#this community moved on from rats Copia too quickly

[copiasslut]

⛧ Into your sanctum, you let them in ⛧

[leezlelatch]

Two Star Crossed Lovers

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

Copia x F!Reader - Forget about this? I hope not! Welcome back. I finally managed to pull up my britches and finish this. This was my first foray into Ghost fanfiction, and not only did it introduce me to a lovely community of writers, but helped me connect with and inspire many of you. I hope this is a worthy finish. And I hope you stick around to see what I do in the future. Thank you. Enjoy.

The wood of your bedroom desk is hard as you rest your chin against it. A sigh escapes your lips known only to aching hearts. You almost kissed Copia. Cardinal Copia. There, so brazenly upon his desk, his biretta on your head. And you think, perhaps, he was going to kiss you too. His utterance to be gentle with his heart echoes through your mind, and you want nothing more than to race back to his office and tell him yes! Yes, you will cradle his heart in the space next to your own because he deserves to be so sweetly and tenderly loved; your silly, beautiful Cardinal.

“What am I supposed to do, Portobello?” You ask your rat companion.

Portobello looks up from his very special pillow resting on the desktop and squeaks in your direction as if the answer is right in front of you. You roll your eyes and rest your cheek on a fist, grabbing a delicate morsel for your favorite boy to nibble on. Portobello rubs his little head against your fingers before snatching the small nut as if it were his first meal in hours, devouring it quickly before huffing in your direction for another.

“You’re right after all,” you say, handing him another. “I can���t just…stay away, and I can’t pretend like nothing happened either.”

Portobello rolls off his pillow to perch before you, standing back on his little legs in a T-Rex pose that makes you giggle. His little hands work to clean off his face, needing to look presentable for the grand speech cooking within his small mind about love, and loss, and birth, and death, and joy, and sorrow. An incredible feat of rodent thinking to get his beloved mother to confess her undying devotion to his father. Here it comes, Portobello Mephistopheles Cosimo Copia is ready.

“Squeak!”

You smile at your baby and scratch his little head. You wonder what it would sound like if rat noises were detectable to the human ear. Either way, there is a level of communication between you that you think is special.

“I know, I know. I already told him that I would come see him today.”

You pick up your phone and click on your most recent text with Copia, smiling softly in amusement:

You glance out the window at the dreary winter day, the tree which stands so proudly outside devoid of life as its branches flutter in the chill. Copia is going on tour soon, you think with a despondent sigh. You need to talk about what happened, you promised him you would, and yet a part of you fears that the heated moment in his office was just that...a moment. Nothing in his text betrays that he is nervous to see you, or is thinking about your almost kiss. You get up and begin to pace, Portobello's little head swiveling left and right as he watches you move.

You know your Copia better than anyone. It's the mantra in your head. You imagine him in his office, picking up his phone and then sitting it back down, the wood of his chair creaking as he fidgets, a hand coming up to run trembling fingers through his hair before falling into his customary nervous tick, forefinger and thumb rubbing anxiously together, the leather of his glove worn and discolored at the tips as he awaits your reply. And then the sigh of relief, the tension leaving his shoulders as he drops his head to the desk surface once you have agreed to lunch.

You stop your pacing to giggle softly, hand to your mouth as you grin around your knuckles. What would it be like? To be Copia's. You do not crave the light, you yearn for the cool, and gentle darkness found in the depths of his eyes. You ache for his embrace, all encompassing, like a blanket of stars across the night sky. His kiss that can snuff out any candle and drive out the hypocrisy of a false God. Darkness is not frightening, or bad...it is a companion. The Dark says you are not lost. You are found. Copia found you.

Resolved, you throw on a sweater and some warm socks, sufficient for walking across the courtyard from the residency to the offices. Portobello is tucked into the neck of your sweater, his head peeking out as you close and lock your door behind you. You live on the third floor in the northwest corner of the building which not only holds the dormitories, but also a recreational facility remodeled on the whim that Papa Emeritus III needed to maintain his "strong physique." But the add-on turned out to be beneficial for everyone not wanting to be caught outside in the Swedish cold.

