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angry-geese · 1 year ago

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Cardinal Copia x Reader

Warnings: not osha compliant//nsfw. fluff and smut; oral (cunnilingus), overstimulation, afab reader. use of petnames (ex. my love)

synopsis: copia and the reader decide to spend a morning in :) i just wanted an excuse to write smut tbh

word count: 3.5k

Rain from the previous night has carried well into this morning, and shows little signs of stopping. Dawn is bleak and gray as it crests upon the horizon. In your state—stuck between the waking world, and sleep—you reach out for him, finding the bed beside you cold. The little villa Copia calls home lies empty, save for you, and the constant tick tick tick of the clock on the wall.

Despite his absence, you’re in no rush to get up. On a Saturday morning, there’s little more to do than basic chores, or lazing around the house. Maybe you’ll catch up on some reading, or perhaps some leftover paperwork—Sister Imperator seems to love her paperwork. Perhaps you could start with the sweeping, or dishes, but both tasks sound especially dull. Staying in bed sounds like a preferable option.

Outside, the incoming storm has rendered the sky dark, and the cobblestone path shiny. Fat droplets of water race down the window pane, spilling into the rocks below. Clouds are low enough that the tops of trees are obscured. Somewhere, not too far off, the abbey’s bells ring out, signaling the hour. Nine O’Clock. Various siblings will be gathering for mass soon; an optional ritual which only the most devoted—or those with nothing better to do—will attend. Copia will most likely be there. Certainly Sister Imperator will be.

When the door to the bedroom finally cracks open, the most movement you’ve made is that of rolling onto your side. The bed dips under his weight as he sits. A hand smooths over your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear.

It’s about that point in which you roll over to face him. Copia’s red cassock is replaced with a much more casual button down, and trousers. Black, although some red stitching is visible as he rolls up his sleeve. A nice touch.

“I didn't mean to wake you,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn't.” You say. “I’ve been awake.”

The yawn that leaves you seems to say otherwise. You scoot back a bit on the bed, and he sits, tugging his pillow away from the headboard. Copia sighs, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. He doesn't seem to quite know what to do with his hands as they switch between laying limply at his sides, and fiddling with the top-most button of his shirt.

You reach out to him, and he takes your hand, only to be pulled back to bed by you. A soft “oof” leaves him as his head hits the pillow, mere inches from yours.

“You’re back early today,” you say, “was there no meeting?”

“Terzo was terribly late,” he says, “and Sister had other important matters to attend to.”

“So you skipped work? How scandalous…” you say flatly.

Copia makes a show of rolling his eyes, though a small smile tugs at his lips. “Says the one still in bed. Isn’t it nearly ten?”

“Does our dark lord not revel in sloth?” You ask.

In reality, you have kitchen duty this week, and you’re dreading it greatly.

In theory, you could use your position so close to someone in the upper clergy to your favor. Little things like job assignments, roommates, special meals. Names could be swapped, tabled tipped in your odds. You know better than to do such a thing. Sister Imperator’s ire isn't something you want to earn, and she is aware of most things in the abbey.

Copia must not find it within himself to argue with you. And though his eyes are closed, you know very well he’s awake. You move closer to him, seeking the warmth of another body. He accepts you openly, allowing you into the space directly against him. You lean forward to kiss him—just a quick peck on the cheek. Copia catches you on your way back, pulling you in for a proper kiss. The taste of coffee lingers on his lips.

“Is there any left?” You ask. “Coffee, I mean.”

When his eyes open, a look of guilt is visible within them. “I’ll make more.” He says.

And though you wish to stay in bed just a little while longer, you trail after Copia. The hallway leads directly into a small, but cozy living room. Shelves are stacked floor to ceiling with books, some old, some new. More wood goes into the fire, and the kettle is set on the stove to boil. The remnants of last night’s tea remain on the coffee table, aside half-read books, and video game controllers. You make yourself comfortable on the couch, shifting pillows and blankets to make room for yourself. Copia settles onto the couch beside you not long after, fishing the TV remote out from between two pillows. At this hour of the morning, nothing interesting is going to be on cable; shopping channels and reruns of game shows are the only programs available.

