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nagitosasshole · 2 years ago

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𝑩𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅

Vampire Copia / Papa Emeritus IV

(Dracopia) x reader

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤:

◇ There is mention and description of gore right at the beginning, with only brief mentions of it afterwards ◇

◇ Copia isn't depicted as a 'soft' vampire

(The violence is strictly tied to Copia's vampirism) ◇

◇ Copia is Copia, and Copia is baby- but Copia also accidentally mauled an innocent person to death :^) ◇

◇ Sorta slow burn with lots of angst ◇

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before you get into it, do have mercy on me, please. i've not posted a story since i was 14-15 and it was not a serious attempt at all. this is my first ever actual attempt at a story, so feel free to send in any criticism or opinions, please!!

(and apologies if Copia or the Ghouls are out of character. this is just how i personally think they'd act!!)

love ya,, thanks!!

ali

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☆☆☆☆☆☆☆Chapter☆ 1☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

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(reader) has watched Copia flourish from their anxious, awkward, and generally uncouth Cardinal to a powerful Papa. Years of budding friendship allows them to share nearly everything with each other. Be it shared anxieties, insecurities, or just the feeling of loneliness and not belonging.

Not even his sudden rise to power really surprises them, not when they saw their friend becoming more confident and proud over the years. They helped him through with open arms over his 6 years of coming to terms with himself.

They really thought they helped him through, that they knew everything about him.

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The sight of a panting Copia huddled painfully in a corner of the library as he helplessly claws at his cheeks and jaws, a pair of fingers dipping into his red-stained mouth in an attempt to expel whatever he'd consumed makes that belief fly out of the window.

Forcing myself to look away from my dear friend crumpled up in red, I shakily let my gaze drift a few feet away from Copia. Eyes following the red trail that seems to have followed him to the corner, finding the source sprawled across the libraries antique wooden flooring.

A Sibling of sin, laying in a position that if not drowned in blood would look sound asleep. I internally thank the lorde that their petrified face is lulled down, hidden with messy hair.

My mind cannot get rid of the image of their body covered in gashes and bites, and what looks to be bruises, and…

I feel bile rise in my throat as my eyes wander over their already paling skin, unable to rip my eyes away from the places where their skin has been torn, some places looking like it'd been done by teeth.

My body doesn't allow me to move, only forcing out a broken, chocked whimper as I forcibly move my eyes away from my fellow Sibling. The sound alerts Copia to my presence, making his head snap up as his hand shakily and limply slips from his drooling mouth, leaving a line of transparent red between his puffy lips and gloved fingers. His looks as if his entire world is crumbling around him with just the glossy, overflowing look in his eyes.

I can only sob out a crackly and nearly silent call of his name before he's darting out of the room faster than I've ever seen him. I could only stumble out of the library, expression void and sunken as I slowly walk back to my room, sticking to the walls with a light hand to keep myself upright. My brain finally -for once- spares me some mercy, allowing my thoughts to ease into nothingness. Allowing me to make it to my room with an empty brain as I unceremoniously dump my weighted body to my bed. I don't sleep well that night.

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After that day, I stuck to myself. Everything I enjoyed, I abandon.

Everything I once did to socialize, I abandon.

Even small pleasures and things I enjoy I abandon in favor of hudling under my covers until I'm forced to crawl out of them.

My drop in work quality doesn't go unnoticed by Sister or my peers. I have talk after talk with Sister, endlessly forced to voice why I'm hiding away and shying away from my extra work- only to get nothing out of me.

Even my fellow Siblings notice when I quietly and half heartedly tell them I cannot do their work, or even help them anymore. Never offering a reason as to why.

They'll never know that I see that Sibling from the library when I look at them.

Their very clothing, the habit that I myself wear makes me sick, sending nauseating memories of that night in the library. I've had to cover my mirror and turn around with clenched eyelids as I get dressed.

I can't even bare to look at myself.

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The first week I spend spinning memories of the ghouls and Copia in my brain, frantically attempting to convince myself it was a dream, knowing my Copia would never…

No, not a dream.