The kitchens and mess hall are also found within the residency hall, convenient for anyone - Copia and yourself - to sneak out of bed for a midnight snack. But your personal favorite is the library, more specifically, the plush chair in front of the sprawling granite fireplace. The mantle is often decorated with a garland of herbs picked from the gardens to promote a cleansed space for study, thought, and escape into the fantasy realm of books.

The building which houses the clergy offices and classrooms is but a short distance away from the residency hall, their rooves nearly touching. Overall, the grounds form an unfinished rectangle with the church completing the furthest side. The abbey looks like it's falling apart on a good day although it maintains a quaint and reverential charm. Gardens full of vegetables, herbs, and the sweetest flowers pepper the landscape, affording a beautiful and tranquil walk between buildings. The church looms over it all with grotesques of Lucifer and his princes gazing out on the horizon, not the congregation; a reminder of their infernal presence, and deference to free will.

"Off we go, baby boy," you whisper to your rat as you make your way down the mustard runner which stretches down the expanse of the corridor.

The walls haven't been painted in years, and you're almost sure they were white once. A potted plant that is probably fake sits on a chipped console table splattered with pop culture magazines. A couple feet down, a green rotary phone lays off the hook on a wooden desk next to a phone book and a chair that has seen its fair share of booty calls. Slowly, things around the Ministry are improving the more money is made by the Ghost Project, like the recreational facility. Right now, there are just...more important things to attend to first before tackling the quite outdated Sibling dormitories. You find a warmth to the off-70s look, like a home that has been well-lived in, and well-loved.

The trip downstairs is quick, polite hellos not usually required once people see the very large rat poking out of your striped sweater, and you quickly make it to the bottom floor, pushing open the creaking doors to the crisp air outside. It's a little chillier than you anticipate, goosebumps erupting across your skin, the wind whipping through your hair. You hold Portobello a little closer. Your eyes are on the prize, the door to the offices opening and closing as Siblings and Clergy alike walk in and out bundled in coats and scarves. You weave around sleeping hedges and soil thirsty for spring, the fountain which captivated your attention the previous day looking just as chilled as you feel.

"Hej!" A voice calls to you as you pass one of the moving puffy coats.

Spinning around, you shiver, squinting a little as you are slow to recognize the Brother that greets you by name. Sandy hair hidden under a toboggan, grey eyes looking you over behind black framed glasses. Oh, he's from my Latin class, you think down at Portobello, sure your child can read your thoughts. It is your bond.

"Hi. What's up?" It sounds as awkward as you feel saying it. Lucifer, it's cold. Did you make a face? He's looking at you funny.

"Aren't you cold?" He asks, his eyes narrowing in on the lump that is Portobello, now hiding his face into the warmth of your skin.

"I'm good." I'm suffering.

"Okay...well, I was just wondering..."

****

Copia takes a sip of his coffee, a startled “Ai!” jumping from his throat as the scalding liquid coats his lips and mustache. He blots his mouth with a napkin, grumbling about shaving the damnable thing off before staring distastefully down at the brown liquid in his mug, Portobello’s little face printed onto the side of the white porcelain.

“Still hot…” he mutters, pushing back from his chair to move over to the little coffee station he keeps on a small table in the corner.

He has a pot, a couple mugs (although he hasn’t used any except this one you bought for him since), and his favorite dark roast placed next to little packets of hot chocolate he keeps especially for you. Kneeling with a groan, Copia opens the mini fridge under the table to pull out a container of milk, generously pouring it into his coffee. He tests the now pale liquid with a tentative sip, smacking his lips in satisfaction before rising.

Copia slowly steps through his office, patting his belly in a soothing gesture as he walks past the front of his desk, his eyes glancing over the many ledgers which require his attention this morning. He moves close to the window which overlooks the courtyard of the abbey. Frost lingers on the old panes, poor insulation allowing freezing cold air to hit his skin. He shivers a little and takes a sip of his coffee, sighing softly while watching the movement of the unholy congregation as they chat and scurry between buildings.

