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Fallen from grace

Papa Emeritus IV/Copia X Fallen Angel!Reader

Warnings: a bit of angst, nudity, maybe an inaccurate take on fallen angels since idk much, blood, a bit of wings gore

Gender neutral reader(they/them pronouns)

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Copia was looking through the papers on his desk, face almost clean of all his makeup, except for some small bits he was too tired to wipe off. It was pretty late and he still hadn't gotten through all the paperwork he needed to finish, all of them in a pile on the side of his desk.

It was 11:30 PM as he started to doze off at his desk, head leaning against his palm. Unfortunately, he was woken up by what looked and felt like a small earthquake, his furnitures shaking for a second or two before it all stopped. The sudden shaking made the man almost jump off his chair, feeling a faint vibration in the ground, as if something entered in contact harshly with it. He didn't think much of it since it's probably something that fell.

He'd discover that he was almost right as he got up to get make sure everything was okay in his office, mumbles under his breathe.

"-damn it-" he cursed in Italian as he picked up some of his things that fell, bending down.

When he got back up(with a tiny bit of difficulty), his mismatched eyes widened and he tilted his head in curiousity as his gaze fell onto a scene behind the window.

As the only window he has in his office gives him view of the forest that surrounds the abbey, he could see something faintly moving near the abbey's ground, looking strangely like someone, something big dragging behind them. He couldn't see much as it's quite dark and but far, but he knew that he didn't want someone random coming here, plus, they looked like they may be in trouble or hurt as they don't move very fast, in the contrary, and they seem to halt sometimes. As they get closer and closer to the gate, Copia decides that he'll try to get to them before a ghoul can, not wanting a stupid act to get an innocent killed in error.

He knows it's not a good idea, but he can't help the gut feeling he has as he watches the figure slightly get closer with the minutes.

He got the dressed and made sure to carry something with him, even though hes got a feeling the person might not be dangerous.

He, as silently as possible, went out of his room, walking the corridors as silently as he can as go not wake up anyone. He rubbed his eyes tired as he passed some of the night owls sibling and ghouls, giving them small greetings when he passes them.

As soon as he got outside, he made a beeline for the place he saw the person last, the cold wind making him shiver. He ignore it, though, since his curiosity was getting the better of him.

He stopped in his track and exclaimed lowly when he saw the person was down in the grass, seemingly trying to bring themselves back up.

They had..... W-wings?? What the....

"Oh, Satanas...."

He stared at their bloodied back when he saw that they seem broken, white feathers bloodied, falling off and a bit ashy at the tips, almost as if burnt. He could hear a low, pained whine when the person turned their head towards him, probably feeling his starring. Even though it was dark, he could see clearly how they looked, and it all made sense as he saw their features... Their angelic features

He looked them over, not knowing what to say or do as he stayed still in shock, mouth agape. Their naked body was barely hidden behind their broken wings as they stared at him, eyes wide in confusion and filled with tears, probably from pain.

They were now sitting with their legs bent sideway before them, frowning at the satanic pope.

It was silent for a while as they stared at eachother, until the angel tried to get up, making Copia start to freak out as he saw how they seemed to be struggling, trying to get away and stumbling back down when they tried to get up.

"No no no no-" he said in a low and soft voice as he shook his head, holding his hands up to show he isn't a threat.

" Mi dispiace... Are you okay? May I help you?"

He kept his voice soft as he looked at them with worried eyes, gulping when they cleared their throat and eventually nodded, seemingly cautious.

He started by taking off his coat, putting it on them to try and give them a bit of modesty, which they only tilted their head at. He then made them lean on him, gently but firmly pulling them up. He wouldn't be able to carry them because of the oblivious broken appendages at their back, so he'd hoped that they would be able to walk with his help.

"So.... What's your name?"

~

Ya’ll I wrote a trans copia x transman reader smut fic 😭

✨ Should I post it ✨

Forget all the slow dancing, baby we can take it to the bathroom.

Transmasc!reader x Transmasc!

Terms used for reader and Copia are

Cunt, clit, dick, etc.

A/N: Oopsies anyway..This is my first time writing smut. Please for the love of god don’t bully me 😭

Warnings: Warnings: Finger-Fucking, afab!receiving oral (both ways implied.) Implied Thigh-crushing kink, kink, bondage (slightly), poorly translated Italian, implied choking, and use of sex toys due to the transgender boys not having bottom surgery.

