#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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[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.

[madangel19]

Idea: the ghouls all collectively deciding that Copia is too stressed and has been overworking himself, so they clear his schedule behind his back and force him to relax and take time for himself. Maybe with a cuddle pile at the end. :)

This is a perfect idea! Copia deserves some time off with his beloved ghouls and they will pamper the fuck out of him! He just needs a lot of convincing

Content: Weed use and some slightly spicy stuff in the end, but nothing too explicit :3 Also, some spoilers for Rite Here Rite Now

Word Count: 1856 (it turned out a lot longer than it should lol)

“Hey, Papa. Wake up. I need to show you something,” Mountain said, walking into Copia’s bedroom early one morning. 

Copia was barely awake, groaning as the ghoul opened the curtains, letting in the morning light. It was way too early.

“It’s so early, Mountain. Also, it’s Frater now. No need to call me…Papa. Let me sleep…,” he groaned, burying his face in the pillows. He didn’t want to be up. He had so much to do with his new role as head of the clergy and he wasn’t ready to face the day yet.

“You’re still Papa to us. Please, it’s important,” Mountain said, standing at the side of his bed and looming over him. Copia opened one eye, looking up at his ghoul before letting out a tired sigh.

“Just…un momento. Five minutes please,” he said, holding up four fingers. 

“Okay, Papa. I’ll wake you up soon,” Mountain said, stepping away from the bed with a knowing smile on his lips. Copia didn’t question it as he went back to sleep. 

Whatever the ghoul had planned could wait until later. He was going to have a long morning of paperwork once he had breakfast. No, he could just skip breakfast and get the work done early so he could make time for the many meetings in his schedule. 

Copia drifted in and out of consciousness until he was certain he had slept more than five minutes. He was getting a suspicious amount of sleep, but he was just so comfy and relaxed and he didn’t want to move. Too relaxed and comfortable…

“Cazzo! Mountain! How long has it been?” He exclaimed, opening his eyes and sitting upright in bed. 

The ghoul sat near the bed, scrolling away on his phone when Copia woke up. He simply smiled back at him, not looking concerned in the slightest.

“It’s been two hours, Papa. You needed the rest. Now, you get dressed in something comfortable and you can come with me,” the earth ghoul said, gesturing to his sweats that were laid out neatly next to him. 

Copia felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest with how fast it was beating. He had too many things to do and his ghoul let him sleep in of all days? This was outrageous.

“What’s the meaning of this, Mountain? Why haven't any clergy members come in asking for me?” He questioned, still not moving from the bed.

“Because you need a day off, Papa,” a voice said from next to him. 

Copia turned his head and let out an unmanly scream when he saw Swiss sitting next to him on the bed, grinning like an idiot. 

“Santa merda! When did you get here, Swiss?” He cried out, his hand going to his chest. The multi ghoul always had a habit of scaring him like that.

“I’ve been here this whole time, Papa. Gotta make sure you get some good sleep,” Swiss chimed, holding up two fingers. His eyes glowed a dark purple and Copia felt his comforting quintessence fill his mind.

He shook his head, his thoughts going to all the work he had to do now. His ghouls usually never were like this. What was going on?

“I gotta get to work,” he grumbled, getting up from the bed.

“No you’re not. We cleared your whole schedule for the day, Papa. You’re going to relax with all of us,” Swiss crowed.

Copia froze, looking from Swiss and then to Mountain who gave him a simple nod. This couldn’t be. He didn’t have time for a day off now. There was much to be done and so little time to do it. Was the rest of the ministry notified? That was all he really needed to know before accepting such an outrageous offer from his ghouls.

“Does…the rest of the clergy know that I will be taking the day off?” He asked.

“Of course! It took a lot of talking and some help from us quint users, but we managed to clear your schedule. Mountain also took care of your rats while you were asleep,” Swiss said.

Copia raised a brow at the mention of the quintessence being used on the clergy, but if they agreed to it, then it couldn’t be that bad. He sighed, looking over at his comfortable sweats. It had felt like an eternity since he last relaxed in those clothes. 

“I…guess…I will allow this once. What do you ghouls have planned?” He asked.

“Just get dressed and come with us, Papa,” Mountain said, his smile beaming.

Once Copia was dressed, his ghouls led him out of his room, through the church, and to the bath house. Copia had nearly forgotten the last time he went to the bathhouse. Most of the time, it was used by the siblings and the ghouls. 

Upon opening the bathhouse doors, excited voices filled the air when he saw his ghouls running to and fro with blankets and a huge assortment of sweet-smelling soaps and bath salts. The main bath was already ready, lavender steam rising into the air. 

The ghouls all froze when Copia stepped in, staring at him with wide eyes before they all smiled. Aurora was the first one to rush forward, giggling while holding a flower crown made from honeysuckle and lilies.

“You finally made it. Mountain said you slept in, but that gave us plenty of time to get everything ready. I made this for you, Papa,” the ghoulette chimed, standing on her tiptoes to place the flower crown on Copia’s head. He smiled and bowed his head for her, letting her place the sweet smelling crown on him.

“Thank you, mia cara. I appreciate it,” he said, turning his attention to the others who now surrounded him. Aurora chittered and rushed over to Swiss’s side who nodded at her before tousling her hair. 

“How long have you guys been planning this?” Copia questioned.

“I think it’s been over two weeks now. It was kinda hard with you being in charge and all, but we’ve seen how much you’ve been working and we wanted you to have a nice day off,” Cirrus explained, gesturing to the giant pool of water behind her. 

“So, you want me to bathe all day?” Copia chuckled. 

“Of course not, Papa. We have more planned for you once you’re done here,” Cumulus giggled.

“And are you going to tell me what you have planned?”

The ghouls chittered amongst themselves briefly before shaking their heads. Copia sighed, turning his attention to the bath. It looked incredibly inviting. It had felt like years since he took a relaxing bath like this. 