He holds the cup of coffee with both hands in an attempt to warm them with what little heat the drink has left. Copia hasn't stopped thinking about you, and to be perfectly honest, you are the only thing his mind is able to conjure these days. Every night he lays his weary body into bed, wondering what it would be like to draw you close to him, whispering sweet nothings as you fall asleep in each other's embrace. Perhaps sometimes he wakes from a blissful dream, his arms wrapped around a pillow, to face the painful realization that you are not there with him.

Last night was particularly difficult.

Your almost-kiss. Copia could strangle Terzo for interrupting the very moment he has yearned for since your midnight meeting in the kitchens some months ago. You felt so right in his arms, so entirely his as a blush crossed your cheeks and you smiled at him, that special smile which told him that you were willing to carry the burden of his old heart. Copia touches his fingertips to his lips, closing his eyes as if he can still feel your breath against them. He smiles sweetly, humming with the thought of you.

His eyes snap over to find the clock, and they inadvertently follow a trail from the wall to his desk to his cellphone sitting atop it, the black brick of a thing silent, but carrying your messages from this morning. How Copia agonized over texting you for lunch today, unsure of your response after the previous night. Should he have mentioned it? No, that's a conversation best held face-to-face. Copia wants you to feel safe and comfortable in his presence, and whether or not you choose to pursue a conversation about last night's activities is entirely up to you. He can wait. He will wait. And if you never return his affections, he will be glad to hold even a modicum of your attention.

As his gaze returns to the window, Copia makes a small harumph while taking in the frost on the ground. It’s supposed to be a cold winter, more so than usual, and the annual fight to keep the fireplaces going in these drafty corridors will begin anew. Copia leans a little closer to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he tries to make out a figure below near the fountain. He swipes at the glass with his sleeve, grumbling in annoyance, his eyebrow arching.

“Who in Lucifer’s name isn’t wearing a coat in this weather?” He murmurs to himself, trying to squint. It’s with a sickening drop of his heart into his gut as he realizes it’s you. You turn just enough that he can make out your features as you speak to…who is that? Copia leans so far into the window, his nose smashes into it, the cold shocking him back. Your image is blurred by the outline of his nose, and entirely fed up, Copia opens the window, practically hanging out of it as he peers down at you and the boy with narrowed eyes, his pupil nearly nonexistent in the expanse of white.

The boy stands close to you, too close, head tilted down to speak to you as you gaze up at him with that perfect innocence, that - well, actually you look fairly annoyed. The Cardinal huffs out a laugh as he watches your brow furrow, your feet shifting as you scoot a little farther away. Ah, my precious, The Cardinal thinks. What he does not like, at all, is how you’re shivering. He can practically see how red your sweet nose is from here.

Copia is gone from the window and out of his office door in the span of a few moments once he has gathered his thoughts, has reigned in the raging jealousy burning in his heart and lungs. There were more important things to attend to. That being, dragging his piccolina inside and getting her warm. Oh, you’ll hear it. The last thing he was going to do was let your health be disregarded so. Also, the Cardinal scowls, the boy should know better than to keep you out in the cold for an insipid conversation.

Siblings quickly move out of the way as the Cardinal, red cassock like a slash of blood against a winter’s day, glides through the doors to the courtyard. His eyes are on you like a hawk, his step firm as he approaches you from behind. His lips twist in satisfaction as the boy’s expression drops when his eyes find the advancing Cardinal, even going so far as to take a very big step away from you.

****

You watch with burgeoning fascination as fear flickers across your classmate’s face, and he moves swiftly away from you, throwing out a quick goodbye as he heads toward the residency. You tilt your head to the side, momentarily thrown off, watching his retreating back with barely contained relief.

“Sibling.”

Copia’s voice has you whipping around so fast, you feel Portobello slip down your sweater. Your hands come up to instinctually cup the lump underneath, and you watch Copia’s eyes flicker down to it with amusement before sharpening as they return to your face. You’re wracked with shivers from head to toe, eyes widening at the Cardinal’s rapidly hardening features.