“What a dreary morning,” you comment, resting your head in your hands.

“I like the rain.” Copia says.

It was his timidness, and devotion to his work that first caught your attention; the passing glances in the hall, the looks that lasted slightly longer than they should have. By all accounts—his upbringing, his way of life—Copia should be a different kind of man. Sleazy. Lecherous. Rough around the edges. Someone who takes more than he needs, and does so greedily. But behind his strange exterior lies a timid, sweet man. A strange tenderness is behind each of his actions.

You never would have realized it if it weren't for Terzo’s scheming nature. Maybe one day you should thank him.

This rare, quiet moment is interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. Copia hops up to attend it, returning later with two mugs. Before, you never were much of a fan of coffee, but countless late nights and early mornings in the clergy gave you a new appreciation for it.

“How do you take yours?” Copia asks, although he already knows the answer.

“Sugar and cream if you have it,” you say.

He does.

Maybe a minute passes before he returns to the living room, carrying a mug in each hand. He settles back onto the couch, and when the opportunity to sprawl out presents itself, you take it, laying your legs across his lap. One of his hands trails along the curve of your leg. The other finds the remote, mindlessly flipping through channels. Copia eventually settles on a cooking show, although neither of you are paying attention to it.

Moments like this are fleeting—something to be savored—and that adds to your reluctance to get up. His hand ghosts up the side of your calf in slow, repetitive motions. Soothing. The pads of his fingers are rough, but gentle. Copia’s attention turns from the TV, back to you. The corners of his lips twitch upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.

“What?” You ask quietly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Who knew one little librarian would corrupt me so much,” he says.

That earns an eye roll, and a quiet laugh from you. “Me? Really?” You say.

“I used to be a pious man,” he says, “deeply devoted to my work and…”

“And I showed you there was more to life than work.” You say, and he nods.

What is the fun of the clergy if you can't relish in life’s luxuries? Much of your life was spent burying your own needs for the sake of others. Once you found a place you belong, and could truly, freely exist, you had years to make up for. A life to live freely and love fully.

Of course, Copia was born into this life. Perhaps he doesn't know the difference.

You tuck your legs back under you, leaning against his shoulder. Copia is quick to make room for you, looping an arm around your waist. His gaze falls to the bare curve of your legs. Nothing too scandalous. At least, not more scandalous than being found barely-clothed in his bed. Yet if you ask him, he’ll say something about appreciating the view regardless.

It’s a dangerous game you are playing, tangling your limbs with a member of the upper clergy. The various cardinals and papa’s are no stranger to casual relations. Casual sex, and one night stands come with the position. People love shiny, new things. They love to feel in power if only for a night. But to form a long term relationship—let alone one with the son of Sister Imperator—would be to put a target on one’s back. Not a great idea if you wish to fly under the radar.

Copia is not papa, and you will not be his prime mover.

This time, when he kisses you, there’s more of a need behind it. A set of warm hands find your cheeks—then your hair—pulling you impossibly close. The cardinal is typically a patient man, but today brings a strange desperation.

You can't help but wonder just what happened in the meeting this morning. Did Terzo say something to him?

When he pulls away, a line of saliva connects your lips to his. Warmth blooms in your chest, spreading out into your extremities. You pray he can't pick up on your racing heart. Probably not from such a distance, but the feeling of it beating within your chest is too much to ignore.

“Sister Imperator is less than pleased with how distracted I have been from my work,” he says.

So it was Imperator then?

“Was it not you that first distracted me from my work?” You ask, a coy smile spreading across your lips. “If my memory is correct, it was you who instigated that night at the library…”

If anyone is to blame for this, then it is Terzo. Without him, your little crush on the cardinal would have gone nowhere.

Copia separates himself from you just enough to slide off the couch, coming to rest upon his knees. “And who would I be to resist such sweet sin?” He asks.

Was it not the forbidden fruit that tastes most sweet?

He sits on his knees before you like a man bowed in prayer. Truly blasphemous. Your legs part just enough to give him room to settle between them. Copia moves slowly, achingly slowly. It’s not in his nature to be so direct; he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to make the first move.ands trail up your thighs before coming to rest on your hips, pushing up the hem of your—his—shirt. A small hum of approval leaves him as he realizes you have nothing on underneath.