An idea soon came to him and he turned back to his ghouls who all stood at attention, eager to do whatever he pleased.

“Care to join your Papa?” He asked, taking his red hoodie off. 

“Of course! How else are we going to wash you, massage you, and take care of you?” Cirrus crowed as the rest of the pack began stripping off. 

Copia couldn’t help but stare at his magnificent ghouls, his cheeks growing warm. He grunted and tried to focus on undressing himself and once he had stripped, he stepped into the wonderfully warm bath. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” he murmured, easing into the bath and sitting down. His ghouls soon joined them. Rain was the first to get into the bath, the water ghoul completely submerging himself in a deeper part of the bath before swimming over to cuddle into his right side. 

“I picked out the best soaps just for you,” the water ghoul purred.

“And you made an excellent choice,” Copia cooed, brushing a thumb along the ghoul’s neck and lightly touching his gills. The water ghoul shivered under his touch and wrapped his cool arms around his middle. 

“And I picked out the bath salts, Papa,” Aurora chimed, sitting by his left and clinging to his arm. Copia turned his attention to the ghoulette who looked absolutely adorable holding his arm to her chest. 

“I have some snacks here for you. I’m sorry you missed out on breakfast, but we’ll be fixing something real good for you soon,” Cumulus cooed, bringing over a plate of pastries and fruits to him. Copia’s stomach grumbled at the sight of such a delicious treat.

“And I made sure the water was hot enough for all of us,” Dewdrop said, sitting by the edge of the pool and dipping his glowing hands into the water and making more steam. Copia sighed in content, relaxing into the bath more and thinking of how nice the fire ghoul’s hands would feel on his back. 

“You wanna get high now or later, Papa?” Swiss asked, wading over to sit next to Cumulus. Phantom was by his side, already taking a long drag off of a joint and looking like he was already on another planet. Copia sniffed the air and caught a whiff of the weed mixed in with the sweet smelling soaps. 

“Now,” he said.

Phantom nodded and lit the joint before handing it over to him.

“Grazie,” he said before taking a long drag of the joint. Copia’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head when the drug quickly took a hold of him. He hadn’t felt this good in such a long time. He leaned his head back and breathed out the smoke through his nose, watching it float around him before disappearing into the steam. 

“How do you feel, Papa? Good right?” Phantom asked.

“Amazing. Thank you all for…letting me have a day off,” he sighed, looking at each of his ghouls with a drunken smile. He was incredibly lucky to have such loyal ghouls there for him. 

“You know, since you’re in charge, you can take days off whenever you want and the ministry will listen. Just remember that, Papa. No one is gonna be mad at you,” Aurora said, pecking him on the cheek. She was right, but it was going to take a while to adjust to his new role. 

“And if anyone gives you shit, then we can eat them. Just give us the command,” Swiss purred, plucking a purple grape from Cumulus’s plate of snacks and squishing it between his claws before popping it into his mouth. 

“You’re absolutely right. I’m the big man now,” Copia said, spotting an apple slice and taking it.

“You sure are,” Rain crowed, his gaze going from the apple slice and then down. Copia noticed where he was looking and smirked as he took a bit of the apple. Knowing his ghouls, they wouldn’t be leaving him alone all day and night. He looked forward to all the attention they would be giving him. 

“Is there anything else you need, Papa?” Aurora asked, wrapping her tail around his soft thigh, a playful smile on her pretty lips as she leaned in and nuzzled his chest. Rain did the same, purring loudly. Copia swallowed the rest of his apple, suddenly aware of how close his ghouls were to him.

“Ehh, I can think of a few things,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

[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

[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

[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. 

[pro-memoriia]

Saw that you wanted fluffy requests! Maybe Copia and (gender neutral) reader cuddling and being silly and affectionate? Make it as sappy as you like <3

I did HC's for this. Just to let anyone know, I don't do x reader fics because I struggle with putting a personality on the reader.

Copia X Reader — Fluffy HCs

He has fairly bad anxiety so he prefers to stay in with you instead of go out.

He'll show you his collection of video games and offer to let you play on or ask to play with you.

Will whine and get sassy if you win though because he's a sore loser.

Another thing he likes about staying in is the comfort of wearing what he wants. Like sometimes you'll both just end up in your underwear on his bed.

He's bought you matching pajamas before and wants to wear them he will get sad if you don't.

He does odd shit while you're cuddling. You could be trying to sleep and he's laying on his back, tossing a stuffie up and down and just going "aww :(" when he drops it and then continuing again.

Speaking of cuddling, he cannot sit still. You two are moving positions every three minutes to fit his comfort.

He's a bed hogger. Sprawls himself out all the time. You will barely have room. It's okay though, it's endearing. And he'll let you sleep on top of him.

If you can get around on smaller wheels in any way at all (bike, skateboard, roller skates, etc) he will challenge you to races around the Ministry.

He lets you hold his rats and will show you all the tricks he's taught them.

He has a collection of physical copies of every Dracula movie you could ever think of and he will beg you to watch them with him so he can info dump and stuff.

Speaking of info dumping, he's a history nerd and he'll probably cry happy tears if you listen to him rant.

He never really says it out loud, but he wants you to kiss him pretty much 24/7. All he wants is to feel your soft lips peppering little kisses all over his face and making him giggle. If you do it, he's putty in your hands.

He's very easily flattered. If you tell him something small like his hair looking good, he'll be all bashful and smiley.

He loves pillow talk so much. He loves when you two lay together against each other and tell how much you love one another or tell your life story or even just dumb comments or small talk about the weather. He just really appreciates those little moments.

He often gets insecure about his chub or the size of his belly or thighs and will immediately go to you for comfort. And that's because the way you blow raspberries on his belly or kiss his thighs or pat his bottom all the time gives him a little more confidence because then he knows that those parts of him are loveable.