In no time at all, you were pressed up against the sink in the bathroom. Papa Emeritus IV had you gripping the edges of the marble sink, his leather glove thrown onto the side counter. His hand was shoved down your jeans, rubbing furious circles into your swollen clit. You stared at your reflection, wondering how you got here. He tugged at your hair, making you look at yourself in the mirror.

“Look at yourself, Principe. So desperate for the touch of your papa.”

He only smiles behind you, before slipping his fingers fully into your slick-coated cunt. He pulls them out just as fast, running his tongue along his digits in an attempt to tease.

You only could groan, your thoughts becoming fuzzy as he continued to tease you through your tight jeans. One hand had a firm grasp around your neck, the other one rubbing against your core through your clothing. He flipped you around, so you were facing him.

“Good boy, Dolce. Do I have permission to eh- continue?”

He stumbles, his awkward demeanor still very present in his voice. You nod quickly, the tight feeling in your core tightening quickly.

“Fuck, Papa..”

You gasp as his fingers uncross the laces on your dress pants, only for him to realize you weren’t wearing boxers.

“God dammit, you truly are a filthy slut, huh? I like people who are bold, I’ll give you that-“

He snickers, picking you up and carrying you until you rest on his bed. He gets on his knees, pulling a grey shoe-box from under his bed. He pulls out a thick knot of red rope, glancing at you for your reaction.

You nod, anxious yet curious on what exactly he was going to do. He pulled your jeans off in one move, before glancing down once more at your face.

“Oh my gods, Copia please-“

You beg, as he ties your hands to his headboard. He backs away, now on his stomach in between your legs.

“I cannot wait to see how you taste, Rosebud.”

He smirks at the nickname, before diving between your legs and pressing a flat tongue against your dripping cunt.

is all you can muster, your thighs instinctively squeezing around his head. His eyes opened, green and white meeting your own gaze. His eyebrows knitted together as he moaned into your clit, his eyes rolling back and his hips jutting against the bed. You feel Copia’s hands snake around your thighs, gripping them as he continued drinking you down, licking and sucking at your swollen clit. It wasn’t too long before he pushed one of his hands through your thighs and into your hole, diligently working you to your limit. That knot in your stomach only got tighter, as you writhed against the restraints. As you squeezed tighter around his head and pulled his hair as he tongue-fucked you, his moans only grew rapid and his hips rolling against the bedsheets in an attempt to pleasure his neglected clit.

“Fuck, Copia.. I need to cum-“

You gasped, tears pricking at your eyes. He pulled your thighs away from his face, before kneeling between your legs.

“While I can’t fuck into you how I would like, I can give you a taste of what we can do.”

He sighed, unbuttoning his top and tossing it to the side, his torso becoming a quick attention-grabber. You stared at his T-scars, the 666 on his breast, the hair that trailed down to his untouched yet sopping cunt, everything. He groans, stripping himself of his jeans and boxers as he kneeled between your legs again.

“Tesoro, can I ask a favor of you?”

He tilts his head, running his hands up your hips.

“Yeah, whatever you want.”

He smiles, before undoing the restraints holding your hands from touching him.

“Can you return the favor, Caro Mio?”

You wasted no time, pushing his thighs apart and leaning your head down to taste his excitement for you.

You dive down between his thighs, sucking at his clit like a starving man. He grabs at your hair, forcing your tongue in his dripping wet cunt. “Yes Tesoro, oh fuck-”

You drill two fingers inside him, frantically pumping in and out of him. You run furious circles around his dick with your tongue, pulling more obscene noises from your beloved boyfriend.

“Good fucking boy, Baby. Taking my fingers so well.” You groan, his hips rolling to meet your face. He whines, his hips stuttering a moment. You land a harsh slap to his thigh, looking at the marks he put on you earlier and the ones you put on him. “Fuck, I’m gonna- I need to cum.” He crys out, and you feel a sudden tightness around your fingers. You get amusement out of this, as you grip his hips and lick against his dick. You get an idea, running slick circles into his slit as you look up at him. “If I let you cum now, you’re going to cum for me one more time after.”

