#frater imperator fanfiction

[writingjourney]

𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐚 𝐱 𝐠𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

!!! this fic contains spoilers for RHRN, do not read on if you wish to remain spoiler-free!!!

It is an involuntary trust exercise. To give up what he built for half a decade, the legacy he took over, being forced to let it rest in the hands of someone else. Or: Copia is taking up his new position. It’s not an easy feat.

content: 1.8k words, gn!reader, angst, grief, hurt/comfort, some fluff and kisses, post!rhrn so spoilers, established relationship

Masterlist – Ao3 link

1 – White dust sheets cover the furniture like ghosts of a life left behind. The path forward is hidden underneath layers of insecurity and grief but as he packs up years of work in pre-used cardboard boxes it almost feels as though he cannot see the path at all.

His new office is just down the hall. It is a fast job. Two trips and his desk has become another ghost. One more trip and he has emptied out all personal belongings from the dusty shelves. The rest stays, not useful to him anymore in his new function.

It is an involuntary trust exercise. To give up what he built for half a decade, the legacy he took over, being forced to let it rest in the hands of someone else. Unlike his brothers he had no way to prepare who follows his footsteps and perhaps that is where the ache in his belly comes from – the uncertainty.

He cannot quite bring himself to unpack the boxes in his new office yet. But it is not his office anyway, Copia thinks. No, it is his mother’s office and he feels like an intruder placing his things on her desk. Her smell clings to the old fabrics, clings to him, a strong perfume that Copia has not been able to get out of his nose ever since he covered her body with yet another white sheet.

Yet another ghost.

It has not been long, he tells himself, a weak comfort. As he stands here with an old card she wrote him – Welcome Home, C! – he can hear the clicking of his mother’s shoes on the tiled floors like a faint echo that haunts the hallways of the Ministry. Everyone is busy preparing for this transitional period, mourning their Mother Superior, but now it is Copia who has to guide them, navigate them through this darkness.

He realises that he himself has footsteps to follow and that he is just as unprepared. A new era, for all of them.

“Love?”

He turns and his world lights up for a brief moment. You occupy the doorframe in a black mourning habit, the one all Siblings chose to wear in honour of his mother. Of course he finds that it suits you better than anyone else. But perhaps that is because he has felt the sturdy fabric against his wet cheeks so many times now that it means comfort, home.

“Do you still need help with the boxes?” you ask.

All he can do is shake his head. You approach and he wants to close the card, hide it away, not even sure why. You have seen the fallout, you have held him through the worst of it. Perhaps he is ashamed, in a way, that he cannot move on as fast as his new role demands of him.

“Was this from her?” you ask, nestling up to his side.

“Mhm.”

His hand is trembling lightly as you lay yours to rest on top of his. The swipe of your thumb against his bare wrist sends goosebumps down his spine and when you wrap the other arm around his waist his eyes are watering.

“Perhaps you can frame it, together with some photos,” you suggest.

He nods, leaning into your embrace as a solid rock forms in his throat. You hold him and he lets the silent tears run down his cheeks, gathering at the dip of his chin. Your thumb continues to draw slow crescents over his pulse. He can’t speak. He does not have to.

✦ ✧ ✦

2 – He is glued to the mirror.

You try not to fuss, he is nervous as is. It is first official day, after all.

“I didn’t know you had a new uniform,” you say with a lint roller in hand, joining him in the bedroom. The jacket is brand new, all black but unusual in its ornamentation, satin lapels that run from his neck towards his armpits. A clerical collar underneath sparkles against his Adam’s apple.

“I eh… splurged,” he says, cheeks dusted a bashful red.

He says it like he is wasteful, does it whenever he treats himself to something, but you also know he is wearing the same black winklepickers he wore as a Cardinal ten years ago, never replaces any pieces of clothing until he finds holes in the fabric, that he only bought new jackets when he could use them on stage to look his best for the audience. The suit is no different, it is as much a boost to his confidence as it is a display of his new status. A performance.

“It is a rather nice suit,” you note, running the lint roller down his back.

“Mhm.” He pauses, looks down at himself and tugs at the sleeves. “It is… unfamiliar.”

“You wear it well, Copia.”

He smiles and his confidence resurfaces. You find that he looks handsome in a completely new way. You have seen so many facets of him that you can tell he is beginning to mold himself into this role, even if he might not see it himself yet. In the mirror, a stranger is looking back at him through black-rimmed eyes but in time he will see himself again, a grown version.

“It is not all,” he says. “I… found something. In the desk drawer.”

He points to a velvety black box on the dresser. Inside, you find a beautiful ornament, two ruby brooches holding a bejewelled black grucifix, another ruby at the bottom. It is one of the most beautiful, elaborate pieces you have ever seen.

“A gift, I think.”

He looks uncertain when you glance up. But you have no doubt that it was meant for him, meant for today. You carefully take it out of the box, delicate as it looks it feels sturdy and well-crafted. One brooch to each lapel and the grucifix dangles over his heart. Light from the window catches in the gemstones, a prism splitting the ray into sparkles that reflect in the mirror, a spectacle of multicoloured beams flickering across the walls.

Copia watches the dancing lights, mesmerised, until the sun hides behind a cloud and the room is gloomy yet again. When you focus back on him a tear pearls from his left eye, running down his cheek and leaving a black streak in its wake. The piece is more than jewels – it is a memory, a promise, a token of trust.

“It is beautiful,” you say. “As are you, Copia. So beautiful.”

His smile is tinged with sadness but there is hope, now, too. You smooth out his jacket, admiring him for a moment, unconcealed, and he must see it in your eyes because the smile shifts until one corner of his mouth pulls into a lighthearted smirk.

“Do I get a kiss?” he asks.

You grab the satin and pull him close. One day you are going to peel him out of this jacket and it won’t feel heavy anymore.

✦ ✧ ✦

3 – You gently wipe at his under-eye. The black smudge is persistent and you stop when the skin turns red. Copia’s eyes are closed even as he holds you. Wrapped around you he feels hot to the touch, almost feverish. He has gone non-verbal since he came home and you give him the space he needs, soft touches, rest and quiet.

The tension of the day still sits in his muscles, you can feel the knots when you run your hands over his back. The hot shower did not help, nor did the pasta he barely touched for dinner. He did well, everyone said this to you today. Whether he feels it you are not so certain.

You lean in and press a kiss to the round tip of his freckled nose. He blinks at you through tired, reddened eyes, lips curving into a lazy half-smile. His hand tightens at your waist, slides underneath your shirt to feel your skin. He’s your whole world molded into the shape of a man. Love, stored in the crinkles of his crow’s feet, every line on his face, in the brushstrokes of grey at his temples, an endless supply.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, trailing the curve of his spine.

His eyes open and you feel guilty for disrupting his peace. But then he pulls you ever closer, squishing, the softness of your bodies mingling with a comforting warmth.

“I don’t…” He stops, brows pulled together. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“I have no doubt that you can.” You study his features, move your hand to trace the lines of tension and smooth them out. He lets you, eyelids fluttering at the soft touch. “Every day from now on will be easier, Copia. My baby, I have such confidence in you. Unshakable.”

The words stir something in him. Some wetness gathers in his odd eyes but he blinks it away. You have to fight your own tears, good tears, for how far he has come. Then Copia nods, nods again but with more conviction. A deep exhale through his nose and he swallows the doubts away.

“You are right, always,” he says. “I was Papa Emeritus IV, eh? I did that.”

“You did.” A smile, proud and amused. “And now you are Frater Imperator.”

“Mhm, I am.”

“You are the head of this church, they are still your flock, adoring you, admiring you, trusting you. None of this has changed.” You cradle his face in both hands, a firm press of your thumbs to his cheekbones. “And you are still the man I love.”

“I am?”

“Forever.”

He closes the gap himself, a grateful kiss, seeking. You try to give him what he needs, firm and soft kisses, hands roaming, legs entangles. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, deeper still until all air escapes you and a dizzy fog fills your head. He is all you know, all you want for the rest of this life you live together.

The kisses slow down, not any less deep, and he cradles your head, keeping you pressed together. There is some need building, a languid wave that fades out in ripples. You feel him stir against your leg but he is not quite here with you, not entirely, and it subsides after a moment.

He breaks away with a heavy sigh, keeps his eyes closed.

“Perhaps not tonight,” you say, stroking his hair.

He nods and rests his forehead against yours. His breath tickles your nose, the embrace tighter than before. It feels easier now, somehow, and you can picture it so clearly. The future, him, and even in your head the world is quiet as you hold him close.

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

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[ramblingoak]

Naps With Copia

Nap #13: A Comforting Nap

*contains spoilers for Rite Here Rite Now*

For @littlemissemeritus who wanted a comforting nap with Copia after the events of the movie.

Copia x Reader

These are all stand alone chapters so you do not have to read one before the other! This series came from my post about wanting to nap with Copia all around the abbey. The stories will all have gender neutral readers and soft Copia naps.

Warnings: mentions of death of a loved one, a little sad but also hopeful, sfw, 700 words (thank you to @gothdaddyissues for the dividers!)

It was here, in the quiet of his old room, where Copia could be himself.

He didn’t have to hide his emotions and act like everything was alright.  He didn’t have to try to prove himself to anyone.  He wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for someone to point out something he was doing wrong.  In here, in the room with the lumpy mattress and the lava lamp, he didn’t have to be Frater Imperator.

In here he was just Copia.

It had been two months since Sister Imperator’s death and his subsequent promotion.  Copia was now leading the clergy, a job that he had been working towards for years.  It should have been a time of celebration for him but how could you celebrate something that went hand in hand with the death of your mother?  He had worked so hard to get to this point but you could see how even though he deserved his new title it was weighing heavily upon him.

The screen of his small television had been flashing ‘game over’ for some time now but Copia hadn’t moved.  He was sitting still, his shoulders hunched forward and the controller dangling loosely from his hand.  You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, whispering an apology when he startled at the contact.

“Copia?  Do you want to keep playing?”

“Huh?  Ah, yeah.  Yeah, let me start again.”  

Despite his words he remained still, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared down at the floor.  You rubbed his shoulder absently, sliding your hand across the red fabric of his hoodie until you reached his neck.  Copia shivered at the touch of your fingertips dancing across his nape and you smiled when his eyes fluttered closed.

“How about a neck massage, Papa?”  You realized your mistake as soon as you had said it, watching his face fall at the mention of his old title.  “I’m sorry!  Old habits.  Forgive me, Frater.”

He turned his head towards you and you felt tears gathering in your eyes when you saw the look in his.  A combination of exhaustion, sadness and regret, three things you never wanted him to have to experience.  You lowered your head to rest your chin on his shoulder, smiling when you felt his lips on your forehead.

“Can you do me a favor, amore?”  He kissed you again when you nodded your head.  “Can I just be Copia in here?”

A few tears fell down your cheeks and you sniffled while you nodded again.  He reached his free hand up to wipe them away before sliding a finger under your chin so he could tilt your head up.  Copia kissed you then, gently but possessively.  When he pulled away you cupped his cheek, keeping his face close and resting your foreheads together.

“You’ll always be Copia to me.”

“Bene, bene.”  He kissed you again, this one quick and fierce just like the ones you’d get between songs when you hung out backstage.  “Amore, can we give Miss Daisy a rest for the day?  I had something else in mind.”

A few months ago you would have groaned and rolled your eyes, knowing exactly what he would suggest you both do next.  But you knew that wasn’t what he would be seeking right now.  You both had craved a different type of intimacy since he had become Frater Imperator.  He gave you a grateful smile as you scooted back on his bed, adjusting his blankets and making room for him to lay down next to you.

It didn’t take him long to get comfortable, one leg pushed in between yours and an arm slung over your waist.  His face was next to yours on the pillow, his breathing already slowing down despite the fact that his eyes remained open.  You couldn’t look away from that mismatched gaze of his, so thankful that he felt comfortable enough with you to let his guard down like this.  To leave whatever title he held at the door so he could just be Copia with you because at the end of the day that’s the only person you wanted.

Just Copia.

~ Naps With Copia series masterpost ~

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[fandom-heartrender]

Headcannon,

Copia was the papa who treated his ghouls the best.

The other brothers were polite to their ghouls and kind but to them they were still another species and they didn’t do much to help the ghouls if the clergy didn’t treat them well.

Then copia comes along and although he is a little nervous at first him and the ghouls are great friends and for someone who might be lonely they become like a little family for him, he’ll stand up for them and as papa/frater he does so much to help all the ghouls in the ministry.

[her-satanic-wiles]

Kinktober Day 28 - Uniform

Brother Imperator x Reader

Copia got his promotion to head of the clergy, and with it a new uniform. And you couldn’t keep your hands off him.

Masterlist ⛧ Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Words: 5.1k.

Reading Time: 21 min.