It's apparent in the way he's avoided me.

My thoughts only give way to ugly sobs as I suffocate them my pillow.

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The second week I spend repeatedly rocking myself on my bed, back bent over my knees with my arms locked around them, blanket covering my compacted body and i endlessly attempt to self sooth. The fear of what I saw grows along with the disgustingly potent need to see Copia.

I internally curse myself, screaming at and berating myself for wanting to see him. Surely he's not the man you knew. My brain attempts to conjure the word monster in my desprate attempt to right myself, only for it to falter before I can even think it.

I could never think of him as a monster.

My brain is definitely faulty. Some wires or circuits are definitely frayed or fucked up, surely.

But I could never see him as a monster.

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On the third week, I give into desprate mindsets.

Letting myself stare at messy handwriting, intentionally vague, bland…not a word of what happened.

i hope your work is treating you well. i miss your company. you are well??, I wrote plainly, the shake in my writing betraying the anxiety I felt when writing it. In the dead of the night, I sneak out of my room to place the note outside his door. I didn't dare even write my name on the letter for fear he'd discard it.

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On the fourth week, I continue writing notes. Some more stiff and short than others, while some could be long and drawn out as if I were spewing out what was in my mind if he were truly there. There's always an air of emptiness and sadness to my writing.

My notes increased along with my appearances outside of my room. Only long enough to get to and from, but it was progress. There was always an air of panic around me when I dropped of a note for Copia to find. Always to avoid the library in my attempts to catch a glace at or the attention of him.

My efforts only bore fruit a couple of times, and yet they meant nothing. Only the slight widening of Copia's eyes showed he saw me at all before he'd turn his head, acting as Papa once more.

At the same time, acting as if I didn't exist.

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It started with the fleeting sights of the ghouls around me, always watching through the day. That's definitely not a rare or even unappreciated occurrence, but they hardly ever come to talk to me anymore. Usually, my day would be filled with chores, then my optional work later on in the day- be it doing simple errands for the overworked Papa's, or perhaps a Sibling of sin who wants to blow off work, but most of all gardening work with Papa Primo-

All of my off time you'd see me kneeling on stiff, hurting knees as I giggle along with whatever Primo is drawling on about, counting the time on the old-fashioned clock Primo keeps around as I wait for Copia to be done with work. Conversations help me forget time as Primo's aged hands guide and teach me how to properly care for his beloved plants.

A handful of times the two of us are accompanied by a helpful Mountain or Aether, the two helping lift heavy things that I can't manage, even less so the elder Papa. It's always warm, friendly ghouls always wandering through the garden to chat and cut up with me and Primo.

On rare occasions, we even find some of Secundo's ghouls wandering through. They hardly talk, but they prove to be good company still with how attentive they are to the garden's needs, proving to be quite good listeners, too. It's a real treat, but most of our visitors are Primo's own ghoul's, and (now) Copia's ghouls. Primo's ghouls (and the few retired ghouls. cough cough cowbell cough) will always stay near the gardens, ever loyal to their Papa. While Copia's ghouls are just plain and simple the most personable and sociable of the lot.

Soon I found my friendships with the kindly Papa and the ghouls flourishing like the flowers we care for so often.

It's no surprise it bled through "work" and into everyday life. Perhaps I was already friendly with them, knew them because of Copia, but I'd like to think the time we spent working together as a group made us close. It would explain how for the last few years, they made a habit of watching over me and approaching me to talk whenever they saw me.

I always appreciated how they looked over me rather than me being creeped out by it. In a way I understand their odd habits and affections. It made me feel safe knowing that they cared for me enough to have an eye out for me, even the notoriously hotblooded (asshole) Dewdrop.

But nowadays they only watch, and notably only Copia's ghouls. Maybe that's why their lack of seeking me out combined with their increased watching makes my neck prick with a chilled sensation. It just doesn't feel right. Maybe they're worried by my abrupt disappearance from our daily gardening routine, or maybe they can sense my dismal mood. Whatever it is, they don't say anything.