He seems to take the offer, crying out as he’s yanked over the edge. You help him ride out that orgasm, before shoving your fingers down his throat so he could taste his own bittersweetness. “Fucking like that, whore? I’ll give you more, don’t worry.” You reach in the bedside drawer, pulling out two items. A purple vibrator, and a small towel. You place a light kiss against his earlobe, before whispering: “I’m going to make you cum so hard your wetness runs down your thighs.” He moans at that, before shoving his hands in your hair. You click on the purple toy, it vibrates in your hand. You look down at him, a slickness already covering his cunt. “So wet for me already, huh? I’m surprised you didn’t cum just from the sight of it.” You shove the toy into him, angling it to hit his sensitive areas over and over. He whimpers loudly, biting his lip. You land your mouth back on his overly sensitive dick, swirling around it with your tongue before giving it a nice suck. He moans, screaming your name loudly. “Shit- Shit..” You smile up at him, moving your hand a bit faster. “So fucking desperate, absolutley filthy.”

He groans, his hips stuttering. You remove your mouth from his clit, before going to bite along his jaw. You tease at his cunt with both the toy and your fingers, biting deeper onto his neck.

“You wanna finish so bad, don’t you? If you cum, I want to hear you loud and clear, got it?” He nods, panting and whimpering. You shove the toy against his deepest sensitive spot, before landing a harsh two-fingered slap to his dick, causing his orgasm to peak higher and ride out a bit longer. You watch his facial expressions closely, all while rubbing his thighs with your free hand. He lands his hands on his face, watching as he regains his mind.

“I can’t believe I let you do that.” He chuckles, covering his pink-painted face. He attempts to pull you down before you collapse to his side. You pull him close, petting his hair while you cuddle him. He sighs contently, before he loses consciousness in your arms.

"I Love you, Mio Cuore."

Taking your throne

Warnings: Smut, with a lil bit of fluff at the end.

Inspo: @darkhairedmenrule

A/N: I’ve never written face sitting before, so give me honest feedback. I also wrote this in the back of AP US History, so..

You never thought you would be here, in this position. Sprawled on your bed, with your Papa’s cunt on your face. Getting him there took a little bit too much persuasion, but after begging him to sit on your face, he did.

Low groans and mewls escape his mouth as you continuously licked into his slit, tasting every bit of slick he had to offer. He was basically grinding against your face, his overtly sensitive dick brushing against your nose you took what was yours.

“Fuck, Tesoro- Don’t stop.”

He kept begging, his small juts turning into full on rocking.

“I love how pink and tight you are for me. Bene ragazzo.”

You mutter into his cunt, his whines growing louder.

“I think I love you-“

He spat out, arching his back a little. You took the opportunity to shove your tongue fully inside, causing him to scream out your name. He pauses, coming back to earth. He looks down at you, crawling down to sit on your chest.

“I know it’s supposed to be sexual favors between us, but I think I have truly fallen for you, dolce.” He whispers, as you sit up and pull him into your lap.

“Love you too, darling.”

You attempt to pull him into a kiss, to which he backs away.

“I am not about to kiss you when you just ate me out, no thanks.”

You roll your eyes, looking him directly in the eye as you swallow what was in your mouth, before pinning him to you chest and pressing your mouth against his.

“Te amo tanto, idiotamente.”

He chuckles, collapsing against your chest.

“How many chocolate hearts and stuff like that did you get me before you confessed?”

You ask, trailing a finger on his chin.

“Too fucking many.”

You sigh, holding him against your chest. You hate chocolate.

crying is crucial // papa emeritus iv x gn!reader

summary: after trying to keep your emotions under control, you finally break down. copia finds you & tries to comfort you in your pain.

tags/details: sfw. 960 words. angst & emotional hurt/comfort, reader is depressed - their past hurt is alluded to but not detailed. it's basically just copia being a soft, loving angel & knowing exactly what to say.

full transparency - i wrote this during a recent low, after a conversation with a friend, as an attempt to express what i wish someone (namely copia) would say to me in a moment like this. hopefully it resonates in some way & brings some comfort if you need it 🖤

dedicated to sweetest one @conjuring-ghouls for being my ✨ test reader ✨ and really encouraging me. thank you for talking me out of my comfort zone, friend.

a big thank you to @gothdaddyissues for the dividers & to @foxybouquet whose brilliant italian masterlist is incredibly informative & has taught me so many precious new words.

You hadn't cried like this in a long time.

It wasn't unusual for you to feel down. Depression was something you'd lived with for as long as you could remember, but for the most part you managed to keep it at arm's length and not let it rule your life.