He knows how you like your coffee/tea. He originally wrote it down in his wallet but then he started buying you your favorite so much that he knew it word for word.

He gives you flowers on the regular and Mountain teases him about being in love whenever he comes to the garden to grab them.

He buys you the most random things at times... When he gets back from his tours, he might have a fake skeleton or a plastic squeaky rat from Halloween or strange souvenirs like bone rings or little animal figures. Sometimes, he just gets excited and wants to show you and sometimes it's because they made him think of you.

He tells you everything all the time. Venting, gossip, deep secrets, etc. It all goes to you because he trusts you more than anyone.

Sometimes you go on double dates with a couple of his ghouls. He gets really awkward and embarrassed about it though.

Sometimes he blurts things out on accident and gets flustered about it. You could be talking about the patterns on a giraffe and he'll randomly tell you how beautiful he thinks you are. He doesn't really like that he does it, but the words land on the tip of his tongue because they overflow his brain.

He's so super lovesick for you. An utter fool. He stares at you dreamily during work sometimes, or when you're just going about your daily life.

He tries to write you sweet notes and letters but he always gets frustrated because he doesn't think he sounds poetic enough. You find them anyways though, they're sweet.

[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.

[perinfernum]

Cardinal??

[ashthewaterghoul]

Everything's Fine - A Copia One Shot

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Gen, Copia & Imperator (it's completely platonic mother/son stuff I swear)

Tags: Angst, dissociation, derealisation, Copia needs a hug, author is projecting, author does not care.

Words: 1813

Everything was fine. That’s what Copia told himself at least. Or, I got way too excited about Copia canonically having dissociative issues and wrote this as a more detailed version of his perspective throughout RHRN.