“I believe we had an appointment,” the Cardinal continues, motioning with his head to follow him before he turns and heads back inside, not even looking to see if you’re following. You know better than not to, and make your way after his rapidly retreating figure. The warmth of the office building is a relief to your chilled skin, however your hands begin to burn, red and dry from the cold. You adjust Portobello, returning him to the neck of your sweater, his little feet resting under the lip of your bra. Copia doesn’t stop until he reaches his office, opening the door and gesturing inside with cool politeness as clergy members alike walk back and forth down the corridor.

You enter with trepidation, unsure of what to expect, your eyes falling on his half-filled cup of coffee sitting on the desk next to your Cardinal’s mountains of paperwork. You feel bad that he had to run all the way outside to fetch you, but your brow furrows with mirth when you notice the nose shaped smudge on the window. Was Copia watching you? Your cheeks heat. Was he jealous you were speaking to the guy from your class? Your heart gives a little pitter patter at the thought, and you have to school your features as you turn on your heel to face Copia. He closes his office door behind him, and then his hard expression drops in an instant.

The man is on you in a second, his gloved hands gripping your shoulders as he practically lifts you from the floor to deposit you by the fireplace. “Mio tesoro prezioso, dov'è la tua giacca!?” He frets. Copia falters for a moment, his hands out and fingers wiggling as he looks about the room for something, anything to wrap around your shoulders. With a determined frown, Copia hastily begins to remove his cassock, ripping the fascia off his waist to tangle on the floor in order to reach the buttons.

“Copia, this isn’t necessary,” you try to say, looking slightly alarmed with the ferocity in which he pulls the blood red material from his back to wrap around you.

“What isn’t necessary, amore mio, is your insistence to walk around outside without any coverings! You could freeze. Oh, your povere mani,” he groans, voice cracking as he reaches out to cradle your hands in his own, thumbs trying to work at your red skin to create friction. “What if you get frostbite, eh? What will your Cardinal do then?”

“...I’d imagine you wouldn’t be happy,” you murmur, eyes fixated on your hands.

“Certo.”

Copia pulls off his gloves, the leather looking stretched and wrinkled when not tight against his large, beautiful hands. You admire the dark hair on the backs of them, a small smile flitting over your features that broadens as he slides the gloves onto your own. The leather is so warm, wrapped around your hands like a hug, albeit a loose one that makes the both of you smile. Your eyes meet Copia’s and his expression is soft, freckled cheeks tinted pink as he gazes down at your hands, a slow smile creeping across his lips. He appears almost entranced by the sight of his gloves on you, his own fingers squeezing the material and trying to ensure they are on as tight as possible.

Copia catches your eye and blushes harder, clearing his throat, although he doesn’t let go of your hands. “Why were you outside, huh?” He murmurs, angling you a little closer to the fire. His eyes take in your entire form as if looking for any injuries brought on by the frigid weather. You can’t help but admire him in his black slacks and clergy collar, a sight you’re not very used to seeing. Copia is very rarely not pristinely dressed in his vestments when working, and when he isn’t, he prefers soft lounge clothes. Out of the hundred things you imagined was under his cassock, the black business casual outfit was farthest down the list. Although the hint of suspenders underneath is doing more for you than the fire.

“I was coming to see you, like we planned, but then that guy from my Latin class-,”

“Ah, he is a classmate? What eh…what did he want?” Copia interrupts you, his eyes falling to the crackling flames as his lips twist in displeasure. It makes you smirk, an eyebrow raising as you take in the tense set of his shoulders.

“He was asking me out,” you say as casually as possible.

“Che cosa!?” Copia’s head snaps back to attention so fast you’re worried it’ll fall off his neck, and you even put your hands up in surprise. His eyes are wide, the white nearly narrowing into a slit. This all happens in a matter of a moment before his expression melts, the circles under his eyes deepening as all color drains from his face and his gaze drops to the floor. “Forgive me. I…shouldn’t question what you do in your personal life. That is…eh, not cool.”