Today, though... Today was different.

You don't know what triggered it exactly. All you know is that since you woke up this morning, you had been haunted by that familiar lump in your throat, that burning sensation behind your eyes, the telltale signs of lingering sadness ready to spill over, and just tried to stave it off long enough to get through the day. Until, curled in a ball on your bed that night, you let it happen. You let the sobs come and the tears fall, soaking the side of your face and the pillow underneath you.

And that's how he finds you.

"Darling," you hear Copia call from the hallway, "Where are you amo-"

Shit. You hadn't heard him come in.

He knew you struggled, he knew about the anxiety and the sadness that lived somewhere within you, but he'd never witnessed you in this state. And while everything in you is screaming to not let him see you so broken... you can't move. The sadness weighs you down like an anvil in your chest and you remain where you are, pulling your legs in tighter to yourself as if to become smaller. To disappear.

"Amore?" he says quietly as he steps into the room, softly gasping when he spots you, your body wracked by sobs. He's quickly at your side, trying to disguise the panic in his voice as he asks, "What is it?"

You can only sniffle in response. Your words evading you.

"Oh, amore..." he whispers. You feel his weight shift on the bed as he lays down beside you, brushing your hair from your face and gently encouraging you to look at him. "Please... Talk to me."

You take his gloved hand and hold it against your cheek, still silent, just focusing on the feeling of him while you gather yourself. You can't quite manage to look at him yet, but after a few quiet moments you speak.

"I've just been thinking about how... hard it's all been..." you tell him, your voice slightly hoarse.

"How hard what has been, tesoro?" Copia softly encourages, stroking your tear-stained cheek with his thumb.

"My... life," you say between shallow breaths. "Sometimes... sometimes I wonder why... why all these bad things have... happened and I just..."

Oh no. It's happening. What was left of any kind of composure is gone. Your chest heaves and you begin to choke on your sobs as you try to explain yourself.

"It feels like i-it should be... easy by n-ow. People tell me I'm so strong and... I a-am but... I don't want to... h-have to be... all the ti-ime..."

Copia just listens, offering a gentle shhhh when your tears overcome your words again, pulling your body closer to his and laying your head on his chest. You stay like that for a little while, with him gently stroking your face, your arms, your hair, as you try to follow the soft pattern of his breathing to calm your own.

"We all need to cry sometimes, amore mio," he offers gently, breaking the silence. "It's... You see, cuoricino, I could sit here for hours and tell you how strong you are, how capable and bright you are. I could tell you over and over again how well you're doing, or how I admire you... and all of these things are true, sì? But, sometimes..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes what you really need to hear is, 'That's right. Those things weren't fair, and you are allowed to cry about it'. In fact, you need to cry about it. È cruciale!" he states, the sing-song inflection in his final word breaking through the fog and making you giggle.

But then you really take his words in, overwhelmed by the warmth with which he speaks to you and, as hard as you try to keep it together, you can't help but break down again.

With this Copia sits up slightly, and wordlessly guides your legs over his so he can cradle you properly. He feels your pain so acutely that it makes his heart ache, but he knows he needs to be steady for you right now.

"I'm here," he tells you, his voice shaking slightly, immediately betraying his intended steadiness. "I've got you... This is okay. You're okay... You're okay," he whispers, rocking you gently. "You are strong, amore. Of course you are strong... But you don't need to think about that right now. All you need to do is sit here with me, and let yourself feel what you feel."

So you do. Safe in the arms of your Papa, you let yourself feel. When another wave of sobs overwhelms you, Copia just holds you tighter and continues to rock you against his body. The voice in the back of your mind telling you that you don't deserve this love threatens to rear its ugly head but right now you're too far away to hear it. Not even the loudest, ugliest corners of your insecurity are a match for the peace you feel with him.

You're not sure how long you're there for, but Copia never stops holding you. The physical crash after such an intensely emotional episode hits you hard and you feel your body becoming heavier, imploring yourself to just go to sleep and draw a line under this day. Just as you are drifting off, you hear him quietly repeat himself.

"I've got you. You're okay."

Pancake Breakfast

Copia x Reader ~ The smell of Copia cooking in the kitchen rouses you out of sleep

Warnings: None, this is just something silly I wrote to fight the Monday Sads, gender neutral reader, sfw, 670 words

The delicious smell coming in from the kitchen woke you up.

