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leezlelatch · 1 year ago

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Lust in Your Eyes

18+ MDNI

The Cardinal waits for you in your room...but sometimes, he's impatient.

Directly inspired by my beloved @writingjourney's fic.

Filthy self indulgent smut, PLEASE see tags.

Copia x F! Reader - pervy Copia, scent kink, smelling of personal items, masturbation, desperation, breeding kink, explicit conversations, explicit thoughts, self-degradation, self-encouragement, possessive, going through personal items, using articles of clothing for masturbation, caught in the act, p in v, cunnilingus, praise, domination, loud Copia, loud reader, no clean up, teasing, fluff, endearments, exchange of I love you, talk of aftercare.

“Amore?” Copia questions, popping the door open and peeking around the wood. His eyebrows are raised, lips parted slightly, black smudged along the bottom from a day of pressing his lips together in concentration. His eyes briefly roam across the small expanse of your room in the residency hall of the Ministry, huffing a laugh when he spots the stuffed rat he bought you lovingly placed on a pillow in your bed.

He pushes the rest of the door open enough to squeeze his body through, nearly hopping inside before shutting it with his bottom. He pockets the spare key and pulls out his phone, turning it over right side up. “Eugggh…ah! Here we go,” he grumbles, flipping it open. The screen lights up and he raises a hand. “Eureka!”

He holds it away from himself and presses with a heavy gloved finger to open his messages, looking at the last text you sent him.

Hi, sweetie. :) meet me at my room when you’re done?

Copia smiles, the endearment, as always, warming his cheeks. You must be running a little late. He pockets his phone and rubs his hands together with a sigh as he glances around your room once more. He walks over to the small fish tank on your desk, bending over to peer inside at the betta fish relaxing amongst the greenery growing within the tank.

“Hi! Hello, Big Betta. Where is your mama, huh?” Copia shrugs when the beta doesn’t respond and stands upright again, taking off his biretta and placing it on the desktop. He leaves through your record collection, making small noises of appreciation, just wasting time until he has you in his arms again.

Abandoning the shelf of records, he sits down on your bed, running his hand across the comforter. With a sigh, Copia falls back, closing his eyes as your scent envelopes him. He turns on his side and follows the pattern of the bedspread with a single finger, a crooked smile on his lips as he thinks about the very naughty things the two of you have gotten up to in this very bed.

He turns his nose into the soft material, taking a deep breath, his mouth falling open slightly. He turns onto his stomach, drawing his legs up as he skims the tip of his nose across the length of the bed, crawling forward until he reaches your pillow.

“Amore mio,” he rasps, pants growing uncomfortably tight as he presses his face into your pillow. He rotates his hips, pushing the seam of his zipper into his hardening cock, a pathetic noise bubbling from his throat.

Copia freezes then, the silence following his moan terrible as he realizes what he’s doing. The Cardinal heaves a frustrated sigh and drops his head into your pillow. The man is so desperate for you. He won’t deny that. Desperate for your love. Desperate for your body. Desperate for any crumb of your attention he can get. He spent the day half-hard after reading your text, eyes following the clock religiously, counting down the hours.

The Cardinal is not ashamed of his lust, but…perhaps he shouldn’t be humping your bed when you’re not here. A slow smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

Or at least, not here to see it. It wouldn’t do to waste his seed on anything that isn’t the temple with which he worships. Your beautiful body. Your tight pussy. Your womb which he aches to fill.

Copia rolls onto his back and lets out a breath, staring at the ceiling. He grimaces, reaching down to adjust the insistent throb, fighting with his cassock. “Cazzo…,” he growls, sitting up and quickly unbuttoning the suffocating material, ripping it from his body. He nearly falls off the bed in the process, grabbing the bedside table for support. Your lamp sways violently and the few things you have on the surface shake and nearly fall off, but finally Copia throws the offending cassock to the floor.

He turns toward the mirror nailed to the small piece of wall next to your closet and smooths his hair back. He stares at himself, running a hand across his soft stomach as he turns to the side, admiring the way his cock tents his pants. Copia chuckles softly and palms himself, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “You’re a dirty old fucker, eh?” He sighs. “Satana, I need her so much.”