“Copia, I’m joking. He asked for class notes. That’s all,” you soothe, fingers coming up to gently touch his cheek. His lips part in a small gasp and his eyes flick to your fingers and then to your face.

“Hmm, not a nice joke,” he says softly, although there’s a small smile playing on his lips.

“No, it isn’t,” you agree.

There’s a beat of a moment between the two of you, your gloved fingers gently sliding across his cheek, rough with age and very warm. You notice a few flyaway hairs and brush them back behind his ear. Copia closes his eyes, blowing out a long breath through his nose. His hands cup yours and bring them to his chest, his fingers squeezing the leather wrapped so lovingly around them.

“We need to talk,” he whispers, his eyes opening, reflecting a heady desperation within the green and white depths. “But I am afraid, topolino.”

“What are you afraid of?” Your voice is equally quiet, your body gravitating closer to his. You reflect on the past several months. From meeting Copia in the Ministry kitchens to saving the rat who chooses this moment to climb from your shirt and settle on your shoulder. Copia chuckles softly, scratching Portobello fondly behind the ears.

“I’m afraid of losing this. I’m afraid of being alone again. I’m afraid of another decade roaming these halls at night like a wraith because I can’t be alone with my thoughts. I’m afraid of being cold again,” Copia sucks in a breath, blinking away the tears that are rapidly filling his eyes. “I’m afraid of losing my love.”

“Hmm,” you let out a small laugh, feeling the burn of tears behind your own eyes. “So all those ‘amores’ were real.” You give him a wobbly smile as he laughs a little, tears finally dropping and sliding down his cheeks.

“Sì, sì. I am not too subtle, eh?”

You take a steadying breath, your fingers gently wiping away his tears which sit on his gloves like rain droplets. “Copia, you could never lose me.” Your voice breaks slightly. “Knowing you has been the most beautiful experience of my life. And I want more of it. I want…,” you trail off, and turn to look at the rat on your shoulder, a smile brightening your features. “What do you say, ‘Bello? Should I kiss your daddy?” You hear Copia make a noise between a gasp and a squeak as Portobello’s little paws come up to clean his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You turn and wrap your arms around Copia’s neck, drawing very close to him. His hands flail at your sides for a moment before settling at your waist, his eyes as wide as dinner plates as he blinks down at you. “What do you say?” You whisper to him, your lips inches apart, breaths intermingling. “Amore?”

Copia smiles. Wide and crooked and radiant. He’s practically shaking in your grasp, and laughs a little incredulously before his eyes flutter closed, long lashes kissing his cheeks. “I say,” he murmurs, accent heavy and deep. “Ti amo cosi tanto.” And then his lips descend on yours.

His hands slide around your back and he crushes you to him, chests flush as he thoroughly kisses you with deep, long strokes of his tongue. He explores your mouth as if he is trying to imprint your taste onto his tongue. Months of pent up frustration breaking in a moment of unbridled passion on a cold winter’s day. Copia whimpers softly into your mouth, and at this point you can’t tell if the tears on your cheeks are his or yours.

You break away with a gasp, but Copia needs you close, unable to truly pull away just yet and cradles you against his body, his hand along your jaw as he presses little kisses to your cheeks, your chin, your neck. Anywhere his wandering lips can reach. He whispers sweet things to you, words you can’t understand but know all the same. Copia smooths your hair from your face and just gazes down at you with complete adoration, his head tilting to kiss your lips softly again - once, twice, a third time.

You giggle softly in a dreamy state that makes him smile that smile again, the one that reaches his paints. “Have something to say, piccolina?” He says softly.

“I’m pretty speechless…”

“That would be a first, hmm?”

He kisses you again as you begin to roll your eyes, and you sigh into the bliss of it all. His thumbs rub circles into your cheeks, his kiss unhurried and lingering. You press a hand to his chest and push lightly, and you pull away with a smacking noise as a confused frown crosses his features.