You took a moment to burrow deeper into Copia's bed. His duvet enveloping you in a warm cocoon you didn't really want to leave. It didn't smell so bad in here either. Traces of his cologne lingered on his pillow and you pulled it to your face, inhaling the scent of the man you loved deeply. If it wasn't for your growling stomach you would have stayed there longer.

Pancakes, more specifically, Copia's pancakes were your favorite.

Donning an old band t-shirt of Copia's and some fuzzy socks you quickly slipped out of his bedroom and made your way down the hallway. You could hear him puttering around in the kitchen, pots being moved on the stove and cabinet doors being opened. He was singing too, some ABBA song that you were sure had him wobbling his ass around his small kitchen.

Once you got in sight of him you had to cover your mouth to stifle your laughter. Wobbling wasn't even the half of it. Copia was doing a full on dance routine in just his old red sweatpants. You watched him in secret until you started feeling guilty but it took the sight of him flipping something in a pan for you to remember why you left his bed to begin with.

You quietly entered the kitchen, taking a seat at his small table that was covered in small bowls of various fruits. The blueberries were too tempting and you were in the process of grabbing a handful when Copia turned and shouted out in alarm before dropping the frying pan.

"Satan's balls! When did you get in here?"

"Somewhere around the second chorus of 'Take A Chance On Me'." Copia's cheeks turned red and while continuing to tease him was tempting instead you got up and pressed kisses along the red skin. "Have I ever told you how cute you are?"

"Hmm, not since last night."

He grinned, leaning in quickly to kiss your lips before kneeling down to pick up his pan.

"So what did I do to deserve pancakes?" You raised an eyebrow when Copia froze briefly. He cleared his throat and quickly turned with the pan to set it on the stove. "What?"

"Niente, let me make you a new batch."

"Don't worry, if they didn't touch the floor they'll be...fine." You moved to stand next to him while you tried to reassure him but now it was your turn to freeze when you saw the size of the pancakes. "Why are they so small?"

Copia winced when you looked back to the table, taking in all the little bowls of fruit and finally noticing the small colorful dishes carefully set out. Dishes that looked suspiciously like those he used for his...

"Did you make pancakes for your rats?!" He was pouting, refusing to meet your eyes when you looked back at him. "Really?"

"I uh, I wanted to make them breakfast."

"A pancake breakfast." He nodded once, grabbing the spatula and scooping out the perfectly made rat-sized pancakes. You let out a little laugh, reaching up to ruffle his salt and pepper hair before planting a kiss to his bare shoulder. "I love you, Copia."

"Tsk, you just want my pancakes."

"Yes but human sized ones for me, please." He yelped when you smacked his ass and you quickly moved out of the way when he tried to grab you. "Keep cooking! I'll go get your rats."

"Our rats."

You shot him a grin before heading out to the living room where you could already hear the rats busy in their cage. Behind you Copia started back in on his song and you couldn't help but look back at him. At the same moment he spun around, his spatula pointed your way as he sang along with the song.

"'Cause I love you so!"

You snorted, shaking your head at his antics. A pancake breakfast for rats.

Lucifer, you loved this man so much.

~~ This is kind of a spiritual sequel to Them Rats if you wanted to check that out 💙 ~~

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you 💙

My Masterlist ~ My Archive of our Own ~ My Ko-Fi Tip Jar

Am I the only one thinking about how much Copia regrets moving on stage whenever he feels his old man body hurts in protest the next day?

Definitely not, Anon! In fact you inspired me:

A Mouthful

Papa Emeritus IV x Reader

Warnings: a bit of body worship and some suggestive teasing from Copia because he can't help himself hehe, otherwise this is just a soft moment with him, 600 words, sfw (thank you to @gothdaddyissues for the dividers!)

“Right there, amore!  That’s perfetto.”

You bit your lip to hide your laugh at the overly exaggerated groan Copia let out while you kneaded the muscles in his back.  He was always a mess after performing, aches and pains quickly settling in after the adrenaline wore off.  While he often teased the audience about needing a “violent shower” nowadays he mostly just needed a long soak in a hot bath.

And you, of course.

“You’re good at this, I should keep you around.  Give you a job.”

“Oh?  And what would my title be?”

Copia turned his head to the side, his white eye catching yours.  There was still face paint caught in his wrinkles, you’d have to make sure to get that cleaned up before he fell asleep.  You raised an eyebrow when you saw the growing smirk playing at his mouth.