Copia checks the clock on your desk, eager for the time to pass. Missing you. Craving you. His entire body alight with the need to have you. Keep you tucked in his arms and in bed. Warm and soft and satisfied. He’d cook for you, care for you, ensure that his precious girl never wants for anything. You’re already his wife in his mind, Copia need only buy the ring.

He turns, idly debating on returning to the warmth of your bed when his eyes fall on the door to your closet. It’s ajar, the cut of the light from your room illuminating a few items of clothing which hang from the rack. Copia slips his fingers through the opening, teasing the door open the rest of the way. A shuddering breath pushes from his throat as the dress you wore to dinner last week reveals itself in all its sinful satin, hanging prettily as if it was waiting for him.

Copia hastily pulls his glove off his hand with his teeth, tossing the leather carelessly over his shoulder. With a nearly shaking hand, he reaches out, pressing searching fingers against the dress, his senses burning with the memory of how it felt to rip it from your body. He’s surprised it survived, looking nearly picture perfect. Its only failure is that you’re not wearing it.

Copia’s cock jumps, straining against his trousers. He whimpers, a small “mmm!” when he reaches down to unzip, his fingers brushing against the wet patch in his underwear. Copia pulls the dress from the closet with a frenzy, holding the hanger in one hand while the other frantically pulls down his underwear, letting his painful cock bob in the air, freezing against his heated skin. He lightly smacks it, watching with a groan as it bounces, the tip red with just the sweetest drop of precum pearled within the slit.

He stands there almost unsure for a moment, eyes falling to your door and then your doorknob. Oh, if it turned right now. If you caught him. The thought makes him shake with need, and he toes off his shoes, kicking his pants and underwear off to the side. He leaves his socks, doesn’t bother to unbutton his clerical shirt, his only remaining thought being to fuck his cock into your dress.

Copia drops to the floor, the floorboards rough on his knees. He groans, and then laughs, the sudden protest of his knees rocking him back to lucidity for a moment. Cardinal Copia, a devotee of lust. Horny and desperate and ready to pleasure himself with the memory of you, the scent of you, until he has you under him again.

Where are you?

Copia yanks the dress from the hanger, bunching it up in his hands and passing the cool satin across his thighs.

“Oh…amore, la mia preziosa ragazza! Ti amo, ti amo cosi tanto,” he whispers fervently, eyes shut tight as he imagines you before him, wearing the dress he so violently clings to.

He finally moves the dress higher, moaning low and deep, drawn out into a high pitched keen as he finally gives his cock the attention it so craves.

“Copia?” Your voice cuts through his lustful haze, and Copia’s eyes snap open, falling on your surprised expression at the door. He stands up so quickly, he falls backwards onto your bed. The dress covers his weeping cock, the Cardinal looking a mess while splayed across your bed, cheeks red.

It’s quiet for several moments.

“Did I keep you waiting too long?” You ask softly, dropping your bag and moving toward the bed.

Copia pulls the dress off of him, cock so hard it curves toward his stomach. “Look at what you’ve done, topolino. Your Cardinal hurts.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I should have hurried.” You pick up the dress, looking at it with a pout. “Were you going to cum on my dress?”

“Of course not,” he admonishes. He sits up and curls a finger, smiling as you dutifully flock to his side. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, the scratch of his mustache a comfort to you. “Nothing wrong with a little…foreplay, sì? I missed you so much.”

“I missed you,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your lips meet, Copia hands insistent as he pulls you down to straddle his hips on the edge of the bed. Licking into your mouth, the man flips you, your back hitting the mattress. He ruts into your clothed sex, your surprised squeak swallowed by his mouth. He pulls away to nearly tear your leggings and panties off your body, flinging them into the open door of the closet so hard they rattle the hangers inside.

Copia slides his hands up your inner thighs, spreading your legs to stare unabashedly at your pussy. “Surely I’ve been given favor by the Dark Lord…,” he murmurs, leaning in to drag two fingers through your folds, spreading your lips. “I’ve been waiting all day to taste you.”