Warnings: creampie, PIV sex, public sex, thigh riding, vaginal sex, uniform kink, unprotected sex

Taglist: @akayuki56 @alien-the-ghost @amazing-bobinsky @angellayercake @anonymous-appreciation @babydestinyinfluencer @bitchywitchygardener @blossomsea @call-me-little-sunshine84 @copiaspet622 @copiasslut @cosmixxdust @da-rulah @dolceterzo @dopey-fandom-girl @faithisyours @ghoulishxdelights @hauntedharmonic-ghoulishhaunter @high-above-the-city @howlingco @inkstainedrat @kaijukimchi @kenken-the-shoggoth @ledger-kaos @magopi @megachaoticstupid @meliza1001 @miss-leto @mommy-dust @neganwifey25-blog @piaart @saintbowie @shycardinale @sister-of-sin-claudia @sisterof-sin @sodoswitchimage @the-did-i-ask @xiyingly @zombiesnips-blog

🔞 MDNI 🔞

The moment your eyes met his, you knew you were in trouble. For the first time in ages, he’d stripped back the elaborate paints, leaving only the faintest hint of kohl around his eyes, allowing every distinguished line and angle of his face to shine through. His new look was a vision—his smart uniform a departure from the traditional Papal robes, but no less commanding. The suit was a sleek, modern twist on his usual regalia: rich black fabric that hugged his form perfectly, every seam tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and lean frame. A single, dark blazer sat unbuttoned and fell neatly at the waist, held together by two ruby pins that caught the light like blood-red flames. From them both, a diamond-studded grucifix dangled just over his upper abdomen, the glittering charm drawing your gaze with a dangerous allure. His look was seductive yet regal, an intimidating blend of elegance and dark charm. You could hardly breathe as he approached, each step deliberate, with a knowing glint in his eye that told you he was fully aware of the effect he had on you.

He stepped forward, arms slowly outstretched, his hands still gloved in that familiar, supple leather. The movement itself was an invitation—a silent command to take him in, to fully appreciate the figure standing before you. He said nothing, but the slight tilt of his head and a quiet, almost shy hum conveyed, “This is the new me.” And the transformation was powerful. Gone was the ornate guise of Papa; here stood Frater Copia Imperator, every inch of him exuding authority and confidence, as if the Ministry itself had reshaped to match his presence. The old robes had held him back, binding him to tradition, but this—this new look—carried the weight of true dominion. His domain, his rules, and he seemed to bask in it, his gaze dark and intent, as though savoring the scope of his control.

This wasn’t just Copia; it was Copia unleashed, finally embracing his true place. Like Lucifer reigning over Hell, he was perfectly in his element, ready to rule with an intensity that sent a thrill through your core.

You, however, were too thrilled about his new uniform to even consider the consequences of this promotion. You just wanted that chain dangling in your face as he -

“I don’t know who the new Papa is yet,” Copia told you, pulling you out of your horny musings. “Apparently he will be arriving soon, but I don’t know.”

Copia’s words pulled you out of your daze, but only for a moment. That glint in his eye, the way his fingers traced the edge of the ruby pin on his blazer—it stirred something deeper. You tried to refocus, to keep your thoughts on his words instead of the sinful path your mind had wandered down. But when he shifted, the delicate grucifix on its diamond-studded chain swayed, catching the light and drawing your gaze right back to it, and him.

“Hmm,” he murmured, watching you closely, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “Seems like I’ve already lost you.” He stepped in closer, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your chin, bringing your gaze up to meet his. His thumb traced a slow circle along your jaw, the leather sending a shiver through you. “Were you even listening to me, tesoro?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words tangled as he leaned in, the chain now dangling just above your lips. He lowered himself even closer, enough that his breath warmed your skin. “Distracted, hm?” he whispered, voice as smooth and dark as velvet. “Or is it something else you’re interested in?”

With an amused tilt of his head, he straightened just slightly, but his grip on your chin remained firm. The chain hovered enticingly between you both, and the glint of the rubies seemed to cast a soft, scarlet hue over his eyes. “What were you thinking about just now?” he teased, his voice low, drawing out the words with a lazy, knowing tone.

Your heart raced as you felt yourself flush under his gaze. He let his gloved thumb slip down, tracing your lower lip, his smile deepening as you trembled under his touch.

The restraint you’d been trying so hard to keep shattered in an instant. Words wouldn’t cut it now; only action would. Before he could utter another teasing word, you launched yourself at him, fingers curling into the collar of his blazer as you pressed your body flush against his. He barely had time to gasp, his eyes widening before they darkened with a raw hunger of his own.

The chain swung between you, grazing against your chest as you pressed him against the wall, your lips crashing into his with all the ferocity of pent-up desire. He gave a low, muffled moan, hands moving to grip your waist, steadying himself as you pinned him there. You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your gaze fierce and unwavering.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice rough and laced with amusement. “Not even going to tell me what you want first? Just taking it, eh?” His smirk was devilish, eyes hooded as he leaned forward, lips brushing your jawline. “As bold as ever, tesoro.”

Your fingers slid down, finding the clasp of his belt, your intentions laid bare in the determined way you worked it open. He sucked in a sharp breath, his gloved hands sliding up your sides, encouraging you, grounding himself in the pressure of your touch.

“Here?” he murmured, glancing around the empty corridor but not looking the least bit reluctant. “Right here in the open, where anyone could see?” His voice dripped with exhilaration at the idea. The thrill in his eyes was unmistakable as he tugged you even closer, his hands roving possessively over your body.

“Oh, let them,” you whispered, pressing a fierce kiss to his throat as his head fell back. “I refuse to wait any longer.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest at your words, and any remaining control he had snapped. With a rough pull, he reversed your positions, pinning you back against the wall, his body pressed firmly against yours. His gaze bore into you, pupils blown wide with desire, the gleam of his chain catching the dim light as it swung between you both. He brought a gloved hand up, tracing it down the side of your face, down your throat, finally stopping to rest on your collarbone, his fingers curling just enough to feel your pulse racing under his touch.

“You have no idea what you’ve started,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise as his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. The heat of him, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint leather from his gloves, was intoxicating, overwhelming your senses as he kissed his way down your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

With one swift movement, he slipped a leg between yours, pressing his thigh against you as his hands found your waist, holding you firmly against him. The friction, even through your clothing, was electric, sending shockwaves through you. He smirked against your neck, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. “Look at you,” he whispered, his tone darkly amused as he ground his thigh ever so slightly, “already unraveling for me, and I’ve barely even started.”

You tightened your grip on his blazer, feeling your resolve slipping away completely. “Then don’t stop,” you whispered, daring him, your voice rough with need.

He chuckled, his lips curving against your skin. “Oh, I won’t.” His voice dropped lower, every word a promise. “But I’m going to take my time with you, right here. Let every inch of this place echo with the sounds of us.” His fingers found the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath to brush against your bare skin, igniting every nerve with his touch.

As his mouth claimed yours once more, his kiss was slower, more intense, his movements deliberate as if he wanted to make you feel every second of it. His gloved hand moved to your chest, thumb brushing over your skin, drawing a gasp from your lips that he swallowed eagerly. The thrill of the forbidden, the possibility of being caught, only seemed to drive him further, his kiss growing deeper, more insistent, as his hands roamed possessively over you, leaving no inch of you untouched.

And as he pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you, a wicked gleam in his gaze, he leaned in close and whispered, “By the time I’m done, tesoro, everyone here will know exactly who you belong to.”

Your movements grew more desperate, grinding against his thigh as his hands roamed your body, each touch and squeeze lighting you up in ways you hadn’t felt in so long. He held you firmly, almost possessively, his fingers digging into your hips to guide your movements, pressing you harder against him with each roll of your body. His breathing grew heavier, his lips never far from your skin, leaving trails of hot, lingering kisses down your neck.

His gloved hand slid lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your clothes, his fingers brushing over your skin with a tantalizing slowness that made you shudder. He paused there, his mouth close to your ear as he murmured, “Look at you, so eager for me.” His voice was low, laced with a dark amusement that sent a thrill through you, making you push against him harder, needing the friction, needing him.

Copia chuckled, dark and deep, his thigh pressing up with just the right pressure, making you gasp. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” His hand traced back up, gliding over your chest, fingers grazing the sensitive spots he knew so well, making your head spin. “You want more?” he asked, though he already knew the answer, his eyes gleaming with a devilish satisfaction as he watched your reaction.

“Please…” you breathed, barely able to form words under his touch.

He smirked, his thumb brushing across your cheek in a mockingly tender gesture. “That’s it,” he purred. “I want to hear you beg for it, right here. Let everyone know what you need from me.”

The sheer thrill of his demand had you trembling against him, and as his thigh pressed harder, his fingers digging into your skin, you couldn’t hold back anymore. You moaned softly, moving against him with wild abandon, feeling him take in every sound, every shiver as his mouth claimed yours again, consuming you in a searing, possessive kiss that left you aching for more.

The pressure built until it was overwhelming, each roll of your hips pushing you closer and closer to the edge. His thigh pressed firmly against you, his hand gripping your waist with just enough force to ground you yet keep you spiraling. His mouth was at your neck, lips moving hot and slow, and you felt yourself unraveling, unable to hold back any longer.

And then it happened—a rush of pleasure crashing over you, your body trembling as you came right there, held in place by his hands and the unrelenting press of his thigh. The intensity left you breathless, your fingers clutching his blazer, as though clinging to him was the only thing keeping you steady.

He groaned softly as he felt you shudder against him, his gaze darkening with satisfaction. “There we go,” he murmured, his tone rich with pride and something even deeper, a possessive glint in his eye. “Just like that, tesoro.”

His hand stroked your back in lazy, soothing circles as you caught your breath, barely able to comprehend what you’d just done, right there in the middle of the corridor. But he didn’t look the least bit surprised—in fact, he seemed thrilled, his gaze roving over you with a smug sense of accomplishment.

Before you could say a word, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Now, shall we continue somewhere more… private? I’m far from finished with you.”

“I refuse to wait any longer,” you panted. “Please just fuck me, Copia.”

A flash of something dark and eager crossed his face, and before you could even draw another breath, he spun you around, pressing your back against the wall with a controlled urgency that made your pulse quicken. His fingers hooked into the gusset of your panties, pulling them aside with a rough, unhesitating motion, his other hand already freeing himself from his trousers.

The moment was electric, charged with a tension that had been building too long. He didn’t waste another second, aligning himself and pressing into you in one smooth, deep thrust that stole the breath from your lungs. The sensation was overwhelming, his heat and weight pressing you firmly into the wall, grounding you while simultaneously making you feel as if you might float away. His grip on your hips was strong, possessive, his fingers digging in just enough to leave you tingling.

He held himself there for a heartbeat, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he felt you wrapped around him. Then, his grip tightened, and he began to move, his thrusts slow at first, deliberate, each one sinking in deeply, pulling another soft, breathy moan from you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low growl, words punctuated by the rhythm of his thrusts. “So needy, couldn’t wait another second… I love it when you’re this desperate for me.”

His pace quickened, his hands sliding up your waist, holding you in place as he took what you’d so eagerly asked for, his hips snapping forward with a building intensity. Each thrust seemed to drive him deeper, his control slipping as he gave in to the pleasure, his breaths ragged in your ear as he pushed you toward that blissful edge once more.

His movements became more urgent, each thrust driving you harder against the wall, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the corridor. You could feel every inch of him inside you, stretching and filling you, and it only heightened your desire, pushing you closer to the brink without letting you fall over.

“Copia…” you gasped, the sound of his name falling from your lips like a prayer. You were lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding eagerly to every thrust, every shudder that ran through you as he rocked into you. He felt impossibly good, and the way he held you—his grip possessive yet tender—made you ache for more.

His lips found their way to your neck, hot against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses that ignited every nerve ending. “That’s right, tesoro,” he murmured, his breath warm against you, sending shivers down your spine. “Let me hear you. Let me know how much you want this.”

You moaned softly, pushing back against him instinctively, seeking more friction, more of that delicious pressure building within you. He chuckled darkly, clearly enjoying your eagerness, and he quickened his pace just slightly, teasing you with the promise of more without granting you release.

“You want it harder?” he taunted, his voice low and dripping with lust. “You’ll have to earn it. Show me how badly you need it.”

With that, he changed his angle, hitting that sweet spot inside you that made your head spin. The sensation was electric, and you gasped, feeling the heat pool low in your belly, but he was relentless, holding you right there on the precipice, teasing you with his control. Each thrust was deep and deliberate, building tension but denying you the sweet release you craved.

“Sathanas, you’re beautiful like this,” he breathed, his eyes dark with desire, locking onto yours as he continued to push you further into bliss. “So responsive… so fucking perfect.”

You writhed against him, desperate and aching, needing more, but he held you firmly in place, a wicked grin on his lips as he relished in your frustration, taking his time to savour every moment.

With a swift, commanding motion, he pulled out, leaving you breathless and wanting. The abruptness of it sent a shiver through you, a mix of anticipation and urgency swelling in your chest. “Get down,” he ordered, his voice low and firm, eyes darkened with desire.