A set of mismatched eyes meet yours, clouded with lust. His shoulders are hunched forwards slightly, head tilted down, gaze trained on you. An expectant look. From here, the once powerful cardinal looks vulnerable now.

If he ever asks, you’ll say you didn't plan this. Really, you didn't, but one has to be a little scheming to last within the clergy.

“What is it, Copia?”

He swallows hard. Your eyes follow his adam's apple as it bobs in his throat. “My love, I wish to taste you,” he says, voice low. “May I?”

“You may.”

He hooks his arms around your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch—that draws a small gasp from you. Now, your legs hang mostly off the couch, coming to rest on his shoulders. Copia’s stubble is rough against your skin as he presses his lips against it, trailing kisses up your thigh. Three on the left, one on the right. Achingly slow. You don't think his movements are meant to be so—you truly think he’s trying to pace himself—but they all feel teasing in nature.

You wish for nothing more than to lean down and kiss him. To hold him gently in the same way he holds you. His tongue traces up your slit once before you can no longer contain yourself, and pull him close, hands guiding him by his hair. From him comes a small, muffled noise of approval.

Copia is a man who claims he is not skilled with his tongue, although that couldn't be further from the truth. He’s no stranger to your taste, your feel, the subtle movements of your body. He laps and sucks like a man starved for weeks, finally presented with a meal. A tongue devoted in total worship, for such reverence can only be that: worship. Moans spill past your lips and you do nothing to stop them. There’s no reason to be quiet in here, nobody is around to hear you. They only seem to make him more eager to please.

You’re reminded of a sermon from a few nights ago. Terzo led it. He would soon become intoxicated, but not before bestowing the crowd with a few words of wisdom:

Our pain, our pleasure…

One finger presses into you. Then another. Curling and pumping into you. The leg that’s no longer supported by his shoulder hangs loosely at your slide.

We devote ourselves to Him…

Sister Imperator looked about ready to strangle him once he started bringing up female orgasms. Maybe he had a point. Maybe Terzo was just alluding to what was going to happen at the afterparty.

The nails on Copia’s free hand dig into your skin. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to leave little crescent shaped marks. It’s enough to bring your attention back to him, and his mismatched eyes.

A low noise rumbles up from his chest as your grip tightens on his hair. Your own release comes upon you sooner than intended. Copia seems to notice it before you do, continuing to lap at your poor, sensitive clit. You can only writhe helplessly before him as he works you up to—and through—your release. Even then, he is unrelenting, continuing to work you over with his tongue; a mix of lust, pride, and gluttony in their most primal forms.

When Copia does finally pull away, his chin glistens in the low light of the room. You’ve done quite a good job at messing up his hair. It sticks out at strange angles now, and is only slightly fixed when he runs a hand through it. Something in Italian spills past his lips, although you can’t tell if it’s a prayer, or a curse. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, moving to sit beside you on the couch.

Once your shirt comes off, you’re left bare before him, nipples stiffening when exposed to open air. Copia takes you in greedlily, admiring the curves of your body. The angles. The softness of it—you—all. His reverence is a form of worship in its own right. He must be painfully hard now—the bulge in his trousers is a telltale sign of that. Copia palms himself through them, before you lean in to take charge, straddling his lap. Off comes his shirt, a task that takes both of you to complete, your hands fumbling for buttons in unison. His neatly tailored slacks are the next to go, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. Your discarded clothes go into a pile on the floor, tossed aside carelessly.

If the circumstances were any different, you’d go through the effort of finding a condom. Today you don't, though, it’s not for a lack of abundance. You wish to feel him in his entirety; limbs tangled, bodies becoming one. Like a pair of horny newlyweds, you’re all over each other. The first kiss he gives you is soft—gentle—but grows more needy as your hands brush across his erection. He lifts his hips just enough for you to tug down his boxers, freeing his hardened cock. Copia must be painfully hard now, yet he still tries to contain himself.