A/n: This was definitely better in my head but I couldn't help myself. I have dissociation issues myself (mostly DPDR) and seeing Copia struggle too made yap and ramble and this came about! Any feedback or comments are welcome and appreciated!

~~~

    Everything was fine.

    That’s what Copia told himself at least.

    He’d seen the signs but his mind wouldn’t have it. Everything was fine, apart from his own doom, it felt. But he knew his own mother would never permit that, right?

    It didn’t matter now, he had a Ritual to perform. Adoring fans screaming his name, the crew waiting for him to give the cue to start Imperium. There were a few new things tonight as well. The skeleton dancers, the quartet on the B-Stage, that new lighting rig for Watcher In The Sky, Twenties for the first time and If You Have Ghosts for the first time in a while. Stressful, but it’s fine. Everything was fine.

    Kaisarion was going as amazing as always, an explosive opening to an explosive show. Copia did his usual of running backstage, his Ghouls deserved the spotlight. Sister was back there of course, looking as great as always. Kevin had been keeping a close eye on her recently, wonder what that’s about?

    That didn’t matter, he had to get back on stage. He got to his mark and everything was fine. Rats, Faith, Spillways all went great and his bat wings were waiting for him for Cirice.

    “It’s going great now, innit?” He shouted to Imperator.

    She was on the other side of the backstage area and wasn’t hearing him. So he went over.

    She’s in a wheelchair. She’s getting weaker. Her pills are all laid out for her with water to wash it down. She never could swallow tablets dry.

No, everything was fine. She was comfy in her high-back chair, her favourite tea and biscuits next to her. She had a blanket because she didn’t have the warmth of the stage lights on her like he did.

    Her bones grow weary, the chill seeps in and her heart won’t warm her up.

    He left for the stage and heard something shaking behind him. Was Swiss or Cirrus back here with their shakers? They should be on stage! Yet they were. It wasn’t more pills…

    She’s dying.

Read below the cut or on ao3

No, she’s watching the show. Maybe she just wants to join in in her own little way and borrowed one of the spare shakers.

    He got to his mark for Cirice and everything was fine. He chose a lovely person by the barricade to sing that iconic chorus to. He remembered when Terzo originated the idea, how excited he was. He missed his brothers; it took a long time for the reality of their passings to settle into Copia’s bones.

    Even when their bodies were paraded around for the fans. No, it wasn’t them, they were just dressed up mannequins. They would come back any day soon because this wasn’t real. Everything was fine. It took Copia a long time to draw the line between reality and what he manifested it to be. Even still, he hoped that one of them would interrupt his Mass, walk into the dining hall and lovingly kick him out of the Papa’s seat.

    He went back to take his bat wings off, no doubt Phantom would steal them later when they thought he wasn’t looking, and Ashley fixed his hair for him. Stubborn thing always ended up with a cow-lick. The reflection of the mirror was interesting.

    It’s an IV drip, she needs these infusions now.

Maybe it’s some new cool thing where you drink from a bag. Swiss showed him the bags in those boxes of wine, maybe this was the sober version.

    The first lyrics of the next song almost betrayed how fine everything was.

    “Ever since you were born, you’ve been dying.

    Everyday, a little more, you’ve been dying.”

    But that’s just a song. No one’s dying. Not the Ghouls, not him and not his mother.

    She will.

    Ritual’s chorus also sought to ruin the peace he wanted for the night.

    “Smells of dead human sacrifice.”

    No one’s getting sacrificed, thankfully.

    She sacrificed everything for you. Just be there for her now.

No. No one is dying.

    He went backstage again and donned his sparkling blue robes. Sister helped design these, so proud of her son and bringing him to the spotlight he deserved from his Emeritus blood.

    Her life’s purpose complete.

    He went back to take his mitre off and Sister was fine, everything was fine. He got his thurible and went back out. Con Clavi Con Dio went by perfectly, the lick of incense wormed it’s way through the air. It reminded him of Sister comforting him when he had a nightmare. It never used to make sense to him why she would pick up so many shifts in the orphanage when she had so many duties.

    He changed again for Watcher In The Sky, and Sister tried to tell him something, Nihil too. He thinks anyway. His mind was as foggy as the rig ascending from just above Mountain’s head. He could make out eyes, no words. Nothing. Where was he?

    “Go, go!” Sister urged him.

    Copia snapped back in and left for the stage. Watcher was fine, he gave his hat to Ashley and jumped into the crate to take him to the B-Stage. What was that thing the light was reflecting off by Sister?

    It’s the IV, for those infusions she was just telling you about.

Maybe she finally watched Star Wars and bought a lightsaber, maybe she finally watched the films like he’d told her to do for years now.

    He was being taken away to the B-Stage, and of course his father shows up. Slightly less fine but it’s okay. He’s already dead, there’s nothing to worry about there.

    She’ll join him soon. The Great Beyond calls her.

    “Listen and obey your mother.”

    Say goodbye while you still can.

“You don’t get it. Just listen to her for my sake and try to do it.”

    No. She’s not sick, she’s not dying.

    “For the new guy.”

    You’re going to take over. You inherited a title from your father, now it’s your mother’s turn.

“Right.”

    No! Why did he say that? Everything’s fine. Nothing’s happening.

    If You Have Ghosts went fine. Well, more than fine, those Ghoulettes are amazing. Chills all around from their gorgeously haunting talents. The speech he gave was one he was quite proud of. He didn’t know where it came from, he just knew he needed to assure his fans.

    Listen to what you say. It’s your life. Your ups and downs. You’re allowed to be sad about your mother, you’re allowed to enjoy your show.

    Twenties was amazing, the dancers too. Dewdrop’s solo, everyone hit their marks. And he went back for his black robes. He got to his spot for Ashely to meet him and looked over to Sister Imperator.

    She’s in her wheelchair because her chair that supports her joints is back home. Her IV is there, she’s taking more of her pills. She’s looking paler and paler each song. She wants you to know she’ll be okay but you keep refusing her. Refusing the truth. She loves you, let her be your mother this last time. Be her son while you still can.

Wait, why do his clothes feel different. He’s in his robes? When did that happen? What’s this on his chest? He picks up a cross. And drops it back down. Inverted only please.

    Just like how you invert reality.

The flame mortars were, thankfully, fine and went off on cue, just like he did to hand his Cornette over to Ashley. He looked over and Swiss was switching his guitars, Rain was taking his jacket off. It was fine.

    Sister she was… being seen to by a doctor, in her wheelchair, another IV linked up.

    She’s getting worse, and fast.

No, she was in her nice chair with her tea.

    Look at her doctor’s face, she knows Sister just needs to be comfortable now.

The doctor was rubbing her arm. Sister looks grave, staring at Copia.