You didn’t hesitate, the need to obey overriding any hesitation. You sank down onto the cool corridor floor, the surface a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your body. As you lay back, your heart raced, both from the thrill of his command and the way his gaze devoured you, hungry and insatiable.

Copia moved over you, his body looming above like a dark, predatory silhouette. He positioned himself between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs as he spread you open for him, the intensity of his stare sending jolts of excitement through you. “I want to see you,” he growled, his voice dripping with lust as he lined himself up once more.

With a sharp thrust, he entered you again, deeper this time, and you gasped as he filled you completely. The weight of him pressed you into the floor, his hips snapping forward with a force that made the chain hanging from his neck swing and sway tantalizingly in front of your face, glimmering in the dim light.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and you did, locking eyes with him as he drove into you, his expression a mix of pleasure and authority. The force of his movements sent ripples of pleasure coursing through you, his body perfectly in sync with yours, creating a heady rhythm that left you gasping and wanting more.

“You’re mine,” he said, punctuating each word with a thrust, the intensity in his voice matched only by the way he filled you. The chain danced tantalizingly close, swaying with every forceful movement, a physical manifestation of his power and control. You could hardly think, lost in the delicious friction and the way he possessed you, your body responding to every demanding push, every glorious pull.

Each powerful thrust brought the chain closer, its cool metal brushing against your cheek and lips, a reminder of the power he wielded over you. The sensation was maddening, and you could hardly focus on anything else—the rhythm of his hips, the way he moved inside you, the intoxicating sight of him looming over you, chain swinging with every thrust, an emblem of his dominance.

As he continued to thrust into you, the chain swinging tantalizingly closer, you felt an overwhelming urge to taste him, to take in every part of him that you could. Your gaze fixed on the diamond grucifix dangling from his neck, the cool metal glimmering in the low light, and a wicked idea sparked in your mind.

With a quick movement, you reached up, grabbing the chain and pulling it closer to your mouth. You wrapped your lips around the grucifix, sucking on it as if it were his cock, the sharp, metallic taste mingling with the heat radiating off your body. It felt deliciously forbidden, a bold display of your need for him, and you could see the surprise flicker in his eyes, quickly replaced by something darker—hunger.

Copia’s thrusts stuttered for a moment, the sight of you eagerly sucking on the chain driving him wild. “Is that what you want, tesoro?” he growled, his voice low and gravelly, as he regained his rhythm. “You want to worship me like this?”

You nodded, still sucking on the grucifix, letting your tongue glide over the smooth surface, teasing it as you would with his cock. The action sent a thrill through him, and he picked up the pace, his thrusts growing more forceful, each movement pushing the grucifix deeper into your mouth, forcing you to take in more of the chain, feeling it cold against your lips.

The sensation was intoxicating, and the combination of his deep thrusts and the way you worshipped the grucifix left you breathless. You could feel the tension coiling within you, the line between pleasure and desperation blurring as you surrendered completely to the moment.

Copia’s breath grew ragged, each thrust driving him closer to his own climax. “That’s it, just like that,” he urged, his voice a mix of praise and urgency, each word sending heat coursing through you. “You’re perfect for this—such a good little pet.”

As he thrust deeper, you felt an insatiable urge rising within you, an overwhelming desire to amplify the pleasure coursing through your body. With your lips still wrapped around the grucifix, you let out a low, muffled moan that reverberated against the cool metal. The sound sent shivers of pleasure racing through you, echoing in the dimly lit corridor, as you began to touch yourself.

Your fingers moved eagerly between your legs, seeking out that sweet spot that had been yearning for attention. The sensation of your own fingers dancing over your sensitive skin, combined with the rhythmic pounding of his hips, sent shockwaves of ecstasy through you. You could feel every pulse of his thrusts inside you, each one making your fingers tingle with excitement as you rubbed your clit with a fervor that matched the intensity of the moment.

Copia’s gaze was fixated on you, his dark eyes blazing with hunger as he watched you pleasure yourself while he drove into you. “Look at you,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “So fucking desperate for it. Don’t stop, tesoro. Let me hear you.”

You obeyed, your moans spilling out around the grucifix as you continued to suck on it, the metal a reminder of his dominance. Each thrust met your fingers moving with urgency, and you could feel the pressure building, both inside and outside, intertwining in a way that threatened to consume you whole.

“Good girl,” he praised, his pace becoming even more erratic, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the corridor. “You’re going to make me lose control, you know that? I want you to come for me while I’m buried deep inside you.”

The heat pooling low in your belly swelled, and you felt your body responding to his words, an electric thrill coursing through your veins. You moaned louder around the grucifix, the combination of your own touch, his powerful thrusts, and the deliciously forbidden act of sucking on the chain pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

With every movement, you lost yourself further in the blissful haze of pleasure, the world narrowing down to just the two of you—his thrusts, your moans, the grucifix swinging gently in the air, and the desperate need to feel him fill you completely as you chased that sweet release.

The pressure inside you reached a crescendo, building to an almost unbearable peak as you continued to work your fingers frantically, the urgency of your movements intensifying. You could feel every thrust from Copia, each one driving you closer to that edge, and the sweet sound of your moans around the grucifix only heightened your need.

Then, as if a dam had broken, the pleasure erupted within you like a tidal wave. The orgasm washed over you, more powerful than anything you had ever experienced before, leaving you breathless and utterly consumed. Your body trembled as the waves of ecstasy surged through you, making your toes curl and your back arch off the floor. You cried out around the grucifix, the sound mingling with the raw desire in the air, echoing through the corridor as you surrendered completely to the bliss.

Copia’s grip tightened on your thighs, his thrusts becoming more frantic as he felt your body clench around him, your orgasm pulling him closer to the edge. The sensation of you coming around him was overwhelming, and he couldn’t help but thrust deeper, seeking his own release even as he reveled in the way your body reacted to him.

“Fuck, yes!” he gasped, his voice a mix of awe and lust, completely enthralled by the sight of you lost in pleasure beneath him. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come.”

As you rode the waves of your orgasm, you could feel your body pulsing around him, milking him with each spasm. The sensation heightened your pleasure even further, and the heat radiating from him added to the intoxicating mix. You let out one final, guttural moan, the sound echoing off the walls, as your body trembled in the aftermath of your release.

With each thrust, Copia felt the tension coiling tightly within him, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he watched you ride the waves of your orgasm, completely lost in ecstasy. The sight of you—your body trembling beneath him, fingers still working furiously at your clit—drove him wild, urging him closer to his own release. He could feel the tightness of your walls clenching around him, coaxing him into that sweet abyss, and it sent a jolt of pleasure through his entire body.

“Sathanas,” he groaned, his voice thick with need, the intensity of the moment washing over him. “I can’t hold on any longer.” He thrust harder, the urgency in his movements increasing, desperation fueling his every action. Each powerful push drove him deeper, bringing him closer to the edge, and he couldn’t help but lose himself in the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

As the world around him faded away, all he could focus on was you—your beauty, your moans, the way your body responded to him. “I’m coming,” he breathed, just before his release crashed over him like a tidal wave.

With one final thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, the heat of his body merging with yours as he let go completely. He came hard, filling you with a warmth that spread through your core, the sensation of him spilling inside you pushing you back toward the edge once more. You gasped in shock and delight at the feeling, a mixture of his release and your own, amplifying the bliss that coursed through you both.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he breathed, his voice thick with satisfaction, as he rode out the waves of his climax, his body trembling as he remained anchored deep within you. The weight of him pressing down, combined with the warmth of his release, wrapped around you like a cocoon, leaving you both breathless and euphoric.

For a moment, time stood still as you lay there together, lost in the aftermath of your pleasure, the connection between you both tangible and electric. The corridor felt like your own private sanctuary, filled with the remnants of your shared ecstasy, and as you looked up into his dark, smoldering eyes, you knew this was just the beginning of what he could give you.

As Copia pulled out of you, the warmth of his body lingered in the cool corridor, leaving you both breathless and delightfully spent. He turned to lay beside you, a satisfied grin plastered across his face, the glow of post-coital bliss still evident in his eyes. The corridor felt like a world of its own, the thrill of what had just happened hanging in the air like a sultry fog.

Just as he was about to tuck himself away, a Brother of Sin strolled by, nonchalantly whistling a tune under his breath. You both froze, eyes wide, as he paused, glancing down at Copia. With an exaggerated eyebrow raise, he took in the scene before him: the disheveled state of both of you, the lingering signs of passion, and, of course, Copia’s still-exposed cock, glistening slightly in the dim light.

“Frater… Sorella,” the Brother acknowledged with a casual nod of his head, a smirk creeping across his lips. His eyes danced with amusement as he continued, “Looks like you’ve had a productive meeting, eh?”

Copia, ever the dramatic one, flushed a deep crimson, sputtering for words as he scrambled to cover himself. “I—I was just—uh, discussing… duties! Yes, very important duties!” he stammered, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

The Brother chuckled, shaking his head as he continued walking, “Don’t let me interrupt your… practical training. Just remember, we have a reputation to uphold!” His voice trailed off, the mischievous tone lingering in the air.

Copia groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes in embarrassment, while you burst into laughter, unable to contain the joy of the moment. “Oh, this is just perfect!” you said, still giggling at the absurdity of it all. “Only us, right?”

Copia rolled onto his side, still flustered but unable to hide his own laughter. “At least I know my meetings are memorable,” he replied, a grin creeping back onto his face. “Next time, I’ll try to keep my—” he gestured vaguely at himself, “—professionalism intact.”

“Or maybe just find a more private location?” you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

He chuckled, the embarrassment fading as the moment turned into yet another inside joke between you, the warmth of shared pleasure and laughter mingling together in the most delightful way.

Copia raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, is that so?” he replied, leaning on one elbow to look at you, his expression a mix of feigned outrage and amusement. “I would like to remind you that this location was your idea!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a bright sound that echoed off the corridor walls. “Well, I didn’t think we’d have an audience today!” you shot back, unable to suppress the grin on your face. “It’s not my fault that you have a penchant for the dramatic, Frater.”

“Dramatic?” he feigned shock, placing a hand over his heart. “I prefer to call it enthusiastic! Just look at how well it turned out!” He gestured around the corridor, as if the very walls would applaud his romantic choices.

With a dramatic flourish, he added, “It’s not every day you get to mix duty with a little… extracurricular activity.” He winked, his confidence returning, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his antics.

“Extracurricular, huh? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” you quipped, nudging him playfully.

“Absolutely!” he replied, puffing out his chest in mock seriousness. “And let it be known: I am fully committed to the role of dedicated educator in our… field studies.”

“Right. I’m sure the Ministry will be thrilled to hear about your ‘educational’ methods,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Just try to keep it down next time, or we might end up with more than just curious Brothers wandering by.”

“Deal! But no promises if the curriculum gets a little… intense,” he winked, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, and you both burst into laughter once again.

Prev./Next

[ghuleh-witch]

Fandom: Ghost Rating: General Warnings: none Relationships: Copia x female!Reader Additional Tags: established relationship, comfort, fluff, no beta WordCount: 775 Summary: Copia takes care of you while you're sick. Notes: Copia can be read as Cardinal, Papa, or Frater.

Ao3 || Masterlist

Copia knew exactly how you liked your tea: One tea bag (black tea, preferably Irish Breakfast tea), two spoonfuls of sugar (it has to be a little spoon and not a big spoon), and just a tiny splash of whole milk. He knows it by heart and has watched you make your cup of tea every morning since you moved in with him a year ago, but he was nervous as he stood in front of the stove waiting for the kettle of water to whistle. You were sick in bed with a nasty cold and had asked him to make a cup of tea.

“It’ll help my throat,” you croaked as you made sure to cocoon yourself in a pile of blankets. 

He, ever the caretaker, hurried to fulfill your request. Copia repeated the steps over and over. He had your favorite mug prepped with the tea bag, the jar of sugar, a little spoon, and the carton of whole milk that was specifically for your tea. As he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, he heard you let out a harsh cough from the bedroom. Seeing you so ill made his heart clench. If he could snap his fingers, he’d take your place because he just wanted to see you happy and healthy. He knew the tea would cheer you up though. That’s why he needed to get it just right for you.

The shrill whistle pierced the air, and he turned the stove burner off and poured the boiling water into the black mug that read: Resting Witch Face . Copia let the tea steep, debating whether to ask you if you’d rather have honey than sugar if it was for your throat, but he knew that if you wanted honey, you would have said so. He stuck to your recipe, trusting that you knew what you wanted. He put the two spoonfuls of sugar into the tea, stirred it, and then added the splash of milk. He frowned as the tea turned a lighter color than you usually drank. “Too much milk,” he muttered as he removed the tea bag. 

A minute later, he was returning to the bedroom with the mug in hand, as well as a bottle of cold medicine. “I have your tea, amore ,” he said, setting both the mug and medicine down on your nightstand. “Added too much milk, I think. Mi dispiace .”