“I nearly forgot!” You say, smiling up at him. You take a deep breath, the next words from your mouth feeling so easy and so right, and something you should have done a long time ago. “Copia, I love you too.”

Copia’s arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you with him as he brings the both of you to the floor, his arms and legs locking you into a hug. His nose nuzzles at your cheek as he holds you so incredibly close, a boyishness to the older man as he radiates joy and warmth. “Ti amo, ti amo, I love you,” he whispers over and over again into your ear, his mustache tickling you. “You have given me everything. Oh, my world is so bright. Ah, my heart.”

Your fingers slide up his back, and you lean into his embrace, closing your eyes and enjoying the glory of your newfound love. Everything, finally, is going to be okay. Your life is going to be okay…no, it’s going to be more than that. It is going to be glorious. Happy. Full of love. Full of Copia.

There’s a sliding sound and Copia’s paperwork goes crashing to the floor in a small explosion of paper. You both look up, Portobello having at some point during the last few minutes left your shoulder and made his way to Copia’s desk. He sits in the center of the desk, looking innocent as can be.

“We should have another one,” you say, smirking as you look at your outraged Cardinal. He gives you a withering glare. “I’m just saying, he might-...” Copia cuts you off with a kiss.

And you definitely recommend co-parenting a rat.

[copias-thrall]

There’s a New Papa in Town

The whole clergy was buzzing about it. Something had happened during the Ritual in Mexico. Sure, there had been hushed whispers about whether or not The Cardinal would meet the same end as the Emeritus brothers—but when the shaky footage of Papa Nihil had leaked, the Sibling’s dorms had erupted into bedlam.

And then the power had gone out.

*power play; power imbalance*

Ghouls slithered out of the darkness—not the feral but somewhat tame band Ghouls—the ones that still hissed and snarled to communicate and watched each human with hungry eyes. Phones were confiscated, and the Siblings were escorted back to their rooms—locks clicking from the outside—where they lit candles and talked softly to their roommates.

And if some of them though they heard howls and screams in the distance, they convinced each other it was just the wind through the old bones of the Abbey.

The next morning, Siblings awoke to the sounds of keys turning in their locks; they warily emerged into the halls where they were once again escorted like kindergartners to the mess hall (and if anyone noticed a slight dwindle of their numbers, no one said so). Sister Imperator stood at the head, stick straight as usual, flanked by her personal Ghouls.

After everyone had sat down, Imperator raised her hand—a subtle order for silence. When she had everyone’s attention, she spoke—her commanding voice loud enough the fill the hall even without the aid of a mic.

“Good morning, everyone. Last night there were higher than normal winds that knocked out some of our wires. The Ghouls were kind enough to help you back into your rooms for your own safety. You should thank them for their assistance.”

When no one spoke, the Ghouls at her side made “go on” motions, and the hall was briefly filled with the murmurs and mumbles of thanks.

“Very good,” said Sister, her voice clipped. “I’ve been told the electricity should be back on soon, but until then we’ll just have to make due with a cold breakfast.”

No one moved—some Siblings were literally at the edges of their seats—waiting to see if Sister Imperator would talk about It. The steel in her gaze seemed to meet everyone and no one at once. She lifted her chin and clapped twice.

“Chop chop! A power outage will get no one out of their chores or lessons. Breakfast hour still ends promptly at 9am.”

Slowly, the crowd in the hall began to move—quicker when they realized they’d have to fight over the potpourri that was set out for breakfast. Sister Imperator turned to leave, her Ghouls following a step behind, and it wasn’t until she’d reached the doorway that she’d turned her head over her shoulder and said,

“And I expect each and every one of you to be extra diligent in your chores today—Papa will be returning home tomorrow morning.”

She left the room before what she’d said even reached half of the gathered Siblings.

Excited chatter broke out as the game of telephone both amplified and muted the importance of her words. By lunch the rumors were flying, but without power, there was no confirming any of them. Their phones had been returned—all mysteriously without charge.

By dinner, everyone had stories of Copia’s favorites being summoned or taken by Ghouls. Some argued that meant The Cardinal was out of favor while others argued for it. That night, Sister Imperator imposed an early curfew and again had them locked into their rooms—for safety—since the power was still out.