Copia leans back just enough for you to straddle his lap, and you do so, with your thighs on either side of his. The redness on his cheeks has now spread to his chest, and the tips of his ears. His breathing has evened out now. His lips find your neck, but not in a kiss—no, he’s savoring your closeness. His hands find your hips, and yours find his chest, guiding you as you lower yourself onto his hardened cock. There’s a slight sting as you do so—a stretch—although it’s the kind of pain that inevitably feels good. The two of you just fit together so perfectly, you can't help but think.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, combined with a mix of gasps, and moans. Copia’s hands wander up and down the length of your body, finding your hips, thighs, breasts, but never resting in one spot for very long. Your arms wrap around his neck, wrapping around them as you try to find purchase against his body. The couch creaks in protest underneath the two of you. Quiet, nonsensical words of praise spill past his lips, only muffled further when his face is shoved against your breasts. Copia doesn't seem to mind.

“Beautiful—” he huffs, “you’re so beautiful.”

You’d say it back if you could form any words. And he truly is; skin flushed, and slightly shiny with sweat. The veins in his hands are more prominent now—you’ve always had a thing for his hands. The feeling of them around your neck, or down your body. Gloved or not. Taking one of his hands in yours, you bring it to your lips, wrapping them around his pointer and middle finger. He still tastes of you.

Copia’s breath catches in his throat—the muscles in his thighs tense—all telltale signs that he’s going to cum. His nails dig into your hips hard enough to leave little crescent shaped indents. Maybe they’ll bruise. Maybe not. And when he finally cums, he cums hard, spilling into your unprotected womb.

Your second orgasm isn't far off, and you’re still oversensitive from the first. You’re content to chase your own release, grinding down against him. Copia helps you along with his thumb, toying messily with the bundle of nerves. Broken strands of sentences spill through you, and Copia seems to take that as high praise of his work. It comes upon you all at once, like a wave rolling over you, pulling you under and spitting you out wrong. Your thighs are a mess of his cum, and your own. The couch is certainly a mess.

Once again, you feel his stubble against your neck as he presses a kiss to it. Then your cheek, then your forehead. A hand smooths over your hair as your head falls into the crook of his neck.

It’s another moment before you remove yourself from him. If you had any say in the matter, you’d stay like this for the rest of the day. Copia guides you onto the cushion beside him, taking a moment to admire his work; the red nail marks, flushed skin, and cum seeping down your thighs.

“Eh, sorry my love,” he says, and you assume he’s referring to the mess.

“It’s okay,” you say, “it’s not my couch anyway.”

Copia groans as he stands, heading for the kitchen. When he returns, he has a washcloth in his hands. Patting the inner part of your thigh, he motions for you to lay back. Copia takes great care to clean your thighs, dragging the cloth across them. The damn cloth is slightly cold against your skin, although the chill feels nice. An ache has settled into your hips from the events of the morning. Nothing that some ibuprofen won't fix.

“Maybe we should do that in Terzo’s office,” you say, and you swear you feel him twitch beside you, “teach him to miss a meeting…”

“Unfortunately, I think this is something that happens in his office often,” Copia sats, “not much work gets done in there regardless.”

That draws a small laugh from you. You can believe it. You’ve never been to one yourself, but you’ve heard stories of the afterparties Terzo throws. Calling them extravagant is putting it lightly.

Sleepy, and sated, you curl up in the space beside him, and the arm of the couch. The warmth of his body, combined with the smell of his cologne threaten to lull you to sleep. Your body seems to associate him with safety, and as such, staying awake becomes a challenge. You sip from your now-cold coffee, turning your attention back to the TV. Outside, the rain grows heavier, tapping against the windowpane. Fog leaves the outside world in a hazy, dreamlike state. You know at some point in time you’ll have to get up and begin your daily chores. For now, you’re content to stay by Copia’s side.

“I guess the rain isn't so bad,” you say.

“Is that so?” He asks.

A small hum leaves you—a nonverbal confirmation. Maybe the rain isn't so bad. Maybe it was Copia who taught you to like it.

#not osha compliant #cardinal copia x reader #copia x reader #totally forgot to post this here last night #whoops lol #cross posted on ao3 #editing this somehow took longer than writing it #if i do end up writing more for ghost then ill probably make a masterlist but for now ill jsut link this in my pinned post

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