“It’s okay,” you groaned as you sat up and reached for the mug. “It will still be delicious either way.” You held the mug in between your hands, allowing the steam to clear your sinuses, even just temporarily. You took a tentative sip of the hot beverage as Copia measured out some of the syrupy medicine. “Do I have to?” You whined, scrunching your face at the artificial cherry-flavored medicine.

“ Si, amore ,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I know you hate this shit, but it will help with your cough and help you get some sleep. You need the rest if you want to get better.”

You put the mug of tea down and reached for the metal water bottle filled with cold water that sat next to your box of tissues. “Let’s get this over with,” you sighed as you took the little cup of medicine. You pinched your nose and knocked it back before quickly chasing it with water. You could still taste the bitterness of the syrup and the sickening cherry flavor. The medicine made you gag a little, but you got it down. “There. All gone,” you said once you swallowed it all down. 

“Good girl,” he said, cupping your cheek and giving it a little pat before moving his hand to your forehead. “No fever at least. That’s good.” 

“Still feel like a truck ran me over,” you said as you snuggled back against your pillows. You reached for your tea again and took another sip. “How long is your meeting?”

“I shouldn’t be more than an hour, and then I’ll be right back here with you. I’ll make some soup for dinner and we can have cuddles while we watch a movie.”

“Hmmm can’t wait. But you better get going or else you’re going to be late for your meeting,” you replied. You went to go set your tea down but Copia took it from your hand and took a sip out of it. “Hey, you’re gonna get sick too now.”

“Then we can be sick together. It’ll be worth it if I can spend the whole day in bed with you,” he said before pressing a kiss to your forehead and leaving you to rest.

[cowboyemeritus]

Cenerentola (Frater Imperator/Reader)

Summary: Copia hosts a gala to celebrate his ascension to head of the Clergy. When things go haywire, it's up to you to keep him safe. In the process, it becomes impossible to avoid your feelings for him any longer.

Content Warning: mild violence, a singular Monty Python reference

Notes: me? writing sfw? it's more likely than you think.

i've been doing a lot of social dancing so naturally that made me think about dancing with copia. i am also a sucker anything remotely cinderella-esque lol. reader is sort of based on an oc of mine.

i don't really know how i feel about this — i had ideas for two related scenes and then had to fill in the gaps from there. sorry it's so long lmao

feedback is always welcome :)

Even amidst the sea of people below, it is impossible for you to miss him. Copia shines like the Morningstar, the candlelight glinting off the ruby brooches and bedazzled collar of his new, freshly pressed suit. All eyes are on him as he spins the delighted young Sister of Sin in his arms, leading her with grace and elegance through the steps of the fast-paced waltz. He’s changed so much in the years since you left the Ministry. Now, with his ascension to head of the Clergy, there are moments where he seems like an entirely different person, exponentially more confident and self-assured than you remember. 

You know his new demeanor, however, betrays a deep-seated anxiety, the product of years of vague threats on his life from the organization he’s now expected to lead. And surely, the irony is not lost on him that the very hall in which he is now dancing sits directly above the crypts, where the bodies of his assassinated brothers lay in eternal repose.

From your position, leaning against a column up on the balcony, you have the entire ballroom in your sights. Every step, every gesture, every side conversation, is under your scrutiny. This was by design. Although Copia, by some miracle, lived to see the end of his reign as Papa, the transition of power has not been an easy one. Threats abound, the old guard of the Clergy still dissatisfied with him, many enraged by his recent promotion. His mother’s scheming was meant to protect him, but now it seems to have backfired, putting him in more danger than ever before. While this gala serves as a way for him to potentially smooth things over with the Upper Clergy, asserting himself as Frater Imperator, he is also making himself vulnerable, open to attacks of all kinds.

As a favor to his predecessor, the woman who taught you everything you know, you begrudgingly agreed to provide additional security around Ministry headquarters. At first, returning to the Abbey, its halls so hauntingly familiar, reminded you of why you left in the first place: decadence, hypocrisy, lies — a message lost in a quagmire of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. Somehow, though, Copia and his ghouls have wormed their way into your frozen heart over these last few months. It was done before you even knew it was happening. Copia has this sort of magnetism about him, some preternatural force that makes it impossible not to be charmed. It was like this even when he was a shy, awkward cardinal. Because of this, although the Clergy wants him gone, he has the distinct advantage of a congregation that completely adores him.

The song ends, and Copia sweeps the Sister into a dip. She giggles, pressing a playful kiss to his cheek. Something in your chest pangs.

At the end of the day, you just work together. It would be foolish of you expect anything more. Still, there’s been an undeniable tension between the two of you since your return to the Ministry. You see the way he looks at you, the way he hangs on to your every word when you speak. But maybe you’re imagining it — you spend so much time around him that perhaps you’ve mistaken proximity for fondness.

You sense a familiar, fiendish presence approaching from behind. “You’re having fun,” Cirrus remarks, entering your field of vision. She has a flute of champagne in each hand and offers one to you. To maintain the illusion of normalcy you accept, taking a small sip of the bubbly, golden liquid.

“We’re on the clock,” you say, eyeing a small group of cardinals that have congregated near the refreshments table. They seem to be merely gossiping. Rain is stationed nearby, carefully observing. “No fun allowed.” The ghoul chuckles, leaning against the balcony railing on her forearms.

“I take it everything’s alright so far?” You nod, thinking back on the hours you spent painstakingly drawing sigils at various locations around the Abbey, setting up one massive alarm spell. If anything supernatural tries to get in, you’ll know. All that’s left is to be on the lookout for any natural, more human threats. You swallow down a lump in your throat, hoping your preparations will be enough.

“Try to relax, then,” Cirrus coaxes, sipping her own drink. There’s a pause. “You should go dance with him.” You feel your cheeks heat up, but keep your composure.

“I don’t have time to mess around,” you state bluntly. Your posture sags a bit. “He’s busy, anyway.” Copia is leading another Sister onto the dance floor, taking the starting position as the ghoul band strikes up another tune. You zero in on the hand resting on her hip, worrying your lower lip between your teeth. It looks like her dress doesn’t have any pockets; the probability of her concealing anything is low.

Cirrus places a clawed hand on your shoulder and gives you a playful jostle. “For you? He’ll make time.” You give her a quizzical look and she winks, straightening back up before taking her leave. “Do it!” She calls. “I’ve got good money on you two getting together!” Your mouth hangs slightly agape, watching as she descends the stairs to rejoin the party.

You take another, longer sip of your champagne, relishing in the sensation of bubbles tickling your tongue. It helps take the edge off, if only a little. You remain up on your perch for another long while. Copia eventually abandons dancing in favor of strolling through the crowd, greeting and shaking hands with various high-profile guests. It’s harder to keep track of him this way, even from your vantage point, so once your glass is empty you descend the stairs, entering the fray for yourself. To your relief, no one pays you any mind as you weave through the mass of bodies. You spot a truly nameless ghoul carrying a tray of empty glassware and flag them down, depositing your glass. You’re about to find a better place to camp out when someone taps you on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, signorina strega.” You turn and sure enough, it’s Copia. He’s holding out a hand. “May I have this dance?” Multiple pairs of eyes are now focused on you. Swallowing hard, you flush, smiling nervously. It’s a little more attention than you’d like, but you reason that within arms reach of him is the best place to be right now.

It’s completely logical, not motivated by anything else.

“Of course, Frater Imperator,” you reply, bowing your head slightly. You make it a point to use his full title in front of the guests. “I would be honored.” Gingerly, you take his hand, and he leads you to the dance floor. You pick up your pace a bit so that you’re able to whisper in his ear. “I’m not very good.” Copia gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Do not worry. Just follow my lead.” As the last few bars of the current song play, Copia guides you into the starting position, placing his right hand delicately on your hip and holding the left out for you to take. You try not to think about how, even through the leather of his gloves, his hand is so warm. Having difficulty looking him in the eye, you glance over his shoulder in the brief moment of silence between songs. You see Cirrus, Rain, and Swiss gathered by the refreshments table, watching you with shit-eating grins plastered across their faces. The air ghoul flashes you a thumbs-up and you have to resist the urge to destroy her with your mind.

���Ready?” As if on cue, the band resumes playing. You recognize the song instantly: Waltz No. 2, Shostakovich. How woefully on brand. The dance begins, Copia stepping forward with his left foot while you, mirroring him, step back with the right. It’s easy enough to follow him after that, stepping to your left as he steps right, then forwards to start all over again.

“One, two, three. One, two, three. You’re a natural.” Once you find a steady rhythm, you’re able to look up from your feet and actually start to enjoy the feeling of whirling around the room.

“How are things?” He asks, clearly trying to remain nonchalant. There are so many eyes on you, and from the crowd you sense intrigue, amusement, and a significant amount of jealously.

“Fine, so far,” you reply through a smile, trying to make it as difficult as possible for people to read your lips. Copia nods.

“Bene.” A few beats pass. “Thank you for all your hard work. I appreciate you coming back after...” He looks away for a moment. “I appreciate it.” You didn’t do it for him and he knows that, but his expression of gratitude makes heat bloom in your chest nonetheless.

“I’m glad I did,” you say without thinking. “This place is different now. Good different, because of you.” Copia smiles, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling. He raises his left arm and you pass under it in a spin, feeling lighter than air.

“I had hoped you would be able to enjoy yourself tonight,” he admits, a hint of guilt in his eyes. “Instead it seems you are just fretting over me.” You quirk an eyebrow at him.

“It’s that ego of yours I’m worried about,” you tease. “Pretty soon there won’t be room for anyone else in this Ministry.” Both of you laugh at this.

“I had better check myself, then,” Copia says, running a hand through his mousy brown hair. “I would hate to see you leave again.” That catches you off guard and you nearly trip, but his hand finds your hip again, keeping you stable. By now, you’re certain he’s noticed the blush on your cheeks.

“Don’t worry. I’m not-“

Somewhere, an invisible thread snaps. It makes your stomach lurch, the color draining from your face. You pause, your playful expression melting away as you try to pinpoint the source of the disruption. The South Wing. It’s approaching fast. When you return to this plane Copia is looking at you with concern.

“I have to go,” you say quietly. He doesn’t have time to respond before you exit the dance floor, heading for the large double doors at the other end of the ballroom. It’s hard not to shove people out of the way as you duck and weave through the crowd. Dewdrop is at the entrance, minding his post, but as you approach it’s clear from the rigidity of his small body that he’s been waiting for you. He follows you wordlessly out into the hall. Kicking off your heels, the two of you take off in the direction of the intrusion. You internally curse your foolishness for talking yourself out of wearing sneakers, or even flats.

“It’s something nasty,” he says once you’re out of earshot of any guests. You can only nod in agreement, hoping the two of you are enough to deal with whatever this foul thing is.

You round the corner to the South Wing and stop dead in your tracks. The sight before you makes your blood run could. Charging towards you is a hulking creature, easily Mountain’s height but with Aether’s bulk. It’s clearly a humanoid figure, but its edges are poorly defined, a mist-like quality to them. Still, you observe shapes that resemble horns and a tail, and that tells you all you need to know: a rogue ghoul, not bound to this plane by a contract. As such, it’s less of a consolidated form and more of rampaging ball of fiendish energy. This information helps you narrow down the list of potential culprits exponentially.

There’s no time to dwell on that, though. The creature is headed straight for you, no doubt attracted to the smell of your human flesh. Before you can react, Dew puts himself between you and the ghoul, ready to engage. He’s strong in spite of his small size, but the odds of him defeating this massive a beast on his own, especially one this energized, are slim. You realize he’s buying you time to cast a spell, and immediately you formulate a plan in your head. It will take some time to accomplish, but if he can hold off this monstrosity for long enough, you should be able to successfully banish it back to the Pit without endangering him as well. Planting your feet, you take a deep breath, letting your eyes shut. There’s a whoosh of warm air as Dew charges the rogue ghoul. Energy begins to flow through you as you chant under your breath, crafting the spell. A metallic taste fills your mouth, the air crackling with static.

You’re about halfway through the incantation when the sound of a body hitting the floor breaks through your wall of concentration. The creature roars, forcing you to crack an eye open just in time to see it lunge at you. It’s covered in scratches and burns, but Dew is ultimately the one on the ground, desperately trying to pick himself back up. You’re only just able to side-step, the spell breaking as you focus all of your energy on surviving the next few seconds. You’re frantically backpedaling when it swipes at you, claws catching you in the side. You cry out as it tears through the flimsy red fabric of your dress, leaving three long gashes in its wake that begin bleeding immediately. Though profoundly painful it’s a superficial wound; if you had been stationary, there’s no doubt it would have disemboweled you. 

Your back hits the wall. Dew shouts your name but you just stand there, frozen. The creature is about to pin you when a large body slams into it from the side, knocking it to the ground. You immediately recognize the form as Aether, and looking in the direction from whence he came you see Cirrus, Swiss, Rain, Mountain, Sunshine, and Phantom, all approaching with teeth and claws bared. Cirrus gets to you first, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the scuffling ghouls.