At 6am sharp, the bells chimed out—not just a ringing of 6, but a whole unholy hymn. The Siblings were instructed to put on their ceremonial garbs and meet at the main entrance—some very lucky to get a spot outside, the rest congregating down the main hall. The Siblings found banners and their religious totems all done up in blue and gold—but any whispered speculation was quickly silenced by a sharp hiss and a jab of claw.

At 8am, the congregation saw Sister check her watch, and soon after they heard the low rumbling of a car and tires crunching across stone gravel. Some Siblings bounced on their heels, other clutched each other’s hands, and some swallowed in dread.

The Clergy limo finally pulled into view, and Imperator’s Ghouls rolled out a carpet, fibers blue and trimmed in gold. The door opened, and the band Ghouls emerged, sinuously—their polished masks held high, their uniforms new and still a rich black—to flank either side of the carpet.

Then.

A boot emerged.

Over the boot a hem—beautifully embroidered in golds—fell.

Then two legs came into view and with them a shock of blue vestments.

Aether and Swiss both leaned down, each lending a hand to help—

The Cardinal—

No, a freshly painted Papa Emeritus IV—out of the limo.

Like a butterfly out of a cocoon, Copia emerged, resplendent in his new colors and wearing his new title like a fist of iron. Gasps and sharp intakes of breath blanketed the crowd.

Mountain reverently placed the mitre on Copia’s head, and Copia give him the slightest of nods.

“Ah! Papa. Welcome home,” said Sister Imperator—her tone now laced with an emotion that could have been described as joy.

Copi—no, Papa—spread out his arms. “It is good to be home with my flock.”

When he was met with silence, Imperator said, “Well, is this how you welcome home your new spiritual leader?”

Claws were back jabbing in sides, and the congregation erupted into whistles and cheers—some genuine, some not—as Papa IV gestured with the subtly and grace of a ruler who knows not to waste their energy with grand movements.

Sister Imperator held out her hands, and Papa IV began to make his way down the blue carpet, stopping here and there to place chaste kisses on hands and unbless heads—his Ghouls following in his wake. When Papa IV reached Sister, he clasped her hands in his and leaned forward to kiss each cheek. He murmured something in her ear that became a hotly-debated topic for many meals to come—was it Madre, or was it Mater? Or—as some snorted—had it just been a non-verbal Mm?

Some poor fool—just loud enough to be heard—asked, “But where’s Papa Nihil?”

Dewdrop made a throat-slashing motion before Rain elbowed him.

Papa IV bowed his head, then turned to face his—his—congregation.

“It is with heavy heart I regret to inform you. Our dear Grand Papa has joined the Olde One.” Papa IV pointed a gloved finger to the ground. “This was a tour too many.”

The white noise of many whispers all up once filled the air, and Papa IV sliced his hand in front of him for silence.

“But what is a simple Cardinal to do when his superior insists on playing his solo?” Papa IV shrugged, an echo of his nervous rat persona. “Please, un momento di silenzio for Nihil, per favore.”

The congregation all bowed their heads, startled when Papa IV immediately clapped.

“Come! I have been hearing the beautiful Imperator prepared a welcome feast.”

Papa IV practically glided down the main hall, shaking hands and kissing foreheads. He paid particular attention to his favored—who had seamlessly reintegrated into the crowd and were beaming. They had apparently been tasked by Sister Imperator to carry out the celebration’s plans.

The only surprise came when Papa IV stopped in front of Sister Doreen. Sister Doreen had always been vocal on her disdain for Copia, saying her papal love would always be for Papa III. She’d often make chittering noises behind his back. Now she stood, pale faced, as Papa IV considered her. He held out a gloved hand, fingers now adorned with his ceremonial rings.

A Ghoul flinched as if to make for her, but Sister Doreen faltered only for a second before kneeling and kissing his rings. The whole hall let out an exhale it didn’t know it was holding as Papa IV gave her an unblessing and chucked her under the chin as permission to rise. He’d continued on down the hallway then, only pausing briefly to whisper in Cumulus’ ear.