His gaze flashes to yours, his lips pulling into a smirk as he gets comfortable on the bed, hooking his arms around your spread thighs. “Watch your Cardinal worship,” he whispers.

He moans, loud and unashamed when your pussy flutters at his words, your slick rapidly sweetening his evening meal. “Don’t worry, dolce. I’ll fill that pretty hole soon enough.”

Copia’s lips close over your clit and he sucks. His tongue flicks, curling around the sensitive nub. You buck your hips with a cry and he moves a hand to your belly to drop them back to the bed, pressing firmly. He keeps you there, attached to his mouth, laving his tongue over and between your folds, dipping into your entrance. His cock gives a powerful kick against the mattress as your walls pull in his tongue.

“Your Cardinal knows,” he coos. Your answering whimper makes him smile. “Sì, sì, he knows.”

“Copia, please,” you beg, rocking your hips into his face, trying to get that perfect nose to hit just right.

This makes him laugh, “My eager topolino. I’m eager, too.”

He kisses up your body, bunching your shirt in a hand as he drags it along. He fumbles for a moment, fighting with your bra, a few choice curses flying into the air before the bra also thwacks against the wall.

“Oh, dolce,” Copia tsks, gently kissing the red marks left behind from your bra. “We will take a break from wearing that, yes? Find you something more comfortable. I can’t have you in pain…they must be so sore.”

He lavishes attention across your breasts, alternating between sucking your pebbled nipples and gently soothing his tongue across the sore marks. The only marks on your gorgeous breasts should be from his mouth. Copia blows against the wet line of his saliva, a grateful sigh making your chest rise and fall from the cool sensation.

“That’s my baby,” he murmurs.

Copia glances down to where his cock rests between your legs, lifting his hips to drag it along your slick, a full body shudder wracking his frame as he moans. He reaches down to wrap long fingers around the length of him, pumping into his fist once, twice, a third time that has his toes curling in his socks.

His eyes meet yours and he leans in for a gentle, lingering kiss. “Are you ready?” He asks, gaze adoring.

“I need you,” you respond, tilting your hips up.

Copia places his tip at your entrance, adjusting to bracket you between his arms, your breaths mingling from how close your faces are now. “Be my brava ragazza and take your Cardinal’s cock, hmm? Can you do that for me?” He whispers, rubbing his nose against yours.

“Yes,” you gasp, feeling the stretch of him as he pushes into you, his cock filling you in a rush of perfection that has you crying his name already.

His thrusts are messy. Stuttering. Copia struggles to find a rhythm, so overwhelmed by the feeling of you. His love. His soulmate. To be inside you is to know the euphoria of damnation. His hands slide under your body and he pulls you impossibly closer as he slides his legs under for leverage, pistoning into you.

Copia’s own cries rival yours, filling the small space of your bedroom, the slap of your skin against his as delicious accompaniment. He collapses on top of you, still pushing, humping, grinding into your soaked cunt, his lips dragging along your shoulder, making a path to your lips.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” you chant, breathless. He claims your mouth, curling his tongue around yours while his hand reaches between your bodies to circle your clit. Your back arches off the bed, breasts pressed against his chest as your orgasm rips through you, your mouth caught open in a shout of ecstasy. Your hips cant against his, your hole spasming around his cock, milking him dry as he jerks, thighs trembling with his own orgasm. He screams into your skin, head buried in your neck, his hips making quick, tight circles as he rides out his climax.

Copia rolls off, a heavy weight, arms hooked around you to make you follow so you’re both on your sides, legs intertwined. He places exhausted little kisses all over your face.

“My heart. My love. My soul. My sweetheart. My future. My everything. Ti amo. Ti amo. I love you,” each of his soft words punctuated with a kiss.

He tilts your face up with a gentle hand to your jaw, searching your eyes. You have to smile, the black make up encircling his eyes smeared all down his cheeks. “Are you okay, baby? Everything feels okay?” He asks, his voice sleepy and sweet.

“Everything is perfect,” you answer, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose that makes him giggle.

“Eh…I’m going to feel that in the morning,” he chuckles, tucking you against his chest.

“I should leave you waiting more often.”