“Are you-“ She finally notices you clutching your side, blood seeping into your dress. “Oh shit, are you okay?” You nod, lifting your hand to show her it’s minor. Phantom is helping Dew to his feet. He seems alright other than a few scratches, the fall appearing to have knocked the wind out of him more than anything.

“I’m fi-” Your heart nearly stops. “Is someone watching Imperator?”

“Cumulus and Aurora are with him,” she says. “They’ve got it under control.” You let out a relieved sigh, shoulders dropping. It’s only now you that you notice how much tension you’ve been holding in your body all night. Your body trembles with excess adrenaline.

Aether lets out a frustrated growl. You barely have time to look in his direction before the rogue ghoul, having slipped out of his grasp, hurls itself out of one of the long, gothic windows lining the hallway. Bits of stained glass go flying, scattering across the marble floor tiles. The creature is smart enough to recognize it’s been outnumbered. One-by-one the members of the pack leap through the broken portal, none of them too keen on letting the intruder escape. Dew tries to follow, clearly excited about the prospect of a hunt, but Cirrus shoos him away from the window.

“Go clean yourselves up,” she orders, perched on the ledge. It’s directed mostly at you. “We’ll take it from here.” With that, she jumps down, disappearing from view as the sound of the pack whooping and howling fades into the distance.

Twenty some-odd minutes and a round of healing magick later, you and Dew are sitting out on the steps of the back patio, passing a cigarette back-and-forth. By now, the rogue ghoul has most certainly been torn to ribbons. There could still be threats lurking, but for as much as you’d like to go find Copia, you’re nowhere near presentable and would prefer not to incite panic, or suspicion, among the guests. Besides, you’re hardly capable of doing anything now, your energy completely drained by the evening’s events. You only had enough juice left to stop your cuts from bleeding; anything physically strenuous would certainly reopen the wounds. For now, you’re content to enjoy the cool autumn air, knowing he’s in capable hands.

“There you are.” Speak of the Devil. You look over your shoulder and Copia is stepping out into night, flanked by Cumulus and Aurora. Clutched in one hand are your strappy red heels, and it’s only now that you realize you’re still barefoot. Dew, with a quiet groan, rises to his feet and climbs the stairs, passing Copia as he descends.

“We’re going to go take care of this one,” Cumulus says, draping an arm over the fire ghoul’s shoulder. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but for a moment you swear she winks at you. Dew tries to shrug her off with a huff, and the girls giggle. Copia nods approvingly.

“Thank you, miei cari. We will debrief in the morning.” The three ghouls turn and step back inside, leaving you and Copia on the stairs. Your heart beats a little faster with the realization that you two are alone, although you tell yourself it’s because you won’t be able to defend him in this state. There’s definitely no other reason.

“Your glass slippers, my lady.” You roll your eyes and reach out to take your shoes from Copia, but he refuses to hand them over, kneeling on the stair below you. “Allow me, per favore.”

This might as well be happening. Lifting your foot up, you grant him permission to assist you. Copia slides the first shoe back on, holding your calf with one hand. Again, you can’t help but notice how warm and gentle his touch is. 

“I’m sorry for running off,” you say, needing to break the silence. “I hope you didn’t think that-“

“Not at all. I figured that something was, eh, ‘going down.’” When he looks up he finally notices the gashes in your side. He hisses, wincing. “Ahia! That looks like it hurts.”

You wave him off. “’Tis but a scratch.” He looks like he’s going to protest, clearly upset, but instead opts to tighten the strap of your shoe before moving on to the next foot.

“What happened?” He asks, starting the process over again.

“Rogue ghoul,” you explain, looking out into the forest at the edge of the lawn. “Likely the work of Cardinal Ambrosius. He’s gotten in trouble for trying to make contracts before. Doesn’t look like he’s quite figured it out, though. I can have his head on your desk by Monday morning, if you’d like.” 

Copia laughs through his nose. “You are absolutely vicious, mia strega.”

You shrug. “Just doing my job.” Once Copia finishes with your other shoe he stands, offering you his hand.

“Walk with me?” 

You give him a hesitant look. “I don’t want to keep you from your guests.” He scoffs.

“I have had enough of those two-faced pricks for one night. A lifetime, even.” His expression softens. “But if you are not up for it, I-“

“No!” You shoot up, taking his hand. It startles him a little bit. “I’m good. Let’s go.” Copia smiles, the moonlight sparkling in his eyes. Like an obedient  lamb, you let him lead you down the rest of the stairs and across the patio to where a walkway wraps around the side of the building. He’s taking you to the gardens, it seems. Though your legs feel like jelly, the walk isn’t very long, which you’re thankful for.

The gardens aren’t really a sight to behold this time of year, but the full moon bathes everything in a mesmerizing blue glow, giving the space a dreamlike quality. The ballroom is just up another set of stairs, the music still audible where you emerge. You stop by the fountain, a marble visage of Lilith pouring water from a bottomless goblet. The water is still running, providing a little extra ambiance.

“Care to dance?” Copia asks. “We were so tragically interrupted before.”

“I…” Damn you and your nerves. You’re blushing again. “I don’t want to get blood all over you.”

Still, he persists, shrugging. “It’s a black suit.” It’s hard to say no to that face, but the McQueen jacket? Really? He gives you a pleading look and your resolve instantly crumbles.

“Alright.” It’s all but a whisper. “But go easy on me.”

You don’t wait for the next song to start, you simply get in position and go from there. It’s slower than what you danced to before, and you two end up just swaying to the rhythm rather than following any steps. That’s fine with you, your legs are still shaking, though you can’t tell if it’s from exertion or something else entirely.

“You look beautiful,” Copia says after a few measures. In that time you two have drifted closer together, only a few inches between you now. It’s hard to look him in the eyes when your face is so embarrassingly red, so you choose to stare at the ground.

“I’m a mess.” You laugh, but there’s something bitter in it as your eyes wander to your soiled dress, torn and bloody. There was a silly, naive part of you that had been thinking of Copia when you selected it for this evening. He stops swaying, a hand finding your chin and gently lifting your head. In your opinion, he’s the beautiful one, practically glowing in the moonlight. 

“Nonsense. You are the fairest of them all, cara.” You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth draw up into a slight smile.

“You’re getting your fairytales mixed up.” The two of you share a laugh before dissolving into a few moments of comfortable silence. You can tell he’s thinking about something, and he looks away, clearly nervous.

“Did you mean what you said about coming back?” The question catches you off guard for a second.

“I did,” you finally respond. “I really did. This place feels like home again.” Swallowing, you decide to take a bit of a leap. “Did you mean what you said, about me leaving?” You haven’t discussed it in a long time, but when you first took the job, the understanding was that this was only a temporary arrangement, lasting at least until Copia was able to settle into his new position. The notion pains you now. He nods.

“Yes. I-“ He chuckles. “I cannot stand the thought. Signorina strega, say that you will stay with us, with me.”

You don’t even need to think about it. “I will. Of course I will.” Copia beams, and the sight is breathtaking. There’s another pause, the air between you charged with an energy more powerful than magick. In the ballroom, the final notes of the song ring out, though you hardly notice. A bomb could go off next to you, but even that wouldn’t be enough to pull you out of this moment.

“Beautiful…” You don’t protest when he cups your flushed cheek, running his thumb across the bone. “May I kiss you?” It takes everything you have to not melt into a puddle.

“Please.”

And then his lips — Sathanas, they’re soft —  are on yours. Stars explode behind your eyes as he presses into you, the hand on your hip to pulling you in closer. His body is so warm against you; it feels so right. Your heart is racing, head spinning, as the euphoria overtakes you. 

He kisses you until you’re both out of breath. When he finally pulls away, you want to chase after him, to kiss him until your lips fall off, but then your knees buckle. Copia is just barely able to catch you, letting out a surprised little noise you can’t help but find adorable. He seems less concerned when he sees you’re grinning like an idiot.

“Alas, I have killed her!” You both laugh as he helps you regain your balance. “Why don’t we sit down?” Humming in agreement, he leads you over to the fountain, sitting you down on the edge. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Are you sure you are alright?”

“Just peachy,” you say, gazing at your intertwined hands. “It’s been a long night.” Feeling bold and still a bit woozy, you bring Copia’s hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

“Ah, young love.” You both jolt, heads snapping in the direction of the voice. Before you stand the glowing specters of Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator. The old man has a wistful, nostalgic look on his face, while your former teacher observes with her arms crossed. How long have they been watching you? “Just like we once were, don’t you think?” Imperator huffs.

“I sure hope not.” Her focus falls on you. The wrath in her translucent blue yes makes your blood freeze. “You think you’re good enough for my son, girl?” For a moment, you’re completely speechless.

“I-“

“Are you two serious right now,” Copia shouts. “Get out of here! Go on! Get!” He gets up from the fountain to shoo them away. Imperator gives you a pointed look before dissolving into a blue mist. Her message is clear: this isn’t over. You gulp.

Copia groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe those two. I finally get to have my moment with you, and then they go and spoil it!” He flops back down next to you, sighing. “I am sorry, bella. I understand if-“

“Forget about it,” you say, holding up your hand to silence him. “Just kiss me, like, forever.”

Copia happily obliges.

[the-hole-in-terzos-shoe]

Master List for all my Fics!

So I accidentally deleted my old master list many months ago, and haven't had the time to make a new one. I am sorry about that! Hopefully this new one suffices 🥰 let me know if there's anything I can fix!

I can't really adhere to taking requests, but I promise I'm friendly; hit up my DMs and tell me all your wild headcanons 😈

Color key: Fluff, Smut, Implied Smut, Angst

Updated: August 5th, 2024

Terzo (Papa Emeritus III)

Dream Come True (Implied Smut but it's pretty obscene) Ao3 (I am actively writing the follow up for this, I promise <3)

Morning Friction (Smut) Ao3

Trying To Resist (Lot of Fluff/Implied Smut) Ao3

Intro to Romantic Literature (Professor Terzo) (Fluff/Smut) Ao3

Intro to Romantic Literature: Prologue (Professor Terzo) (Fluff/ Implied Smut) Ao3

Let's Get These Heels Off... (SMUT) Ao3

The Papa You Belong To (Implied Smut) Ao3

Songbird (SMUT) Ao3

Premier Amour (Medieval Knight Terzo) (Smut/a lil Angst) Ao3

Stupid Love (Cardinal Terzo) (Fluff/Smut/

Friends to Lovers) Ao3

Get on Your Hands and Knees Right Now (Catboy Terzo) (Smut) Ao3

Cast Out (Fallen Angel! Terzo) (Fluff/Smut) Ao3

Looking for your Cardinal? (Mentions of Cardinal Copia x Reader) (SMUT) Ao3

My Dirty Little Secret (SMUT) Ao3

My Only Ghost Fanart

Copia (Cardinal Copia/Papa Emeritus IV)

Call Me Little Sunshine (Could be read as any Papa, but I kinda had Copia in mind) (Dark Themes, Horror, Abusive Relationship/Implied Smut) Ao3

My Muse (Cardinal Copia) (Smut) Ao3

Taking Care (Papa Emeritus IV) (Angst/Fluff/ Smut) Ao3

This is a One Time Thing (Implied Smut) Ao3

Bundle of Joy (Pure Fluff) AoЗ

Now Paint a Pair of Eyes (Papa Emeritus IV) (Fluff/implied Smut at the end) Ao3

If you had Life Eternal (Cardinal Copia) (Fluff/ Touch of Angst) Ao3

HCs about Copia with an Antichrist Lover (Fluff/implied Smut)

Terzo AND Copia

When a Paradise is Lost (Angst/ Fluff/Smut/Friends to Lovers) Ao3

Paradise Found (sequel to above fic) (Angst/Fluff/Smut/Pregnancy) Ao3

[gonstrpc]

You can read more Rain x Swiss shenanigans in our RP DISCORD SERVER !

[cor-obscenum]

could you please write about copia comforting their partner about their abandonment issues?

You can always reach me

Pairing: Copia | Frater Imperator x GN reader

Summary: you admit it, you have a bad habit: you push people away when you feel like they're abandoning you. But then you miss them.

Contents: just fluff, emotional hurt / comfort with a lil dash of cardiophilia.

Word count: 508

“Hi, Frater.”

After a whole week of avoiding him, ignoring his text messages or just replying to them with monosyllables, you finally showed up to Copia’s suite and decided to talk to him. The longing for his touch was getting unbearable, even though your fear of abandonment told you he wouldn't care.

“Amore! So good to see you, at least. Why have you been acting so strange lately? Are you mad at me?” he asks, a look of pained concern in his face.

“No, I'm not mad at you… It's that… I don't really know how to explain.” you reply.

“No matter what's wrong, we can work it out together, si? Tell me how you feel. I'm all ears” he says softly, rubbing a kind hand on your shoulder.