Most of the crowd had their eyes glued to Papa IV’s form as he paraded away, but a few saw the Ghoulette walk over to Sister Doreen and hand her what looked like a square of cardstock.

The rest of that day was filled with pomp and ceremony over Copia’s ascension to Papa—the power having come back on sometime during his arrival. Papa IV sat contentedly—a Sister in his lap, a Brother feeding him fruit, a gaggle at his feet—as he watched most of the congregation gorge themselves on food and lose themselves in wine.

By midday, most of the Siblings were passed out drunk or in a food coma. Even some of the Abbey Ghouls lazed about, their tails slowly swaying in their stupor. The Band Ghouls had long since disappeared with their chosen Siblings. 

Papa IV—looking a little more lax, a little less bright—dislodged his harem.

“It has been eventful, no? It is time for Papa to rest—no, no: not that kind. Enjoy the rest of the festivities.”

The Siblings pouted, but a well-placed kiss here, a cheek-stroke there, went a long way to easing the disappointment as they watched their new Head saunter off to his chambers. 

His new chambers. The one guarded by two Abbey Ghouls, as befitting his new status.

It was a suite in the Emeritus wing, and either a trusted Sibling or Ghoul had carried over his possessions and his babies. Papa IV disrobed down to his tight suit, and bustled about, searching through drawers and boxes until he found the treats.

“Ah yes, sweet ones. Here you go.” The rats with their twitching noses and quivering whiskers rushed over to him as he opened their cage and let them take the treats off his fingers. “Daddy is celebrating today. You shall partake too, yes?”

Copia hung up his vestments, running his gloved hand along the fine embroidery, and he waited.

It wasn’t long before he heard muffled talking outside his door, and then a sharp rap. Copia put on one of the under robes, and answered the door. Sister Doreen stood there, hands clasped in front of her and looking pensive. Papa IV eyed her, then addressed the Ghouls.

“Yes?”

One of them held up the card—an invitation—for Papa’s inspection.

“Ah, thank you, Ghoul.”

Papa IV took the invitation and pretended to peruse it—but he already knew what it said. Knew it entitled the barer access to him to play.

“All is in order. She may enter.”

Papa IV didn’t even glance at the sister again until the door clicked shut behind him and he was seated in a chintz armchair. He caught and held her gaze—defiant still despite the contrition in her body language.

“So,” he said, “what has you seeking an audience with Papa?”

A glare crossed her face before she schooled it.

“You know why.”

“Do I? I must admit ignorance.”

“You ‘invited’ me here. Your Dark Excellency.”

“Sì. But you have come here why?”

Papa IV stood then, and Doreen flinched before holding her ground. He touched her head.

“Have you come to beg?” He slipped his hand down to grip her jaw. “Or have you come for … something else.”

Now she did glare at him.

“What if I’ve come for nothing, huh?”

Papa IV released her and stepped back.

“Then you have only wasted our time and you may go.” He gestured at the door.

“I may go,” she repeated.

“Sì.”

“And then what?”

“And then nothing. Life passes.” He paused. “But a warning: you continue to mock me at your peril.”

Doreen blanched.

“Ah. Not from me, child. I am unmerciful,” Papa IV spread his arms wide, “but some of your fellow Siblings. They are … fervent in their worship, yes? Best you be keeping your rat noises to yourself, mm?”

Doreen considered him.

“And if I don’t go?”

Papa IV crowded into her space, growling lowly. “If you stay I’m going to bend you over everything in here and you’re going to let me.”

He looked down at her again, his skull accents still stark against the white paint, his colorless eye practically glowing.

“Choose.”

Doreen crumbled to her legs and clutched at his robes.

“Please, P-Papa.”

Papa IV ran his hand through her hair.

“You have made an excellent choice, my child.”

He wrenched her head back.

“Now, up on your knees. You have a lot to atone for.”

“Y-yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Papa.”