Copia playfully growls, ducking his head to press a kiss to your lips. “Next time, I’ll get into your underwear drawer.”

“No!” You giggle, pushing against him. “I already lost three pairs to you.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding with a little smirk. “I confiscate. Too many things between my mouth and your pussy.”

“Copia!” You gasp, your cheeks flaming as you fight a grin. “You’re awful.”

“Ah, you love it,” he shrugs. His expression turns serious then, pleading as he looks at you, wrapped in his embrace where you belong. “You love me?”

“Very much,” you murmur, pressing a hand to his cheek. “I love you so very much.”

Copia turns his face into your hand, placing a kiss in the center of your palm. “We go to my room now, eh? A hot bath will do us both good.”

“You’re gonna make me walk?” You groan softly, rolling onto your back as Copia makes to get up with a sore grunt.

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

You sit up, your muscles feeling thoroughly used, and make to grab a towel from your dresser. You can feel his cum smearing along your thighs.

“No, amore,” Copia says, his back to you as he begins to dress. “That’s what the bath is for.”

“But I still have to walk down to your room,” you say, turning to look at him, the towel clutched in your hand.

“Yes, you do.” Copia pauses to return your gaze, expectant.

You drop the towel, blushing softly, “Yes, Cardinal.”

#the band ghost #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #mdni #ghost #ghost bc #cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x female reader #cardinal copia fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #poorly translated italian

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forlorn-crows · 11 months ago

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And You Know That It Takes Two

Rating: E for Explicit

Relationship(s): Copia/Dewdrop

Tags: transitional period between era iv and era v, banter, slice of life, first time, first kiss, handjobs. beta'd AND correctly translated italian!

Words: 3731

Summary: “Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar.

special thanks to @miasmaghoul for beta'ing and @foxybouquet for the italian translations ♡

EDIT: now with ART from the fabulous @noahl-art. merci beaucoup, nono!! find his full artwork here

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

Caro: dear

Stai bene?: (Are) you okay?

Ti piace?: Do you like this?/Does this feel good?

Merdaccia infernale: (roughly) infernal fucking shit. Closest to "unholy shit".

Proprio così: That’s it.

“D’you think Lucifer would want us to have black mass every Saturday?” Dew pokes the wooden arm of Copia’s chair with the toe of his boot. “Shouldn’t we be exercising our sinful wiles instead of listening to you drone on about the Dark One?”

Copia tugs on a scrap of paper trapped beneath the ghoul’s thigh. “You do plenty of that on your off time, my ghoul,” he teases. He looks over his reading glasses, offering a smirk. Dew can hear the unspoken eh? at the end of his sentence, so much so he can’t help rolling his eyes and smirking back.

“How would you know, old man?” Dew fires back, flicking the hem of Copia’s trousers with his tail. He leans in closer. Elbows resting on his slightly spread knees until his face is level with the anti-pope’s. “Listening in on your free time?” The fire ghoul smiles wickedly, giving him an obvious once over. He cocks his head and bites his tongue between his teeth, waiting for an answer.

Copia’s face rosies a bit, but he returns to his chicken scratch. He jots down a few words before he mutters: “I am sure you do not fantasize your Papa spying on you, caro.”

“Maybe I don’t.” A lie. “Anyway, I think Rain’s loud enough to hear across the fuckin’ abbey. Probably have a soundtrack of water ghoul moans to lull you to sleep every other night,” Dew snickers.

Copia just shakes his head with an amused sigh and continues taking notes. Little chunks of writing in the margins of photocopies of Latin texts, scrawling in both Italian and English in a little notebook off to the side. Dew’s struck with just how patient this man is, endlessly so. He can get crabby on tour, just like any of them, restless and tired, but he really is kind to him and his pack.

The fire ghoul hums thoughtfully and returns to his upright position. Leaning back into the circles of bare desk he cleared earlier for his hands. “Do you get tired of putting up with us, Papa?” he asks casually.

“Dewdrop,” Copia says with a measured tone. He puts his pen down, and his glasses too, looking up at his lead guitarist and steepling his fingers. They’re devoid of gloves, Dew notices in passing, his nails neatly trimmed and his skin smooth and humanly wrinkly. “We have been working together for how many years now?”