“Well… Since you became Frater Imperator, I feel undeserving of your love… You're head of the Clergy now. You're so powerful, and I'm just a Sibling of Sin… I feel like you should just leave me for someone better, more attractive, of higher rank…”

“Nonsense, tesorino. I won't leave you. You're so special to me, so unique, no one can make me as happy as you do.”

He wraps his arms around you tenderly, pulling you close into a hug. You break down in tears into his shoulder, and he pets your hair while whispering a string of “it's okay”. You don't know how long you stay wrapped up in his embrace, but it does wonders for your mood, as you never feel safer than when you're in Copia's arms.

When you pull away, he gently takes your hand and caresses it between his gloved hands, looking at you with a kind, but sterner look.

“I want you to promise me something. Promise you're not gonna push me away again? It made me worried, and sad. When you feel insecure about anything, you can always reach me and talk about it. I'll understand. Capisce?” 

“Okay, Papa, I mean, Frater” you reply with a nod.

“Just call me Copia. Or Cardi. However you prefer. We've known each other for so long…” He says with a smile.

“Can I call you my little rat?” You ask.

“Sure, why not” he chuckles, amused by the new nickname you gave him. “I'm your little rat now… You Ratatouille, your Stuart Little, you name it!”

You two giggle and hug again, like two happy children who just became best friends. You've indeed known each other for a long time. You saw Copia grow from a meek, awkward Cardinal into a powerful and commanding Papa and, finally, as the mighty Frater Imperator, and you are so proud of him for this. And he's proud of you for your hard work and devotion to the Ministry, even though sometimes you find it hard to believe.

He holds your hand flat to his chest. There's a steady beat underneath your palm.

“Feel it? It beats for you” he coos, romantically. You can't help but blush at the gesture. Copia knows how to make you feel loved, always.

Taglist: @runscold-runsdeep @boomerangjr

[circle--of--confusion]

Through the Spillways

Summary: Your sweet, albeit awkward Copia, constantly walks around with his head weighed down by the crown of a destiny he never saw coming, a role he never had time to prepare for. He hides behind flashy clothes and snark to make it seem as if he has it all put together, but it’s nights like this you know he’s reached another low point where he can’t even sleep to find peace for a few hours.

Author's note: *Shows up 5 months late* Here's some Frater Copia angst! I tried my hand at a reader insert this time.

Paring: Frater Imperator Copia X GN!Reader

Words: 1.8k

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, post Rite Here Rite Now, spoilers for Rite Here Rite Now, hopeful ending

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Your eyelids flutter before slowly opening. There are faint chirps of Copia’s video game and 8-bit music floating into the bedroom. Flashes of light from the TV reach the walls of your room and you check the clock on the nightstand.

2:37 AM

A heavy sigh is exhaled through your nose as you twist and turn in bed before throwing back the covers to stand up. When he can’t sleep, Copia trudges out to the living room for a distraction to lull his eyes back into slumber. Every couple weeks he is discovered curled up on the couch with a video game controller dangling in his hand as his arm stretches out while he rests. He’ll snore softly and his face will finally look calm, peaceful. The moment Copia wakes up, you’ll see the muscles in his face contort into a pained façade. He puts on a brave face for you, for everyone in the ministry as the now Frater Imperator. The unexpected promotion he received after his Los Angeles ritual last year. The ritual his mother died at. Sister Imperator.

He was kept in the dark about a lot of things throughout his life. As an orphan, he was left in the dark about who his parents were. And then once he found out about Sister and Papa Nihil, he was left in the dark about the true extent of his mother’s health towards the end. Copia tried to rationalize things, tell himself he wasn’t seeing a wheelchair on her bad days; that her less-than-active role around the ministry was a self-imposed break. Not to mention, he had been kept naïve in the beginning as to how the previous Papas were killed just so Sister Imperator could allow his rise into the Papacy. Your sweet, albeit awkward Copia, constantly walks around with his head weighed down by the crown of a destiny he never saw coming, a role he never had time to prepare for. He hides behind flashy clothes and snark to make it seem as if he has it all put together, but it’s nights like this you know he’s reached another low point where he can’t even sleep to find peace for a few hours.

He looks, well exhausted doesn’t even feel like it covers the entire scope of his body language. You find him hunched on the couch, video game controller in hand as the only light in the room comes from his old boxy TV. Copia sits as still as a statue while his hands mindlessly manipulate the controller, locked in to the movements on the screen. The dark circles under his eyes make you wonder if he’s wearing the face paint that’s all-too familiar but no, his face is bare. You call over to him softly, barely a whisper, and he flinches as if it was yelled, pulled out of his trance.

“Copia? Caro mio. It’s late. You need sleep.”

Copia sighs heavily, the controller drooping down in his hand as he mentally scolds himself for waking you. He turns towards you with tired, pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, tesoro mio. I was hoping the volume was low enough so you wouldn’t wake up.”

You sit down beside him and his body immediately gravitates towards you, his head moving to rest on your shoulder. Your arm goes around his waist and Copia sinks into you immediately. “What’s going on in your brain, caro?” you leave his side and you swear he whimpers at the loss of your body. He wraps a hand around your thigh as you move to face at him, bringing his head up to look into his eyes. Your thumb softly strokes over his cheek and he closes his eyes for a moment to breathe before opening them again. “You were doing so well.”

“I was trying to beat my record of three straight nights of sleep, too.” Copia softly laughs to himself as he shakes his head. “It’s just the usual stuff. Please, go to bed. You don’t need to give up your own rest for me.” He waves you off.

You look into him with furrowed brows. “What if I want to? How long have we known each other, Copia? You know I’ll always have time for you.”

It makes him feel worse, somehow, that you care so much. “I found a letter in her? or now my? desk.” His voice hitches on ‘letter’. “From her addressed to me. I think it might’ve been the first draft because there were notes and scratched out bits in the margins.”

You hug him to you and he wraps his arm around your body, melting into your embrace. His head rests on your chest and you lean back, taking him with you as your body reclines into the couch; he lays on top of you in-between your legs while you wrap yourself around him as best you can. Copia sighs when he feels the soft carding of your fingers through his hair as you sit there in silence for a few minutes. “Do you want to tell me about it?” Another heavy sigh leaves him as he nods. The TV light shines off the small pool of tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

“Sister - my mother – wrote it all out. Everything. Her grief over giving me up. How she sought to make up for it by working to give me the Papacy.” he sniffles. Copia squeezes his arms around you before continuing. “She put plans in place for me after going to the doctor one day last year. Her blood work and scans came back with a flag and after that,” a small sob leaves him. “,things got worse. She knew her time would come soon and her last wish was for me to carry on in her place.”

“That is… a lot to read.” A heavy tear falls from his eye and you feel a damp spot on your shirt where it lands.

He laughs lowly. “Yes. And then I had to see the new guy 20 minutes later. It’s not exactly professional to show up to a meeting with tear streaks down your face.” Copia shakes his head. “I thought I was going to die that night, back in LA. I was somehow convinced that my own mother would kill me.”

You shush him softly, still running your fingers through his hair. “She loved you, even from a distance, Copia. I don’t think that thought would ever cross her mind.”

Copia looks up at you, wet eyes staring into yours, searching. “But what if I wasn’t successful as Papa, though? What if I flopped?”

You look back at him and press a soft kiss to his hairline. “You had more time with the band compared to the rest. I’d say that’s a sign of success.”

“Yes, but-“

“But nothing, caro mio.” you silence him by softly putting a finger up to his lips. “She was a very complicated woman but she never would’ve let anything or anyone hurt you.”

Copia folds and resumes laying back on your chest. “I just feel like I have their blood on my hands. If I had known, if I knew that she was my mother, I never would’ve asked for anyone to die. They had retired. And the Papa before me was pulled off of the stage so I could ascend!”

You clutch him tighter, one hand rubbing his back and the other rests on his head. “It’s… definitely not an easy thing to have on your mind, I will agree with that.” you shake your head. “But you can’t change anything about the past. All you can do is honor their legacy and yours by helping everyone here and now.” you lean down, mumbling another kiss to his head. “Isn’t that what you tell the audience?”

“I can’t even take my own advice. I’m a phony.” Copia scoffs and shakes his head.

“No, you’re not.” you emphasize, a little too loud. A sigh leaves you as you look down at him, continuing to brush your fingers softly through his hair. “Healing from grief is not always easy. It’s not linear. You will have bad days and good days throughout.” Your shirt feels wetter as more tears fall from Copia’s eyes and you allow him just feel all of the emotions that have been brewing since he found the note. He sniffles, apologizing for messing up your shirt but you wave it off. Snot and tears are nothing to you compared to the inner turmoil that plagues his mind in these recent months. Since her passing, these particular nights have not been rare; as he cleans Sister Imperator’s office to make room for his things, buried memories and emotions resurface.

“I’m just so tired.” he cries into you. Copia hugs further into you and he lets out a big exhale when he feels like he can talk again. “The weird thing in all of this, is I don’t feel like I can do this without her. Sister Imperator was an integral member of this clergy for decades. I’m just her son.”

“Are you saying you think you’re a nepotism hire?” You smile when he groans at your attempt to lighten the mood.

“Please don’t make me laugh, tesoro mio. I’m not sure I have it in me.” Copia pleads, a weak chuckle coming out.

“Apologies, my love.” You press your lips to his hair with a kiss. “You are capable of this job, Copia. You just might have to spend less time playing games and spending more time actually doing your receipts.” he grumbles into you. “She wouldn’t have given the job to you if she didn’t think you could do it.” He mumbles into your chest and you can’t make out what it was he’s said.

Copia seems to have listened to that last bit, relaxing slightly on top of you. Either that or he’s finally exhausted his body for the night and can’t bring himself to care. While you both cuddle each other on the couch, his breathing over time begins to settle and the taught muscles of his shoulders and back slowly relax. You don’t want to move Copia when the soft, reliable snores from him fill the room.

“I believe in you, Copia.” You gently run a finger through his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I love you.” You whisper into his hair before leaning your head back to settle into the couch to sleep. The next morning, Copia wakes up with an extra bit of energy. When you kiss him goodbye, his eyes aren’t looking so tired. You don’t expect he’s suddenly moved on but you get the feeling that last night helped him process something. He looks back at you, sheepish but hopeful; his smile doesn’t feel so forced today.

It feels weird to say I hope you enjoyed it but I hope it was... entertaining? Thank you for reading!

[ashthewaterghoul]

https://www.tumblr.com/ashthewaterghoul/766771422142038016/httpswwwtumblrcomashthewaterghoul76675997042

Pleasure knowing you all 😔

I'm going to say the same, because I have a feeling my flat is about to surrounded by an angry mob...

Pro Memoria - #phanter cuddle buddies

    After however many years it had been since that glorious reunion, Copia and Phantom didn’t spend too many nights apart. Sure, there were tours and Copia would have to leave on business trips sometimes. But, more likely than not, they were together. Their bond closer than anyone had ever seen or would see again.

    No one even questioned it anymore, and everyone quite easily recognised the two as father and child despite the species barrier. Even they didn’t really acknowledge it anymore. For all intents and purposes Phantom was Copia’s child, and Copia was Phantom’s father, their Papa. It didn’t matter that Copia was actually Frater and had been for some time now, Phantom only ever called him Papa. It was what they called Copia when they were first summoned and he held that title, and plenty of humans called their dads Papa so it just made sense to them.

    But there was one thing that came with Copia being human that both of them never really acknowledged. And all things must end one day…

Read below the cut or on ao3!

    Phantom had been glued to their Papa’s side as of late. He got very achy and tired easier and so Phantom would always help, giving little zaps of Quintessence and providing comfort in the way they both loved. Their nightly cuddles. Tonight was no different, Phantom in some fluffy pyjamas that Copia had bought for them, and Copia in some that Phantom had gifted.

    Copia got under the covers with a bit of a wheeze as his hips seized up, and Phantom gave some Quintessence so it would be easier for him to get comfy. He looked a couple years younger as he smiled at Phantom. They could almost ignore all the grey and silver hairs and the wrinkles with the youthful glow of Copia’s beam.

    Phantom then climbed in, and wrapped their arms around Copia’s abdomen, their head on his chest to listen to his heartbeat. They nuzzled their nose into Copia’s top, inhaling their favourite smell of old tobacco settled into woollen sweaters and aged parchment. They truly would never ever get enough of it. It was the smell of love and safety and home to them.

    Copia wrapped his arms around Phantom too. One around their back, rubbing up and down gently, the other in their hair as his bony and rigid fingers massaged a little. Phantom smiled and purred at the sensations, wrapping their tail around one of Copia’s legs, and Copia smiled too.

    “Buona notte, sogni d’oro.” Copia said.

    “G’night, Papa. I love you.” Phantom returned, yawning and stretching at the same time.

    “I love you too, il mio piccolo pipistrello.” Copia said, putting a kiss between Phantom’s horns.

    And like every night they had spent in each other’s arms, they fell asleep easily and completely content. A smile on both of their faces as the dreamworld whisked them away into its imaginative embrace.