It only makes me want to hide away in my room more. Away from responsibilities and questions, and sure as hell away from who I consider my dear friends unreadable gazes. It makes my stomach twist and churn until I make it my mindless mission to make my way from room to room, never staying in one room longer than necessary during chores. The relief I feel from "evading" a ghoul is always short lived when after only a few minutes, I notice a different ghoul in the room I'm in.

I don't dare call out to them or say anything. Not unless they say something first. The fear pricking inside of me restrains my need to know what's going on, effectively silencing me and forcing my body to continue on with the world's worst game of where's the ghoul. I have an idea of why they're like this, anyway.

What I saw…

Surely whatever friendship I think I had with them was trumped by their loyalty to their master. They probably see me as a liability now. Waiting patiently with open ears for a slip up, waiting for me to break and spout out what I saw. Shouting to my fellow Siblings of sin that our beloved Papa IV is a monster.

That's why on the fourth week, when he finally acknowledges me in full, my heart nearly falls to my toes. With a single note with my name writen in neat writing poised on my bedside table, my heart thunders in my chest.

He had one of his ghouls come into my room and place it, or maybe he did it himself…the thought makes me lean agaisnt my headrest for support as I snatch the letter up with a shaky hand.

If you really wish to do this, come to my room.

9 : 0 0

I will be there. I will be waiting.

- yours,

Copia

My nerves make me feel as if I'm going to throw up as I scan my aching eyes over his writing. Even the fact he wrote 'Copia' instead of 'C' makes me feel ill. With a pained groan, I rub my sweaty forehead. "fuck this…", I think out loud, voice broken and scratchy from lack of use. "I'm gonna take a shower…lorde knows I need one."

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additional notes:

alrighty then, thanks for reading all the way through!! hope u enjoyed it!!

i'll have an ao3 account soon enough. hopefully, the formatting will be just how i want it, but until then, i hope how it is at the moment is okay!!

ali

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#copia x reader #cardinal copia x reader #papa iv x reader #dracopia x reader #vampire copia #vampire papa iv #mmmm delicious drama and trauma #ghost x reader #ghost the band x reader #ghost bc x reader #covering all bases with the name smh #papa emeritus iv x reader #Dracopia #first fanfic #dont crucify me pls #the nameless ghouls #papa emeritus x reader #cardinal copia #papa iv

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ghostchems · 2 months ago

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blood and cookies

written with copia in mind but can be any papa. if you read, let me know which papa you imagined! this idea came to me in the middle of the night. 1.2k words. nothing crazy here except for some bloodsucking :) happy holidays!

Flames crackle in the fireplace, casting shadows on the simple garland draped across the mantel. A single, plain red stocking hangs from one corner - the extent of your Christmas decorations. You zone out in the direction of the display from the kitchen as you remove your oven mitts, placing them on the counter. A chill rolls down your spine despite the warmth of the cookies cooling in front of you, sugar cookies shaped like trees with green and red sprinkles. They're typical Christmas cookies, the only kind you trust yourself to bake.

Recently, you've had a visitor every couple of nights. They aren’t the kind to stick around, showing up because they *needed* something from you. You wonder if your dabbling in the darker arts attracted them— ever since moving here you’ve found yourself attracted to the strange herbs and mushrooms that grow wild in these woods. You've learned to identify them, to harvest them properly, and to learn what they are used for - spells that are meant to give protection and tranquility.

The knowledge feels ancient, like it's been waiting here in the soil for someone like you to discover it. Sometimes you wonder if it was a trap all along but you are enjoying your new hobby. Long winter nights are hard living deep in the forest with your closest neighbor miles away, but you make do with your DIY witchcraft. Sometimes you enjoy the solitude while other times you wished you had someone to share it with. That is, until some of your evenings have been interrupted by a mysterious visitor.

You hear fluttering from the living room and quickly move to scoop some cookies onto a plate. Smoothing out your apron with one hand, you take the plate in the other and head toward the fire.