    Copia willed the fog in his head to stop. For reality to come forward. He felt like he could feel every fibre of his robes yet none of them at all. He could see Sister clearer than clear and yet there was two of her, blurred and dancing around. What was happening?

    He Is. That’s what’s happening, he can deal with this later.

    Later, she’ll be gone.

    Miasma, he almost dreaded tonight because of course they would choose the middle of the show to have some family intervention. It was too mortal for Copia. He couldn’t bear to listen, yet the fog was gone. Sister in her chair and IV, her pills and wine as clear as day.

    His mind was on autopilot during Mary On A Cross. He wasn’t sure what his body was doing because all his mind could see was how it ended for his parents after that show in the Whiskey-A-Go-Go. In the cartoonish fashion of the shows he would stay up and watch with Sister. She would be scolded for it by the Sister Superior of the Orphanage, but both would promise to do it again.

    At least Mummy Dust went fine. No issues there, not his growls, the canons, nothing. Well, his shoe broke, but that’s easy enough to fix. Just Respite On The Spitalfields to go now.

    You sung it yourself, nothing ever lasts forever. Soon, she will go softly into the night.

He’s not doing an encore. He’s going to have a night out, maybe drink a bit with Sister. She had her wine goblet before, maybe it was a new red she had yet to introduce him to.

    Sister called him over, talking him into it. For a shocking moment of clarity, he saw his mother as she is. Ill, weak, begging for her son’s understanding.

    “Okay.” He told her, grasping her hand for dear life.

    Kiss The Go-Goat, Dance Macabre with the dancers again. It went great. He ran back for his red jacket. And saw his mother and father.

    “Right here, right now.” He said. And he was, high on adrenaline and everything feeling so good. He could see the chair, but he couldn’t focus on it.

    “See you on the other side, son.” Sister told him.

    The other side, when he returned, took him away. They all waved him off as he floated off in his balloon. Safe. Away. Disconnected. He was free. Soaring in a different realm to the others where it was just him, he didn’t need to hurt here. So free, so far. He could see Sister staring at him, something was wrong in her eyes. Maybe she didn’t like heights, Kevin was helping her down the stairs after all.

    It’s funny, Copia would think later, how much of an illusion his mind carefully structured for him to hide from the pain. Yet, it all came crashing back down so quickly.

[cowboyemeritus]

Il Suo Campione (Copia/Reader)

Chapter Eight

Series Masterlist

Summary: Copia learns the horrible truth.

Content Warnings: references to gang violence, drug abuse/addiction, brief mention/description of a corpse

Read on AO3

notes: hey everyone! sorry updates are getting farther apart - i've been having some problems staying motivated. seeing all your support for this story helps, though, so thank you all so much :)

as of right now i'd say this is about the halfway point of the story. i genuinely do want to finish it, so please bear with me while i sort out this writer's block issue.

i feel like there are a few clunky parts of this, but i got to the point where i felt i just needed to publish it lol. sorry in advance. i hope it's somewhat interesting, at least.

a few people have asked to be tagged when new chapters come out, so if you want in on that lmk!

thanks again! feedback is always welcome. you all are the best :)

Copia has struggled to keep you off his mind since the night of the match. The evening’s events had only confirmed his growing suspicion that there is something seriously amiss with you. It’s easy for him to look back and recognize you’ve always been quiet and detached, yet constantly on guard and prone to bouts of explosive rage. Whatever, or whoever, instilled that in you had exited your life long before you met. What is new is the hate he saw reflected in his bedroom mirror, and the shame in your eyes when you lost. From his experience being Nihil’s son, those are feelings with which Copia is intimately familiar. They’re easy for him to recognize and treat accordingly in others. The rest he’ll have to work on.

He ties not to think about the emptiness in your eyes as you watched Diego bleed out on the cold, dirty concrete. Something tells him that’s out of his wheelhouse.

Copia’s cheek is still tender from where Mary had hit him. For the scrawny creature that he is, the greasy punk can sure pack a punch. As much as he wants to drag him through the streets for it, he really should have seen it coming. Mary is the protective type, and Copia certainly didn’t help himself by neglecting to call or make your whereabouts known until the next morning, returning you to your bother concussed, battered, and zoning in and out of reality. Copia knows he deserved it, at least in part.

“You don’t know anything about her!”

Mary is naive; he doesn’t know half of what goes on in the dark recesses of this city. He hasn’t had to make the painful choices, the sacrifices, that keep this kind of business flowing. But, he’s right. Copia has no idea who, or what, you really are. The notion is starting to eat at him.

Heaving out a sigh, he pulls into Secondo’s driveway. The crunch of the gravel under the car makes him nervous; he’s always convinced there will be glass or nails or something sharp waiting in there to fuck up his tires. He holds his breath as he drives up to the house and parks, slowly letting it out only once he’s certain nothing has popped. Stepping out of the car, he looks up at the blocky, brutalist home, a shock of gray against the blue sky and rich green of the surrounding pines. In a very childish part of his mind it looks like some sort of supervillain lair, an ominous thing ready to swallow up all who dare enter. Considering what business-related activities occasionally go on inside, it’s not a far off comparison.

Copia groans. He’s not as bad as Nihil, but Secondo has always been the runner-up for family hard-ass. It’s a product of their childhood, he thinks. Secondo and Terzo were so close in birth they were raised like twins. As they grew up, someone naturally had to balance out the ambitious, reckless energy of the third brother. While he’s no stranger to debauchery, at his core Secondo is a calculating, exacting man, brutally efficient in everything he does. Seldom does he waste time with pleasantries and fluff.

The garage door begins to lift, the racket startling Copia. As the panels slide upwards more and more of his brother is revealed. First, it’s his shoes, fine Italian leather polished to hell. Then, his slacks, starched and pressed like he’s having tea with the Queen. There’s a clean, white dress shirt and then Copia is looking Secondo in the face. He doesn’t appear as put together as he usually is, something a bit haggard about him. The creases under his eyes are deeper, a dusting of stubble across his jaw. From behind him two men appear, each holding the end of a large mass wrapped in sheets. As they pass by him, carrying the bundle out of the house, Copia instinctively knows that Diego will be resting in peace from now on.

“Come in.” It’s not quite a command, but not an invitation either. Copia would have preferred a “hello.” Sheepishly, he follows as his brother turns and walks briskly to the door separating the garage from the rest of the house. It’s a short journey. As with all of Secondo’s things, the space is staggeringly neat, no boxes of junk colonizing the floor like at his home. He glances over at one of the parked cars, a 55 Coronet, and smiles to himself, remembering when it was new. It had been bright red back then. Secondo’s face had been a similar shade as he sat in the back seat, knuckles white while Primo gave Copia his first driving lesson. With every jerk of the vehicle a new vein appeared on his forehead, Terzo lauging harder and harder until he’d nearly pissed himself. They went to the creek after that, Copia battling nausea from a cigarette, his first, that he’d bummed off his third brother. That had been a good day.