    Phantom woke up first, judging by Copia’s stillness next to them. They sleepily managed a corner smile at that, been as it had only ever happened a handful of times over the years. But as Phantom came around more, they noticed something was off.

    Copia smelt different. Faded, and musty and…

    His chest wasn’t moving. Phantom’s head was still on there, and they couldn’t feel it moving up and down with his breathing. Time seemed to freeze as Phantom also realised they couldn’t feel his heart beating either…

    Phantom sat bolt upright and looked at Copia, their breaths quickening and too shallow. He was still smiling and looked so peaceful.

    “Papa?” Phantom whispered, reaching a hand to his face and finding him cold. Way too cold.

    Phantom’s face dropped, and tears threatened to fall. Their throat was squeezed tight with emotion and their soul felt so empty. Even more than it had been for the years they had to spend apart long ago.

    “No, Papa, please!” Phantom said, shaking Copia to wake him, “Wake up, please! Don’t-, no!”

    Phantom doesn’t know how long they spent trying to wake their Papa up. But they refused to succumb to the part of their mind that dared to say it was real.

    “No. It’s just a nightmare! I can’t- I-…” Phantom lost their words as sobs took over. They laid back down, frantically placing Copia’s limp arms back around them.

    It was just a dream, right? There was nothing about this that was real. Phantom would go back to sleep and wake up and Copia would be there, and everything would be okay.

    Phantom cried harder as Copia’s arms failed to listen to their muscle memory and hold the little Bat.

   They think they may have fallen asleep at some point. But when they woke up, Copia was still… asleep, and someone else was there too.

    “Phantom?” It was Aether, but Phantom refused to open their eyes or even move, “Bat, please, you have to let him go.”

    Aether’s voice was cracked with emotion as he reached a hand to Phantom’s shoulder. But they shrugged it off and held Copia tighter, nuzzling into him in an effort to find his heartbeat. He was just wearing a thicker jumper because he’d been getting colder easier. That’s why Phantom could find it, it was just buried a little.

    “No. I need to be here when he wakes up. I’m always here when he wakes up. He panics when I leave before him.” Phantom said, their own voice strained against every emotion that wanted to burst through their chest with the fragments of their broken heart.

    “Phantom, he’s gone.” Aether said.

    They shook their head, “He’s not. He’s fine, he’s just sleeping.”

    “He’s not waking up. I’m sorry, Bug, he’s dead.” Aether said in a voice heavier than a tonne of bricks.

    Phantom’s bottom lip started wobbling as they started crying again, “No! He’s not! He can’t be!”

    At some point, Aether had climbed in behind Phantom shaking and sobbing form, his hands around their torso and one lying over their heart to give them some Quintessence.

    “No,” Phantom said as they felt the magic, moving Aether’s hand to Copia’s chest, “Give it to him. Wake him up! He has a meeting this morning, and he’s going to be late if you don’t wake him up.”

    Aether’s heart broke even more as he felt the magic wash over Copia’s still and very much unalive chest under his palm.

    “I’m so sorry, Phantom.” Aether said again, and started moving.

    Before they could register what was happening, Aether had stood up, not letting go of Phantom, they were pulled from Copia’s hold as Aether carried them away.

    They saw Copia’s body, alone in his bed, and the empty space Phantom always filled.

    “No! Aether, please!” Phantom begged, kicking and flailing as much as they could, “I need to be there when he wakes up! Please, let me go!”

    Aether pulled Phantom back out of the bedroom and into the main living area of the Imperator Suite. There he knelt on the ground with Phantom, still wrestling to keep them in his arms. Aether nodded at the mortician who went in, bowing to Copia, before moving him onto the stretcher and body bag.

    “No! That’ll hurt his back, a- and his hips! He can’t breathe in there! Stop, please!” Phantom pleaded, choking on sobs.

    Aether just kept hold of them, trying to keep his own strength no matter how much his own heart was shattering. For Copia and Phantom both.

    When Aether woke up, his Quintessence was screaming at him that something was wrong. The bond he shared with Copia had merely ceased to exist overnight, and the one with Phantom was in such pain and stress and turmoil - Aether immediately knew what had happened. He ran up to the Imperator Suite and seeing Copia’s prone form, Phantom wrapped around him and begging for him to wake up, to be okay, all but confirmed it.

    When the mortician wheeled Copia’s body out, Phantom lunged for it, and managed to break Aether’s hold on them. They stood up and unzipped the bag. Copia was still smiling, shadows of his Clergy paint still on him from where he got too tired to scrub the little remainders away the night before.

    Phantom threw their arms around him once again, “Don’t leave me, please. You promised you’d always be there for me.”

    Aether and the mortician let Phantom have their time, but everything must end at some point.

    “It would be best for me and Frater to leave now.” The mortician said, “The Siblings will be leaving the breakfast hall soon and I’d hate to have to take Frater through them all.”

    “Of course.” Aether said, his voice thick with emotion as he peeled Phantom off of Copia’s body again.

    This time, Phantom had no energy to try and fight back, and so collapsed into Aether’s arms. And they broke.

    “I can’t, Aeth. He- he s- said he’d never leave me.” Phantom sobbed, hyperventilating on the panic of the prospect of living in a world without their Papa.

    “I know, Buggy, he didn’t want to leave either.” Aether said, holding Phantom as tight as he could.

    “Why did he go? I don’t want him to go!” Phantom cried.

    “I didn’t want him to leave either.” Aether whispered.

    Phantom’s sobs overtook them as they cried themself dry, the effort twisting their stomach and making them dry heave and choke on nothing. Aether held them the entire time, and slowly gave them more Quintessence until they were passed out in his arms.

    Phantom woke up in the bottom of a Ghoul pile, and for a glorious moment, they forgot why. When they scented everyone else’s sadness and despair, it all came crashing down around them, and they started crying again. They tried getting out from everyone’s hold, saying they needed to see their Papa, but everyone kept saying he was dead. Why would they say that? It wasn’t true, he was just asleep!

    But they kept saying it. And when the Ghouls were permitted to go down to the Chapel of rest to say their goodbyes privately, Copia was still asleep. He still had a small smile on him from being with his bambino that night. He was in his sleek black suit and his ruby Grucifix. His paint was on and he looked fine, he was okay. So why was everyone crying? Why were they crying? It wasn’t real, it was just a nightmare. A nightmare they’d soon wake up from, and Copia would be there to help them get over it. To tell them it wasn’t real, just a cruel and unsettling trick from their mind like the rest of their nightmares were, and help calm them back to sleep with loving words and gentle kisses and firm hugs.

    Maybe they were crying from exhaustion? They hadn’t slept right for the last week since Aether took them from Copia’s room. It was just that. It wasn’t sadness because their Papa wasn’t dead.

    “Must be a good sleep you’re having, Papa. Why won’t you wake up?” Phantom asked.

    All the Ghouls had left something with their Papa, and Phantom left the bat plushie they had brought with them on the night they were reunited.

    “I love you, Papa. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave your piccolo pipistrello, your bambino.” Phantom pleaded again, once more throwing their arms around Copia’s body, desperately trying to lift his arms to wrap around him.

    The mortician had to intervene at that point. Something about the embalming and rigor mortis making it so that Phantom could hurt Frater if they did that. But Phantom shook their head, holding their Papa and putting their head on his chest.

    “Please wake up, Papa.” Phantom asked again. And when Copia’s content and smiling face remained still. They sobbed once more.

    They were meant to say something at the funeral. They wrote the speech, and stood at the lectern and opened their mouth. But no words came out. Because saying these words meant Copia was dead. And Phantom wouldn’t accept that, couldn’t accept that their Papa was gone forever. They descended into sobs as they held onto the coffin and Mountain stood, bringing Phantom back to the pew and sitting them with the Ghoulettes as he read Phantom’s words instead.

    Phantom’s body was there, but their mind wasn’t. Their mind was in that last night falling asleep with Copia. Their Papa’s lovely scent, his tight arms, his beating heart.

    Phantom found quite a bit of irony in Quintessence Ghouls being nicknamed ‘voidlings’ as now that’s all they felt like. Their brain was hollow and unfeeling, their heart a pit of nothingness, their soul just completely empty.

    Like his brothers and father, Copia was put in a glass coffin and laid in his own alcove in the Ministry catacombs. Phantom found themself never leaving, always spending every possible second they could there. They had to be there when he woke up. Copia always panicked when he woke up and Phantom would be gone. Even if they left a note, Papa wouldn’t always see it right away, or he’d forget to put his glasses on and he couldn’t read it. He’d been asleep for so long, Phantom had to be there when he woke up.

    One day, they went down, and they never left. They stayed curled up next to their Papa’s coffin, like a cat in a cemetery waiting for their owner to return. And Phantom, locked into their mind and their grief, withered away and slowly succumbed to the void. Maybe they’d find Copia here, and they could hold each other’s souls in their embraces forevermore.

One shot master post can be found here All posts about this universe/hc can be found here on ao3 or under the #phanter cuddle buddies tag here on tumblr

[drapopia]

he ain't heavy (he's my brother)

primo + copia standalone

pairing: none

warnings: themes of anxiety, parental abandonment, nihil being a terrible parent

summary: And why should Copia have a spot in this church? Left at birth, he had watched on from the shadows. Why does it bother him so when he makes a single mistake if nobody is even watching?

word count: 2.5k

authors note: yet another fic of me babbling on about my thoughts about copia. while I do some have more spicy stuff on my back burner, i've been scared since starting a new semester and desperately needed to write out primo being sweet towards copia. (maybe i'm projecting shhhh)

also try to catch the subtle star trek reference i made hehe. enjoy!

----------------

A blight, a piece of rot that floats through the dust mote filled air of these unhallowed halls. He burrows his way into the small nooks and crannies, cloisters that let him finish his thoughts. When hasn’t he found his way here? He’s existed here for years, far longer than he had been introduced into this world. Proverbially speaking of course, his entrance into the world had been shrouded in indecision and shame. Copia often wonders if anybody had held him tightly to their chest when he was born, softly crooning to him, settling him to sleep before leaving him in the sterile newborns bassinet. Alone, no longer in the perfumed scent of his mother’s skin. 

Pushed into the harsh brick of the greenhouse to the side, he knows he should not be here. Class had gone as usual, his brain teeming with ideas as opposed to the other future Siblings of Sin clustered at his side. A bored yawn, a quashed snarl of bitterness at being stuck inside on such a gorgeous day. (It was not a gorgeous day, Copia had concluded, the sun would burn the freckles that adorned his cheeks. He loathed the aloe he had to smear on whenever he stepped outside for too long). 

Breathing, quashing the swell of anxiety that had burrowed its way into the soft meat of his stomach during the lesson. It had been nothing, truly not a thing to quarrel with his instincts over. But here he was, and the quickening of the air in his brain made him stop in this familiar corner. 

Matron had told him several times that he needed to calm down, and had reminded him in a biting tone. A woman of no nonsense, and this surely seemed like nonsense coming from his mouth. How could he explain it? The burst of emotion from his brain that made him shake at the knees, actual vomit was preferable to the way he stammered and stuttered when approached by someone. 

At this point Copia was certain he would never become a Sibling of Sin. Certainly a smart boy, Bishop Turner had commended him on his last paper he had turned in for History of Satanic Figures. There were no doubts he was capable of learning, yet commanding an audience? A foolish pipe dream in everyone’s eyes that was the most laughable inside joke for the Clergy. Sniggering to themselves, but rage had never bubbled up as he imagined. No, only shame. Blessed with a gift from the Olde One, and a disappointment through and through. 

Copia held his hand to his chest, his fingers bitten through with blood and hangnails he would surely be doctoring himself later in the blessed quiet of his room. The pulse underneath his palm shook, an unsettling cacophony of distress. He had only spoken up in class, given a surprising wrong answer to the question. Who the hell cared about Chaucer anyways? Apparently he did, and the reminder of the way the girl in front of him had sniggered, his face falling and his cheeks reddening in the chill of the lecture hall. 

(Deep down Copia did care about Chaucer, but he was certainly not going to like him anymore after his embarrassment. Nope, never again. Definitely not. Nuh uh). 

The sun’s warmth had soaked into the brick corners of the greenhouse, the plastic tops surely catching the most heat and warming the plants inside. Sweaty, humid. All things Copia detested, now even more with the amount he had started to sweat in the last year. Unfair, Copia thought, why do I get to sweat all the time and I still cannot grow a mustache? The sparse hairs on his lip were laughable, and he had finally taken the step and purchased a razer. Nobody certainly needed to be told, they could tell from the small cuts littering Copia’s cheeks. 