Dew shrugs. “A few.”

“Si, quite a few, hm?” Copia agrees. He swivels his chair so his body faces Dew more directly and places a gentle hand on his knee. “Why then, my ghoul, would you think I am ‘putting up with you,’ as you put it?”

“Don’t tell me you actually like us,” Dew says sarcastically. But Copia’s hand is warm on his knee, and he’s trying not to focus too much on how he’s looking at him right now, all soft eyes and a worried crease in his brow.

“Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

He’s quiet for so long that Copia clears his throat and gives his knee a polite pat before taking his hand away. He makes to go back to his notes, but Dew mourns the loss of his hand immediately. His pen barely touches the pages before the fire ghoul sobers up and inhales sharply.

“Uh,” he blurts out stupidly, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at Copia. Unsure what to say but determined to say something. “You mean that?” Immediately he wants to crawl back into himself—back into the Pit, even—for sounding so small. Vulnerable.

“Yes, I do,” Copia says quietly, genuinely. He taps his pen against the paper, little dots of black littering the line beneath his skip this? note. Instead of resuming his annotations, he sets the pen down once more, looking up at the ghoul perched atop his desk. His white eye is suddenly piercing in the lamplight, and he’s looking at him like he can see more than just the ghoul sitting in front of him.

“Well, I guess we’re . . . fond of you too, or whatever you wanna call it,” he mocks, aiming for levity. Dew’s tail flicks, ruffling the hem of Copia’s pants again.

Copia chuckles. “Well, that is good then,” he smiles.

Dew hums. Offers a one-sided smile in return. Easy. He could leave it at that; resume the relaxed banter about sermons and his new duties as Papa while Copia gets increasingly tired and/or annoyed and shoos him away with a chocolate truffle in hand (the ones he keeps stashed in his desk drawer for evenings like this).

He could. But in the same moment, he decides he’s tired of tip-toeing around the idea of what this man is to him. He wades out into the waters, throwing a line.

“Is that . . . the only thing you feel for us?” he says at length, quieter. He scoots his thigh closer to the anti-pope’s hand. Encouraging him to touch again, if he wants. The sudden heat in his belly hoping he does. He wades a little deeper. “For me?”

Now it’s Copia’s turn to falter, fingers twitching at the fabric of Dew’s trousers. He looks down at Dew’s thigh, then back up to his face. Searching his copper eyes for something, anything, his thoughts as loud as if Dew were a quintessence ghoul.

“I . . .” he trails off, a failed start. He clears his throat. “I am, as they say, only human. So there are, perhaps, other . . . things. Si.”

Dew grabs his hand gently, placing it just above where it was moments ago, confidence building. “Fantasies, maybe?”

“Dewdrop—”

“For how bold you are on stage, you sure are fuckin’ shy in private, Papa.”

Copia huffs a laugh, moving his hand tentatively along Dew’s thigh. “Eh . . . reserved, maybe. But I don’t know about shy, my ghoul.” He shuffles his chair so he’s situated back between the fire ghoul’s dangling legs.

Dew smirks. “See? Can call me motherfucker in front of thousands of screaming girls, but it’s my ghoul in here.”

“Ah, but that is the difference. They do not get the privilege of seeing you offstage.” A beat. “Though, I imagine they would do a lot of things for that privilege,” he mutters.

Dew bites his tongue in asserting that he is, in fact, a motherfucker offstage too. Instead, he tilts his head so his ashy hair cascades over his shoulder and spreads his legs further, hooking a foot in the arm of Copia’s chair and tugging it closer. He’s baring all of himself now, literally and figuratively. Potentially risking his position, too, if this goes south.

But by the look on the anti-pope’s face, they’re both too deep to swim back now.

“And what’re you gonna do with that privilege, Papa?”

“You’re asking?” he deflects, putting the other hand on the opposite thigh.