At some point in the 60s, Secondo had the coat changed to black. By the 70s, it had been involved in so many crimes he’d stopped driving it altogether, the plates removed and shredded. Now here it sits, gathering dust, a relic of more innocent times. As Copia crosses the threshold into the house, he finds he’s not smiling anymore.

Despite his home’s harsh exterior, Secondo is a man of taste. A sensualist. His decor reflects that, all dark leather and silk, shelves lined with antiques and souvenirs from his travels. His office, however, is the only room that actually looks lived in. It wouldn’t be a surprise to Copia if he slept in there. There’s very little in the way of mess, but with a trained eye, he easily picks out the hints of disorder that are hidden around the room like Easter eggs: crumpled wads of paper on the floor by the wastebasket, a coffee cup perched precariously on the windowsill, the contents long cold. The decorative pillows on the couch could use a good fluffing, and there’s a quilt, the once colorful fabric faded, folded haphazardly and draped over the back. Maybe he has been sleeping here.

Secondo clears his throat, putting an end to Copia’s scavenger hunt. He looks across the desk at his brother, suddenly feeling like a child again. From the expression on his face it’s clear he’s in for a scolding. Copia holds back a groan, crossing his ankles and tucking them beneath his chair. He’d better get this over with.

“Is this about what happened the other night? I don’t have any details other than-“

“The girl,” Secondo says. “This is about her.” Copia is stunned. For a moment he stares at his brother, blinking, before even trying to open his mouth.

“I-” Suddenly he feels a bit flustered. “What- The fight? I know w- she lost, but…“ His underarms are uncomfortably sweaty. Terzo said he’d work on it. Perhaps he’d been drunk that night after all, the bastard. “What did you think?”

“She is far too attached to you. That is what I think.” Copia is taken even farther aback.

“Excuse me,” he sputters, quirking an eyebrow at his brother. “But I do not understand why that’s any of your business. Do Primo and Terzo’s,” for a moment he’s stuck on what to call you, “associates need your approval now too?”

Secondo rolls his eyes. “This is different,” he insists. “She is different.” Copia can’t meet his brother’s gaze, eyes darting to the window. Outside, a small, gray bird perches on a branch, preening its feathers. It looks up suddenly before taking flight, a blur of brown and white in pursuit. Copia swallows, crossing his arms.

“There is nothing wrong with that, fratello,” he grumbles, not sure how much he can defend you beyond that. He knows what his brother really means. But is this what he called him here for? To critique his choice in women? “And you’ve had your fair share of weird girls-“ He jumps when Secondo bangs a fist on the solid wood of the desk.

“Fucking Christ.” For a moment, there is something unreadable, but deeply frightening, in his eyes. He lets out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in the room is palpable, thick like tar and just as foul. Wordlessly, Secondo rises from his seat, shuffling over to a beat-up, old filling cabinet in the corner of the room. Flecked with rust, it is, perhaps, the only common-looking thing he owns. From his pocket he produces a set of keys that clink together as he unlocks one of the drawers. Copia can just barely see that it is full of documents, organized into neat folders. Carefully, he reaches into one of the files and produces what appears to be a newspaper clipping. He looks back and forth between Copia and the paper for a moment, the conflict surprisingly plain on his face. With another heavy exhale Secondo settles back in his chair, placing the slip face-down on the desk. With a look that says “I told you so,” he slides it over. Copia takes a shaky breath, feeling his brother’s eyes bore into him. Leaning slightly forward in his seat, he gingerly turns it over.

He’s confused by what he sees.

The cutting is of a portrait, taken in a department store studio. There are two people in it. One is a man in his early thirties. His face has a gauntness that immediately tells Copia he’s a user, his skin pale and slightly jaundiced. He smiles but his eyes are tired, the creases around them deep and the circles dark. He’s strung out, only just holding himself together for the sake of the little girl next to him. As his eyes drift over to the child, who cannot be older than four or five, Copia feels his blood turn to ice.

Even twenty years younger, the girl in the photo is unmistakably you. He would recognize that face anywhere. Still, it takes a moment for him to fully process exactly what he’s staring at. That smile… You look too innocent, too happy to be, well, you. Whoever this is, she is a copy, a sick fabrication of the person you could have been. It’s just not right. It’s uncanny.

“I don’t…” Copia tugs at the collar of his shirt, finding he’s in desperate need of oxygen. As the pieces begin to click together, a knot of dread settles deep in his stomach. “Why do you have this?” Secondo sits there with his arms crossed, eyes full of more emotion than he has seen from his brother in a long time. There’s anger, pity, and shame there. Copia says nothing; he already has half the answer anyway. “W-what…” Unable to find the words he sighs, letting the breath out slowly. A few strands of hair have fallen in his face and he brushes them back, steeling himself. With a look to his brother that he hopes conveys resolve he straightens in his chair. “Tell me. The whole story.”

Without breaking eye contact, Secondo pushes his readers further up his nose. When that hand comes down the tip of his pointer finger is resting on the forehead of the man in the photograph. “One of ours. Started dealing to pay back some debts. I am not sure who he owed, or for what. I never knew him personally.” There’s a moment of understanding, an unspoken agreement between the two brothers. They don’t know, but they know. It’s too familiar a story, one Copia has heard hundreds of times to the point where he’s sick of it.

And yet, the show goes on. The coffers must always be full.

“He tried to make a deal and it went sour. Nearly got us busted. Fuck, I have never seen Nihil so pissed.” A memory resurfaces: his father, fists still shaking, setting down a pair of bloody brass knuckles on the breakfast table. They never managed to get the stain out of that tablecloth. “The numbers were already suspicious. It did not take us long to find that he had been skimming off the top for his own use. He stole from us, fratellino.” In this line of work, that’s enough to justify almost anything. Secondo glances back down at the photograph. “So we did what had to be done. Those were father’s orders.”

There is a long moment of silence between them. Copia is reeling, still trying to make sense of this devastating information. This can’t be. This has to be some cruel joke. He looks down at his hands. They’re far too clean. A disturbing thought crosses his mind. “She was there?” Secondo shrugs.

“We did not see her.” An even worse thought rears its head.

“If she…” He swallows, not wanting to accuse his brother but needing an answer. “Would you have… You know.”