His heart rate still high, he turned to the door on his left. Stained with fertilizer, acrid and dark, dark smears of green against the inside from where moss had grown in the humid room. Primo never got rid of the moss, insisting that everything had a place in his greenhouse. In that same instance he had reassured Copia that just like the moss, everyone had a place in the Ministry. Copia was loath to agree, but he reluctantly accepted it. Verbally, not internally. How could such an odd boy have a space in this church? Odd, loathsome, awkward and vermin to everyone here- 

The door handle turned, Copia shuffling back and staring wide eyed at the door. He was reminded of his appearance, his black vestments no doubt skewed, his laps chapped and his chest sticky with sweat. (Seriously, he had never sweat this much in his life. Can you put a price on getting older? Because if so, Copia would stick himself on a slab as soon as pierce his ear with a price tag). 

The familiar haggard face of Primo peered around the door, his height towering over Copia as usual. The man in front of him was young, but the church weighed heavily on him. You pray so hard on bloody knees, Copia thought. Not from lack of belief, there were no doubts that this was the right path for Primo. But a man can only solve so many problems, attend confessionals every night, herd his flock with a kind hand. His face had begun to reflect the stress, the smile lines on either side growing deep. Ravines, rushing quickly by with tears and sweat to pray at the altar. 

“Copia?” Primo’s voice, etched with wear and tear that stretched into a wretched rasp, reached him through his reverie. “Are you out of class?” The door creaks, a thin hand reaching out to gently clasp his shoulder. Bony fingers, filed nails that bit into fabric, and into the pulpit during every sermon. They were gentle and comfortingly cold through Copia’s robes. 

“Si, I just finished.” Copia’s voice cracked in the jelly-like heat of the midday sun, a quick clear of his throat breaking through the thick air. 

“Ah, this is why you darken my doorstep?” The ravine widens, and Primo- no. He needed to call him Papa now, it had been this way for a few months now, and it still rang new on his tongue. But he would always be Primo to him, fratello. But he was brother, not mother, and not father. Copia preferred not to think about the foreign concept of a father. Papa, he could respect. A father wouldn’t whore himself out.

Copia nods, the lump in his throat returning with a vengeance. A honeyed hum, the hand gently squeezing the defined muscle collecting on his neck. Feet moving forward with no thought, he followed Primo into the crowded building. Red, forays into green, purple, splashes of blue that rounded out the corners of his blurred vision, colors changing hues. He tries not to think too intensely on the ugly rot still building in the cavern of his stomach, his brain pulsing and firing off where he felt he no longer had the right to. His feet blindly falling step by step in front of him, he vaguely felt Primo’s hand drift away from Copia’s shoulder and fall to his hand. Copia recalled when Terzo was younger, around Copia’s own age now. His frequent fits of fear, curled into Primo’s side with tears streaked down his cheeks in red rivulets. While Copia never witnessed Secondo’s own fits firsthand, he had woken up several times to the sounds of breaking glass, slammed doors, quick and sure footsteps following the clunks of the thick soled rubber boots Secondo had begged for. While he was just a child, he knew that it was better to drift off to sleep. How pitiful that he be so reclusive, so unobtrusive in his rage and fear? 

The room opened up as the two of them moved forward, a leering creature of woe and fear above a smaller rodent, perhaps of a similar design deep at heart. They settled at the worn table, strewn with trowels and rough hewn leather gloves. Primo sighed, reaching out to grab the faded blush pink pair that slipped on with familiar ease. Primo turned his gaze, his mismatched eyes latching onto Copia’s own with a feeling that made Copia’s stomach roil with guilt. “Grab a pair, piccolo topo.” Copia let his lips lift at the nickname, although only momentarily. His hands reached out, the freckles dotting his hands disappearing into the thick gloves. He let his hands fall limply to his side, a dramatic gesture that was not lost on Primo with a tiredly fond roll of his eyes. His hand reached out to grab Copia’s hand once again, directing him to the small array of pots on the table to their left. Primo’s hands pulled away, darting out to gingerly grab the pot. 

“Do you know what we are going to be planting?” He asked softly, eyes not meeting Copia’s. Copia’s gaze rose to look at the older man’s face. His papal paint had not yet smeared in the humid air, only dots of sweat along the ridge of his brow. His locks were tied in a hapless bun, small listless strands collecting along the line of his neck. He jumped, meeting Primo’s that had turned to look at him. He had not responded, Copia realized. 

“I’m not sure, Papa.” Copia responded softly. 

“Primo.” The older man corrected, his lips curling in affection and… something Copia could not quite place. He wouldn’t think too intensely, the stirring in his guts already a force to be reckoned with. Uncomfortable, wretched, foul and without any dignity-

“Eh, I don’t know what we are doing now.” He spat the sentence out, the words a bumbling rush of stuttering that was not lost on him. 

“We are re-potting this coriander..” A gesture to their left, and Copia spotted the small flowering plant to his left. 

“I thought coriander was a seasoning?” Copia asked a bit louder, looking with a small sort of curiosity at the small flowering plant in front of them. 

“Quite right. But, they flower in the heat.” The green stalks were long and spindly, though the thin white petals were sprouting proudly outwards. It makes sense that there are flowers then, Copia thought to himself, it was fucking sweltering in here. He decided to keep this crude thought to himself. 

“So why are we putting it into a new pot?” Copia questioned, his head craning upwards to look at Primo. The older man’s head turned, smiling down at him in a way that made Copia’s heart clench uncomfortably tight, the same way he felt when Primo would read him Frankenstein as a young boy. Usually a comfort, but all Copia could think of was shame. Shame at being stupid, never worthy of being the one in the right. 

Primo’s voice cut through the din. “Oh, this little one just needs room to grow. Just as we all do. We can never be too comfortable, or else we will never learn.” His hands reached for the bigger pot, scooting it closer and reaching his hand into the large bag of potting soil to his left. As he spoons in the potting soil, he gestures towards the coriander. “Could you grab our plant, per favore?” He speaks softly, gently. 

The pot is brought closer, Copia taking great care not to injure the small ivory blooms that seem intensely close to drifting off of the stalk. Primo’s hand falls on his own, a pointed squeeze on his freckled hand. “Gently, gently. We must be careful with this one. It has purposes beyond our sight.” A nod, and Primo leaned over him. His hands gently led Copias’ own, their gloved hands reaching into the dirt with precision (Perhaps Primo had precision, but Copia knew he would never have a green thumb, no matter how hard he tried). 

Their hands moved together, the soil falling away from the roots as the plant rose from the pot. “Be careful, Copia.” Primo chided, though there was no bite. There never was. Copia lessened his grip, his hands still cupping the plant with care. They moved as one, the plant gently nestled in the bigger pot. It looked almost pitiful, petite compared to the black paint on the outside of the planter. 

“Copia.” The voice above him said softly, and his gaze shot towards his brothers. Matching, green and white. A painted smile brightening, the younger smile lifting noticeably. “We must give ourselves room to grow, piccolino. If we are always right, how will we learn? Do you think I have always been right? That I have never made mistakes?” Yes, Copia thinks to himself. He knows this is wrong, but Primo is strong. He always knows what to do, what to say, how to dampen the heat that swells inside Copia when he thinks about his life for too long. 

“Copia.” The voice is commanding, kind. His gaze meets the others once more from where it had drifted away. 

“We all mess up. You are intelligent, and a handsome young man to boot. These are hard times, I realize this. And I know that you will grow quicker than you will know how to deal with. Do not doubt yourself.” The words are soft, and Copia tries to force away the stinging in his eyes as he feels tears hit the hot air of the greenhouse. Could Primo read him so easily? Of course he could. He sniffles, his head ducking downwards. Primo’s arms wrap around him, strong hands holding him close. Copia can smell incense, even though Primo was not wearing his papal robes. His cheek rests against the thin linen button down, soft with the passing of time. 

“Shush.” he registers Primo saying softly. A hand is close to Copia’s shoulder, a weight on him that makes him want to slink back to his bed. Back to a time when all he had to worry about was when Star Trek would come on, what he and Terzo would draw before their lessons, would his sandwiches have the crusts cut off again today? And by Satan, he knew his life would only get harder (It already had been). 

A sniffle, and a cut off sob echoes through the room. He pulls away, and Primo’s slightly calloused fingers delicately wipe the tears from his cheeks. “Do not worry.” He coos, and Copia feels the knot in his tummy begin to loosen. His eyes burn in the hazy light, and he blinks furiously. 

“Now, we have our plant in his home. What would you like to do?” Primo asks quietly, and Copia looks at him with sheepishness plainly written on his face. 

“Can we go to the cafeteria and get some treats? I am thinking that Christine wants something to snack on.” Primo laughs at that, drawing back and letting his arm rest over Copia’s shoulders in a subtle embrace. 

“We do not have to go all the way across the Abbey, would she like some raspberries? They are in season.” Copia nods, his heart quickening at the thought of teaching Christine more of her tricks. She had so far learned to go in a circle, her little whiskers twitching in excitement. 

And as they walked down the worn pathway through the foliage, Copia knew he couldn’t have cared less if he had known where Chaucer had written his poems. 

[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.

[ghulehunknown]

Kinktober 2024 is here!

Hello Tumblr! I’m doing my own Kinktober challenge this year and invite you all to join me! This is a choose your own adventure scenario - or, eh, pick your poison. Feel free to write whichever prompt during any day in October. Go forth and sin!

Spooky season be upon ye! 👻

[fandom-heartrender]

Making Copia suffer doing paperwork in my fanfics because I’m suffering with essays and writing in real life 💪💪

[cowboyemeritus]

Day 16

Prompt: Corsetry

Pairing: Copia/Reader

Tags: corsetry, insecurity, a tiny bit of toxic masculinity

Notes: writing is great because i can put that man in a situation (a corset)

He’s nervous, heart thumping in his chest as he hooks the final clasp together. Already, he feels short of breath, the garment constricting him like a snake. It’s hard to relax with the boning keeping his back straight, so he remains standing while he pulls on the panties — your panties — and stockings. He stumbles as he does so, head slightly spinning from the lack of oxygen. Copia curses loudly when he bumps into the counter, hitting his elbow hard enough that he’s sure there will be a nice bruise tomorrow.

How you can do this, he’ll never know.

“Are you okay, babe?” You ask through the bathroom door. Rubbing the tender spot, he takes as deep a breath as he can in a weak attempt to steady himself.

“Y-yes.” He cringes at the tremble in his voice. “Just-“ He sighs. “I need a second.” This was a horrible idea, and Copia curses his sex-addled brain for even suggesting it. His mind wanders to strange places when he’s inside you, and somehow, this time he just had to open his big mouth and give his thoughts substance. In that moment, the way you’d spasmed around him had been all the encouragement he needed. Now, it makes his chest tighten, worse than the corset crushing his lungs.

He doesn’t want to disappoint you.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to anymore,” you reassure him. “Don’t force it if you’re not comfortable.” Oh, his darling, his sweetheart. How he loves you so.

“No,” he says, steeling himself. He wants to do this, for both of you. “I’m alright. Just wait for me, okay?”

“Okay.” There’s a pause. “Ti amo.” He’s never doubted that for a second. You’ve never given him the chance.

“Anch’io ti amo, tesorina.” Once the padding of your feet fades away, he dares to look at himself in the mirror. The sight stirs up a strange mix of feelings.

It’s a nice fucking corset; black jacquard silk with ornate silver clasps down the front. The edges are lined with dainty lace that just barely tickles the skin under his arms. Cut off under the bust, it hugs him tight, bringing in his chest just enough to give him a more slight, feminine silhouette. Combined with the black lace panties and stockings, Copia looks like something straight out of Cabaret. All he needs is a feather boa.

He looks good, but feels a little ridiculous, cheeks flushing as he takes in the sight of himself. Still, he can’t ignore how his cock gives an interested twitch, beginning to fill out against the confines of the borrowed underwear.

It’s the 21st century, he thinks. This is nothing to be ashamed about.

Taking another steadying breath, he looks himself up and down one more time, wipes away a smear of black eye paint, and then heads for the door. Another wave of anxiety bubbles up in his chest and for a moment, he hesitates, hand on the knob. The worst thing that could happen is that you’re not into it, and that’s… okay. That’s fine. You’re entitled to your feelings and desires and if this doesn’t do it for you, he definitely won’t feel like some silly old pervert for suggesting it in the first place. Definitely not.

Swallowing down the remaining fear, Copia opens the door just enough to slip through. The bedroom is dimly lit, which he’s rather grateful for. You’re sprawled out on the bed in just your panties, scrolling absentmindedly on your phone. The moment you hear the door creak you turn in his direction. At the sight of him your eyes widen, your hands clapping over your mouth. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad sign.

“W-what do you think?” He asks, trying to lean against the door sexily. Relief instantly washes over him when your hands drop into your lap, revealing an impish grin plastered across your face.

“Get over here,” you demand, crooking a finger towards him. He obliges immediately, any nervousness he once had replaced by excitement and throbbing arousal. “Get the fuck-“ Once he’s close enough you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him onto the bed. Before he knows what’s happening you’re on top of him, peppering his neck with kisses and love bites. Your core grinds against his hard cock, the obscene amount of slick evident even through your combined undergarments. “You’re gonna be shooting blanks by the time I’m done with you, pretty boy.”

Actually, this was an amazing idea.