“If you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, old man, I swear to Satan—”

“Like this?” Copia smooths his hand up the inside of Dew’s thigh, running along the seam of his pants until he reaches where the ghoul’s started to chub up. His breath hitches, head tilting back.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks back down at his hand, tucking chin to chest as he watches those fingers press just so, right where the tip of his dick sits already sticky in his boxers. He bites his lip with a stifled noise.

“Long time we’ve danced around each other, I think,” Copia says. Dew just nods, flexing his hips into his fingers to get more friction. Copia presses more firmly, taking the hint. Drawing a firm line down the ridge of his clothed shaft.

“Humans and ghouls, well . . .” he trails off, looking up at Dew.

“You’ve thought about it,” he replies simply.

“Of course. Of course I have, caro. I–” he laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, look at you.” He stops himself, color rising to his cheeks. He drops his gaze, focusing back on the hand on Dew’s fly.

The fire ghoul watches him trace a finger around the button before reaching down himself, popping it open. “What about me?” he asks softly, inviting. Shifting his hips again to encourage him to continue.

“Not just fishing for compliments, I hope,” Copia teases lightly, a little bit of that stage persona shining through as he drags the zipper down.

“That’s not what—hh-oh.” He cuts himself off with a stuttered breath of a moan, Copia’s hand having reached past his fly and into his pants to pet at the dot of wetness sticking his boxers to his tip. The look of pure curiosity—wonder, really—on the man’s face as he feels him up has his stomach flipping. “Fuck, keep doing that.”

“You tell me what you like, my ghoul, and I will do it,” he whispers.

Dew groans as another bead of precum blurts out into his boxers, wet at just his words. “Keep teasing it,” he breathes. “Shit, see how wet you can get it.” He twitches under Copia’s fingers as he wraps his hand around his clothed cock, thumb swiping back and forth over the head. Firm, but just light enough that it makes Dew keen for more.

Copia continues the little motions, over and over until Dew’s underwear clings to him, saturated with pre. The friction of it and the intensity of Copia’s gaze on him has him dizzy, wanting. The man’s thumb presses over his slit, and he can’t help his eyes rolling back, thighs twitching towards each other.

“F-fuck,” he stutters.

Copia rubs his other hand over Dew’s thigh, soothing. “Stai bene? Good?”

The fire ghoul nods, hair falling off his shoulders to frame his face. “More than,” he groans. He bites his lip, bucking into Copia’s hand. “Again—do it agai—yes, Satanas, yes.”

The anti-pope presses into his slit again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridge with even pressure. Humming as he works it back and forth. It’s so sensitive, so instantly overwhelming that Dew has to consciously restrain himself from gouging his claws into the wood. He lets his head drop back, facing the ceiling and biting his lip to stave off the rush of arousal that threatens to make him spill in his pants.

Below him, Copia sighs. “Beautiful, caro,” he comments.

Dew half-snorts, half-groans, bringing his chin back down to his chest. “You flatter me,” he says with an eye roll.

“They say it gets one everywhere, no?”

“If by ‘everywhere’ you mean ‘in my pants’.”

“If that is where you want me.”

Dew sucks his teeth, scoffs a little in disbelief. Eyebrows twitching upwards when Copia fingers the elastic of his boxers, blunt nails scratching at the peach fuzz on his stomach. He can’t get a grasp on the anti-pope’s tone, switching so fast between charming and soft it makes his head spin. He’s seen both moods separately, of course, fired back his own quips with a silver tongue or begrudgingly accepted praise and a head pat for a productive rehearsal. But having a cocktail of both leaves him with mental whiplash.

The hand making his dick wet probably isn’t helping in that department.

So he nods instead, helping the man shimmy down the waistband of his boxers to snuggle it under his balls, freeing his aching length. Dew hisses at the cool air of the room breezing over the slick-coated head—though, it’s replaced with a puff of hot air when Copia breathes:

“May I?”

Dew nods again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as a silent duh. Copia chuckles at that, scooting a little closer. He smooths his other hand up the fire ghoul’s thigh, up, up, up until he stops at his hip and rests his palm there, forearm dropping to sit on top of his leg. Dew’s stuck watching its ascent and misses the moment the anti-pope reaches for him, wrapping his fingers gently around the base of his cock and stroking upwards.