Secondo shakes his head, gazing out the window. The disgust bleeds through even the most minute shifts of his face. “No. Not for anything. And certainly not for Nihil.” Copia feels his shoulders drop but is still on edge. His brother is never this forthcoming and it’s overwhelming. It’s all too much.

“I see,” he says, feeling a little sick. We made her this way. Before he can stop himself the image of you lying on that old boxing mat, confused and hurt, flashes through his mind. You had told him you were sorry. Whether he wants to laugh or cry at the cruel irony of that he doesn’t know.

This is all my fault.

“Does the old man know?”

“No,” Secondo grunts. “And he never will. But the girl has to go.” Copia is stunned, then enraged.

"I won't let you touch her."

Secondo waves him off. "I meant she should skip town."

“Still, why?” The anger returns to his brother’s face.

“Vengeance, Copia. What would she do if she were to find out the truth? She may already know. For all we know, she could be feeding information to the Giordanos as we speak. That would certainly explain why all our fucking product is going missing.” The insinuation lights a spark inside of Copia.

“You think I don’t know the people who work for me? That I share Family secrets for pillow talk?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “I haven’t told her anything about the business. She is innocent in all of this.”

“Then all the more reason why she must go. You will get her killed, if she does not kill you first.” Logically, Copia knows he’s right, but the implication that he can’t protect himself, that he’s become your unwitting fool, just makes him feel like a child. If he had wanted that, he would have gone to Nihil. And there’s another, deeper part of him that knows he can’t abandon you now. Not after what his family — what he — has done to you. His heart aches at the thought, despair beginning to take root. He has to make this right, but how? How do you even begin to repair damage like that? It seems like an impossible task.

“Why would you tell me this,” he mutters, still staring at the beaming little girl in the photograph. He can’t recall ever seeing you smile. Have you even felt happiness since that day?

“Because we are family. I have an obligation to protect you.”

Copia grunts, angry and sad and ashamed. He glares up at his brother. “When has that ever mattered?” Secondo furrows his eyebrows.

“It has always mattered.”

For a moment, Copia forgets himself. “Where was that rhetoric when Terzo-” He stops, pressing his lips together. Across from him, Secondo sits silently, but there is the faintest trace of hurt in his eyes. Copia wants nothing more than to curl up and vanish, to turn into a little bug and crawl away. “I’m sorry, I-“

“That is all I had to say,” Secondo states, unwavering. “I strongly suggest you take my advice. You can be on your way.” Copia knows it’s not a suggestion. Nodding, he rises from his chair. Secondo stays seated, skimming over one of the papers littering his desk, no longer paying him any mind. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye, mind racing as he sees himself out of the house.

When Copia gets back in his car he sits there a while, his head in his hands.

[madangel19]

Hi, me again 💕

Got another request for ye

"Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?"

Copia finds himself feeling rather alone after moving into his new position in the clergy. He confides in his warmest (and most temperamental) of ghouls, Dewdrop.

You don't have to do this one if you don't want, i just had the idea.

Aww, I love me some Dew and Copia :')

This one is a bit angsty, but it's okay, Copia gets some much needed ghoul cuddles

Word Count: 1198

Content: Angst and fluff, ghoul cuddles making everything better, polyghouls, Swiss and Phantom are here but they're in the background being cute lol, spoilers for rite here rite now

Copia’s thoughts were a jumbled mess as a laid awake in his new room. So much had been happening and he still couldn’t quite process some of the things that had him end up in here. His mother was dead and he was now the head of the Clergy.

A part of him would have been more than thrilled at such a position, but it also meant he would no longer be performing. Learning that he was going to give up that role felt like a kick to the stomach. He was glad he wouldn’t end up like his brothers, but it still hurt knowing that someone new would be taking his place. 

It just wasn’t fair. He still had the energy and determination to tour much longer, but he still had his new duties within the church he had to focus on. It was going to be a lot of work, but he would have assistants who would gladly do much of his work for him if he wished. It sounded nice, but knowing him, he would just end up doing most of the work himself. 

Copia looked over at his clock and saw that it was past 1 AM. He groaned, rubbing his eyes as he thought of what to do next. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep with so many unpleasant thoughts plaguing his mind. 

This wasn’t good. He was supposed to be leading as an example for the ministry and he was already showing weakness by not getting enough sleep. What was he to do? He was all alone in this new role. Sure, his ghostly parents were sometimes around to offer him some guidance, but they didn’t stay long before disappearing together after flirting back and forth. It was nice to see them getting along again, but he needed them during this big change. 

Copia’s thoughts went to his ghouls who were either fast asleep or up to some late night shenanigans. If he were to go to the ghoul den, they would all just pile up on him in a cuddle pile. Those were always nice, but tonight wasn’t the right night for that. Copia needed only one ghoul to confide in tonight.

“Dew,” he murmured, sitting up in bed. 

He stretched briefly before putting his familiar red jacket on. He then left his room and made his way to the ghoul quarters. The halls of the ministry felt too quiet as Copia strolled through them. Something felt very off, but it was probably the change of energy due to the transition after Sister Imperator’s death. 

“Or the renovations,” he muttered to himself once he found himself before the door to the ghoul quarters. 

He sighed and opened the door to find the main living room empty. The giant TV was on, playing some random cartoon. Copia stepped closer and smiled when he saw Swiss fast asleep on the cough with Phantom nestled in his arms. Both of them were purring loudly as they hugged each other in their sleep. A sweet sight. 

Copia turned his attention to the doors leading to each ghoul’s rooms. It was surprisingly very quiet despite the loud purrs that filled the air. Were all his ghouls asleep? He crossed his fingers, hoping Dewdrop was awake.

It didn’t take long before be found Dewdrop’s room. He could just walk in since he was in charge, but he wanted to respect his ghoul’s privacy that he deserved. 

“Dew? Are you awake?” Copia whispered while knocking on his door. 

Moments passed and he got no response. Copia looked back to where Swiss and Phantom were sleeping and wondered if they would let him join. No, they deserved some time together.

Copia sighed and knocked on the door again.

“Dewdrop?” He whispered, a bit louder now. 

The familiar chitter of his ghoul could be heard from the other side of the door, followed by shuffled footsteps. The door opened and Copia found himself face to face with a half asleep and half naked Dewdrop. The fire ghoul rubbed at his eyes, looking annoyed before noticing who it was. 

“Mmph, what is it, Papa?” He muttered.

“I…ehh…I can’t sleep and was wondering…Is it okay if I sleep in your room tonight?” Copia asked, wringing his hands together nervously. He got a looked behind Dewdrop and saw the room was dimly lit by several blue lamps. In his bed was Rain who was fast asleep. 

