rat! Oh meraviglioso! semplicemente meraviglioso!* I love rats! I have quite a few myself! Would you like to meet them after this? They’d love to meet you! You could bring what was it- McCheesy? Never mind that, you could bring him and they could meet! Only if you’re alright with that of course…am I talking too much? I’m talking too much…sorry…ahem..”

At first he was talking a thousand miles a minute, then at the end he trailed off. You smiled and felt all warm and fuzzy inside at the excitement of the man that you had only seen all serious, and seemingly cold. But now, he was like a little kid who was told they could get whatever they wanted at the store.

“No no, it’s alright! Is love that, what are your rats names? How many rats do you have?”

He went on the whole rest of the walk to seestor's office, and once you got the food for your rat he talked about his rat children on the walk back to your room. He went on about how each of them had a personality, what they liked and didn’t like. He talked about his rats like they were his family. You did end up bringing your rat to meet all of his. You spent the rest of the evening sitting on the floor of his room with him across from you, introducing you to his rats for a second time. The rats seemed to love McCheesy! And Copia seemed to love you as much as they did... -Fin

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

* Translates (roughly) to: Wonderful! Just wonderful! Or Marvelous! Just wonderful! 

I hope you liked reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! Thank you for the request! i haven't written anything in a while so it's not the best but i'm happy with how it turned out! sorry for any spelling/grammar errors

-♥️🐀

[luvlady-writes]

—𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒍.

A/n: This is a little something (104 words) I wrote while listening to "Bella from Hell" by Lordi on my way home.

I couldn't decide so this is from either Copia (The Band Ghost) for xReader or Castiel (Supernatural) for a xDemon!Reader.

This has no beta and since English is not my first language, expect some mistakes. Be gentle, I’m doing my best ♡

Requests and Ask box are OPEN.

Feedback is appreciated🖤

𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈…  𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰… 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰'𝒎 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈.

He knows she's evil incarnate but he can't help falling for her. 

Since the day he lay his eyes on her, he knew… 

He knew there was something in her, so dark and so evil. Even if she tried to hide it from everybody, behind the pure and innocent facade, he can saw her true self.

It wansn’t right. He knew he should put a ‘professional’ distance between her and himself, but her pull over him was strong. 

This is wrong, so wrong… he thought but his body reacted to her caresses and heat, telling the opposite. 

Couldn’t help but be bewitched by her.