“Lucifer,” he chokes out. He snaps his gaze to where their skin meets and watches his dick kick hard in Copia’s fist, more precum welling up in the slit.

“Ti piace?” Copia continues to stroke slowly, not immediately translating as earlier. His accent curls around Dew’s eardrums, the Italian twisting with foreignness and short-circuiting his language synapses. He shakes his head, begging the small box of Italian in his brain labeled ‘Papa’s Nonsense Words’ to make sense of the phrase.

He blinks at Copia’s expectant gaze. “Huh?” he asks eloquently, forcing the word through an embarrassing moan.

“Does this feel good?” he supplies, nodding toward his hand.

The fire ghoul stares at the man’s hand, now wet with his own slick as it glides up and down. When his brain finally catches up to him, he barks a bewildered laugh. “I’m gonna have to learn more fuckin’ Italian for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Copia laughs too, realizing his little slip-up. Dew’s shoulders shake with his own renewed laughter. Giggles passing between the two as if they were twelve-year-olds who just pulled off a prank on their teacher, not a fifty-something leader of a Satanic church jerking off a near immortal hellbeast turned quasi-human.

But the shared laughter is familiar. Comforting, in a way. Something to dissolve that final layer of caution that sat like oil on water between them.

“You are an endless delight, my ghoul,” Copia sighs, huffing out a last chuckle.

“I’ll give you an endless—uuh-nholy ff–fuck.” Copia runs his thumb over the slit of Dew’s cock, and his sentence is reduced to an eye-rolling moan. He grabs hold of the anti-pope’s forearm that rests on his leg, fingers digging into the muscle as he drools out a fat roll of precum.

Copia hums and smears it around the head, pulling down the foreskin to rub at the sensitive underside. It’s all the courtesy he’s granted before the man goes back to stroking him in earnest, skirting over the head with each downward pass and tightening around the base when he pulls up.

Dew grips his forearm tighter, thighs jumping with each tease of his frenulum. “Faster,” he begs. “And tighter. Fuck, feels s’ good.”

“Merdaccia infernale, are you always so . . .” Copia shakes his head, letting the room fill with the lewd, creamy sounds of Dew’s slick-soaked cock.

“Wet?” Dew supplies as a choked-off noise. “Not al–hah–always. Not since—” his eyes roll back again, too caught in pleasure to be completely coherent. “The–shit–the—” Dew flails his hand in some nonsensical gesture.

“Si, si.” The man understands without further elaboration that he means his elemental transition. That, despite the effective evaporation of his water, the born-again fire ghoul still carries traits from his original alignment—including dribbling pre like a leaky tap.

But Copia knows, doesn’t need him to explain or elaborate. Just tightens his grip and speeds his hand, looking up at Dew with a gaze that cuts him right down to the core. Intense, yet soft and admiring. Desire flickering just behind that.

“Shit,” Dew hisses, letting his eyes close fully. Sinking into it. His hips are moving of their own accord now, little twitches that meet each downstroke, just barely fucking into Copia’s fist. It’s so much better than it has right to be, but Dew doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Copia’s hand feels on his dick, the way his other hand grips his hip, the way his breathing grows heavier and tickles the fine hairs at the base of his dick, how it chills the wetness at the tip only to be warmed by his fingers within the same second.

“Oh, oh, ohhhh fuck, Papa, fuck.” His pleasure heightens suddenly, the backs of his thighs going pleasantly tingly and his toes curling in his boots. He can feel it starting to build, balls drawing closer to his body with every stroke.

“Close?” Copia whispers, gripping Dew’s hip tighter and shifting in his chair. He grunts a little, no doubt filled out in his slacks too. Dew can’t confirm from this angle, especially not with the way his vision blurs, doubles even. But he has to be, if his wavering voice is anything to go by.

Dew throbs at just the idea of his cock straining against his zipper, balls heavy and squished between his thighs as he watches the fire ghoul come apart. Neglecting it as he showers Dew with undivided attention. He’s assaulted with the mental image of Copia in those tight, white pants from his Cardinal days, absolutely everything on display, and he groans.