“Sure, there’s plenty of room. Come on in,” Dewdrop said, stepping to the side to let him in. 

“Grazie, amico mio. Thank you so much,” Copia chimed, patting him on the shoulder once he entered his room. Dewdrop cocked his head, chirping softly as he watched him sit on the edge of the bed. 

“You alright, Papa?” The ghoul asked, sitting down next to him. He patted Rain’s back and the water ghoul grumbled something in his sleep while scooting over in the bed. 

“Not…really. The recent changes have been quite stressful. I…wasn’t expecting everything to change so quickly and suddenly after the Los Angeles show,” Copia murmured.

“Change fucking sucks sometimes, Papa. You’ll get used to it after some time,” Dewdrop replied, rubbing at his neck where his scars were still visible. Copia watched him, frowning as he recalled the ghoul’s painful element change. If anyone was knowledgeable about sudden and intense changes, then Dewdrop was the ghoul to talk to. 

“I hope so. I just hope I do a good job with this new position,” Copia said, lying down in the bed. He pulled a nearby shark plushie and held it to his chest as he thought of all the things he had to do tomorrow.

“You’ll do great, Papa. You got nothing to worry about with you being the big boss now. You’ve done so well managing us so you’ll do great with the rest of the church,” Dewdrop said, moving to lay beside Copia and spooning him after pulling a blanket over the two of them. The ghoul’s warm body relaxed Copia’s tense muscles. He let out a soft sigh as he buried his face in the shark plushie. 

“Thank you, Dew. I…uh…I really needed to hear that,” Copia replied, smiling as he felt the ghoul’s tail wrap around his soft stomach and pull him closer. 

“You’ll do fine, Papa. Go to sleep,” Rain growled.

Copia held back to the urge to chuckle at the water ghoul who quickly went back to snoring away next to them. 

“We can talk more in the morning, Papa. I love you,” Dewdrop whispered in his ear before burying his face in the back of his neck. 

“Ti amo anch'io,” Copia whispered back.

Moments passed and the ghoul was purring loudly into his neck. Copia listened to his and Rain’s purrs, letting them slowly lull him to sleep. He felt so much more relaxed now with his ghouls. 

Copia placed his hands over Dewdrops, smiling as he drifted to sleep. He still had so much to do, but he was glad he had the support he dearly needed. He was going to do an amazing job with this new role. 

“I’ll be okay.”

[kitwalkblr]

New RTF Chapter dropped! It's the penultimate one:3

[luciferscowgirl]

"Letters from the Cardinal"

Copia misses you while he's away on tour.

Please, be so kind and open the letter that he has written for you, he's yearning. 🪶

Cardinal Copia × Gen. audiences

M-rated, mentions of NSFW practices 🔞

AO3 link:

[pro-memoriia]

Working on some virgin Phantom content and was wondering how you thought the other Ghouls' first times went? Who with who? Can be a total retcon mess. Just curious how you see Ghoul's first times. <3

Hmmmm

This was supposed to be short but I accidentally turned it into head canons so that's MB, I'm sorry

CW: Ghouls with Papas (Dew + Phantom).

HC's for who I think each ghoul(ette) would lose their virginity to

Light NSFW below the cut.

Okay, so, for Phantom... This may sound like a bit of a stretch, but hear me out — Copia. I feel like Phantom would be a little awkward during his first time and I just think he'd be more comfortable with someone to match his energy. It would make him feel more at ease and with less pressure. That being said, I do think Swiss or Rain could also work but IMO, Swiss is good with people and would know how to help him, and I think Rain is just perfectly careful with everything and is very good at being gentle.

I think Aurora would be nervous but putting on a confident persona to seem sexy. In my eyes, her best matches for losing her virginity would be Cumulus, Swiss, or Phantom. Cumulus because not only is she another ghoulette, but she's very gentle and will definitely check on her throughout the process and basically just give her princess treatment. Swiss, I think, would be good because he's multi like her, and he matches her energy so it would be easy for them to do things comfortably and maybe even joke around a little in the process. I think Phantom would be good since they were summoning partners and might just find it easy to explore each other's bodies and be equally confused and nervous.

I think Swiss' best match for losing his virginity would be either Aether or Mountain. I picture Swiss as nervous and trying to make the situation humorous to play off his anxiety. Mountain and Aether are very understanding and down to earth, and both know how to be extremely careful with their partners if need be, so they definitely wouldn't hurt him and would regularly check on him. I also think Aether would play along with the jokes to try and relax him, while Mountain would just praise and reassure him lots.

I think Cumulus' best match would be Aurora, Swiss, or Aether. Swiss for the same reason as the others. Aether because he would kiss her through it all and praise her til she had her hands over her face. Aurora, I think would be good because she's experimental and can match her girl friend's (meant in a friend way but like, 💀) vibes any day. However, my only thing with Aurora is thinking she might accidentally go overboard and overstimulate or taunt her a little too much. :((

For Rain, I think Dewdrop or Mountain. Like I said about Mount before, he's very mellowed out. I think Rain, although probably not as nervous as others, still needs someone to handle him carefully. Rain has high expectations for losing his virginity and expects to be treated like a prince. Mountain would give him that without hesitation. Dewdrop, although he can get aggressive, is perfect because he's sort of opposite. Also, I think Rain would have the ability to calm him down and maybe even top him a little in the process... But yeah, I just feel like they're a good pair and putting their trust in each other for something like losing virginity is big and grew their relationship a lot.

For Cirrus, I think Cumulus. I feel like Cirrus would have high expectations, but not too high. Like she knows it'll hurt, but she expects to be treated well. And there is nothing softer than the touch of a pretty, fellow air ghoulette. They're equally gentle and communicate very perfectly, so I feel like it just fits. They both end up treating each other like goddesses.

For Mountain, I think either Omega, Aether, or Earth. I just think he needs someone either with his element, or a quint. Omega and Aether are calm and soothing and would help him with the pain, kiss him softly if he cried, rub his back if he shook, etc. Just the utmost care. But Earth is just very calm and stoic, so he'd be gentle, but maybe not as comforting as the other two. Mountain still appreciates him though because he understands the body language of an earth ghoul, so he knows effort is being put into his comfort.

For Dewdrop, I'm thinking Terzo or Aether. I think Dew would be internally nervous to the point of almost crying, but putting on a brave front and just acting grouchy about it. Terzo would know how to break down his attitude and has plenty experience to teach him how his own pleasure and that of other's works. So he's a perfect level between being sweet and careful and being a very good teacher. Aether is a very easy-to-trust ghoul. Many of the new summons automatically felt safe around him because of his comforting presence and soft, lighthearted personality. Dew may be acting bitchy, but he's really just scared and needs someone to coax him into comfortableness. Aether is perfect for that.