A figure stands near the fireplace, his one otherworldly white eye glowing in the darkness. Dark wings stretch behind him, their leathery surface creaking as they fold against his back. He is like a living shadow, his form seeming to blur at the edges where the firelight touches him. He's never spoken. You don't even know his name but his visits have become more frequent. At first it was once a month, then every other week, and now he visits at least once a week.

“Good evening,” you say softly, placing the plate of freshly baked cookies on the small table beside your armchair. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafts through the air, mingling with the woodsmoke. His white eye follows your movement, and you notice the slightest tilt of his head — perhaps in curiosity, or appreciation. “Help yourself. I will, uh, get you some warm milk.”

You turn back toward the kitchen, your feet padding quietly across the wooden floor. As you warm the milk on the stovetop, you can't help but wonder if he'll still be there when you return — he sometimes disappears as silently as he arrives. The gentle crackling of the fire and the soft clink of the plate behind you suggest he's staying, at least for now. It doesn’t take long for the milk to warm, and you pour it carefully into your favorite ceramic mug — the one with pale green mushrooms painted all over it, their caps dotting the surface in cheerful reds and purples.

When you return, he's closer to the fireplace and two cookies are missing from the plate with a few crumbs on the table. There’s a sense of relief that he liked them enough to eat more than one. You place the mug of warm milk on the table carefully, having learned he isn’t too fond of sudden movements. That doesn’t stop him from moving with inhuman speed right up to you, causing you to gasp and stumble back a step. His wings unfurl slightly, casting strange shadows on the walls.

"You are hungry," you whisper to him, your eyes scanning his face. You can see more of him now—the white and black paint that clings to his skin. He gives a low rumble in response, coming from deep in his chest. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. His eye narrows slightly, the otherworldly glow intensifying for just a moment. You know what comes next.

He crowds close to you, his wings curling around you like a dark embrace. His gloved hand gently tilts your head to the side, exposing your neck. You feel his impossibly cool breath against your skin, causing you to shiver. His other hand pushes the strap of your apron to the side and leans in, lips against your skin. The touch is gentle but cold, like winter frost against your warm flesh.

He kisses your neck. This is new. Usually, he just bites and drinks, a simple transaction of blood for company. But tonight there's something different in the way his lips linger against your skin, the way his hand cradles your head. The gesture is almost tender. You find yourself leaning into his touch, your hands reaching up to steady yourself against his chest. His fangs graze your neck, almost as if asking permission.

"Yes," you whisper, "you may."

His fangs pierce your skin with practiced precision, and you gasp at the sharp sting. All feeling melts away in moments. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as he drinks deeply, the sound of his satisfied grunts mixed with the crackle of the fire. Through half-lidded eyes, you notice his wing has curled more tightly around you, probably to keep you upright as you grow weak with each deep draw of blood.

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in. He must sense this and withdraws his fangs, his tongue quickly lapping at the wound to stop the bleeding. His wings move away from you as you sway on your feet, and the last thing you feel is his arms guiding you gently into the armchair as consciousness slips away from you.

You awake with a soft groan, your neck tender where his fangs had pierced. Fingertips drift along the wound as your eyes fall to the fireplace. The fire has died down to glowing embers. Then, your eyes drift to the small table beside you, where only scattered crumbs remain on the plate that once held your Christmas cookies. The ceramic mug sits empty, a smudge of black - like paint or lipstick - marking where his lips had touched the rim.

Despite how weak you feel, there's a sense of contentment. He ate all of the treats you made for him. You smile softly, sinking deeper into the armchair. You wonder when he'll visit again. Maybe next time you'll try another treat, perhaps chocolate chips or snicker doodles. The thought makes you feel warm as you sink deeper into the chair, sleep claiming you. You dream of dark wings and winter nights, of sugar cookies and stolen kisses.

Outside, snow begins to fall covering the forest in a blanket of white. Somewhere in that darkness, a shadow moves between the trees, leaving no footprints.

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