He’s shaking now, stomach jumping as his breath starts to quicken. He’s sure his eyes are wild as he looks at the man below him, whining through his teeth as his hand moves faster, faster. Dew watches Copia bite his lip and look down at the movements of his hand, and the sudden fantasy image of that mouth kissing the tip of his cock makes him grip the anti-pope’s forearm until it threatens to bruise, nearly doubling over with the swell of impending orgasm.

Dew needs him. He needs him so badly.

“Gonna cum—fuck, please,” he moans, breath quickening to shortened gasps. “Kiss me—please, m’ gonna—Papa—” Dew grasps at the man’s shirt collar, pulling at it to get him to stand. Dragging him in by the shoulders and kissing him fiercely, whining when Copia groans into his mouth and pumps him even faster. The scent on him is instantly intoxicating; notes of neroli and patchouli, dull wax from the black patches of makeup, the barest hint of incense smoke underneath. All pressed directly into his nostrils where Dew’s nose smushes against his.

“Proprio così,” Copia mumbles, encouraging. His other arm loops around to cradle him between the shoulder blades, hand threading through his hair to grasp and hold as he kisses him deeply. That little bit of tension on Dew’s scalp sends a zing of heat right to his dick, and he’s moaning like a whore as he scrabbles at Copia’s shirt, ready to fall over the edge.

“Fucking. Fu–uhh, uh, uhh—” Dew loses all sense of words as he clings to him, mouth dropping open and tongue drooling over Copia’s lips. He cums hard, spilling over his hand with a shuddering groan, bucking into that wet fist until he’s risking sliding off the edge of the desk. He doesn’t, of course, braced and embraced by Copia’s body as he is.

Dew’s head drops to his shoulder as he rides out the seemingly endless spasms. Far too many for a handy, if he’s being honest. But the anti-pope works him over until he’s milked dry, whispering more words into his hair that he doesn’t understand and rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

“Shit,” he rasps. After a few more moments he peeks down at his lap—lucid enough now to mind his horns—where his black pants are now streaked with white, Copia’s hand resting on his fly also coated in the stuff. He shakes his head softly and laughs.

“Got me good, old man.”

“Dewdrop . . .” His tone is pleading, breathless. Dew lifts his head and the hand on his back migrates to the side of his face, caressing softly. He leans into it as he looks at Copia, his face flushed and a look of pure want and adoration in his eyes. “Please, caro.”

He doesn’t need to ask what he needs, eyes flicking down to the tent in his pants and back up again. Dew nods. Moves the hands around Copia’s neck to the back of his head, pulling him in.

It’s less feverish this time. Softer and slower, but far from chaste. Idly he wonders if any of the others have had him like this: privately in his office, a mere exchange of something fleeting, or hot and heavy in a storage closet after a show, frantic and adrenaline-fueled.

If any of them have, they’ve never told. He’ll go back to the ghoul wing smelling of him, unless he runs straight to the shower. Douse himself in scalding hot water until he can barely smell himself.

But he won’t.

Dew slides into the space in front of Copia, ignoring the mess on his dick as he presses close to the man. Licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together as Copia’s hands start to roam. The fire ghoul slots a thigh between his legs as his palms reach his waist, pressing against his crotch.

Copia whines in his throat, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Dew’s shirt. He’s hard as steel against his leg, throbbing when Dew presses harder and tugging at him like he could still get closer than he already is.

“Sit down,” Dew rumbles. He breaks the kiss and holds his gaze as he presses on his shoulders, easing him back into the desk chair. Down, down, down until Dew looms over him. He smirks slightly, confidence and ease returning to him as their positions switch. Running his thumb along the painted upper lip then dragging down to the bare one.

Wordlessly, the fire ghoul sinks to his knees. Scoots Copia to the edge of his chair so he can spread his legs. He smooths his palms up his thighs, his infernal heat seeping through the trousers. He watches Copia’s face as he pets at him, cupping and rubbing at his cock through the layers of fabric. The man’s chest heaves. Hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair. Exhaling shakily as Dew traces a claw around the button on his fly.

“Allow me,” Dew purrs.

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