“Eh, non lo so.  Maybe something about the sibling in charge of rubbing down Papa?”  He grinned when you snorted, now turning his body to the side and capturing your hands.  “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t know, Papa.  It’s quite the mouthful.”  The gleeful look on his face at your words had you shaking your head, trying to contain your own smile at his antics.  “Don’t you dar–”

“Well, if it’s a mouthful you want I know just the thing.”

You both erupted in giggles, Copia tugging at your hands to pull you tightly against his body.  He groaned when he turned onto his back, an arm around your waist keeping you close to his side.

“Copia, let me finish.  You’ll be too sore to move in the morning if you don’t let me finish.”

“Just un memento, amore.  A few quiet moments before you work your magic again, bene?”

“Okie dokie, Papa.”  

You smiled when he pressed a kiss to your forehead and shimmied a bit so you were more comfortable.  This was your ritual with him after his ritual on stage.  A hot bath followed by an intense massage of his back and legs.  Sometimes it led to other things but it was also nice when it just led to you both cuddling against each other.  Copia sighed then and you looked up at him, blushing at the soft smile on his face.

“I’m not sure I’ll be uh…up for anything else tonight.  Mi dispiace.”

“Copia, you never need to apologize for that.  Okay?”  He nodded and you leaned up to give him a soft kiss.  “Let’s get you rolled over again so I can finish up.”

He slowly turned over and you grabbed the cream you used on him, rubbing it between your hands until it was warm.  You took a few seconds to admire his back, your eyes tracing the freckles and the sporadic bits of hair that Copia refused to believe existed.  The blanket had drifted down to the swell of his ass and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring, thinking of how good he looked in those tight pants he wore on stage. 

“Amore?”

“Oh, sorry, Papa!  I got distracted.”  

You avoided looking up from his back as you began to rub the muscles again, the bastard would just be smirking at you anyway.  As your hands drifted down his spine you let them dip lower, right below the edge of the blanket so you could press them into the flesh it was hiding.  Copia let out a very different sounding groan then and lifted his hips to encourage you to press harder.  When you obliged he dropped back down, slowly beginning to grind his hips into the bed.  

Maybe you’d get a mouthful of your Papa later after all.

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you 💙

My Masterlist ~ My Archive of our Own ~ My Ko-Fi Tip Jar

How do you think Copia would approach a quiet, relaxing evening when you’ve both been stressed and need some distractionless quality time? ♡

Thank you Ibi! I think we’re all in need of some tlc right now! This can be read as Papa Copia or Cardinal 🖤

Content: ??? words (idk im so tired lmao), gn!reader, soft copia, pastina!, reader and copia are as exhausted as I am right now lmao, a lot of softness it’s killing me, tired idiots in love, bullet point format.

Please note my Copia is written as unrelated to the other Papas, Sister or Nihil.

So you’re both exhausted and stressed tf out. Ministry life has been busy as hell.

Desperate times call for pastina!

You get back to Copia’s apartment and start on it right away, using what spoons you can spare.

When Copia finally makes it back not too long after, looking disbelieved and about ready to collapse, he brightens a bit at the smell of your home cooking.

Pastina is his favourite, and while you might not make it exactly how his Mama used to, the effort doesn’t go unappreciated.

He leans on you over the stove, arms wrapped about your middle, his head buried in your neck and kisses you all over.

You don’t even need words, really. You’re both just exhausted and soaking up the precious time of being in each others arms.

When you knock your head gently against his, he lets out the *biggest* ‘old man sigh’ and deflates against your back, holding you a little tighter.

He keeps kissing your neck, behind your ear, whispering in soft mumbles how grateful he is and how much he loves you.

You love him too, you tell him, stroking his hands that are laced on his tummy.

When the foods ready, you both collapse on his bed; half dressed, shoes vanquished, cassocks undone, shirts or pants off and flung away because clothes are really awful when you’re trying to get comfortable.

Eating makes you both feel a little better, a bit more awake enough to shower off the tiresome day.

You know Copia doesn’t talk much when he’s stressed, and he looks even more weary than normal.

When you reach out and stroke your thumb over his brow, across the creases of his forehead and down the side of his face, he offers you a weary smile and a slow blink of his beautiful eyes.

You coax him to move, pulling him up by both arms.

You shower together, nothing sexual, just relaxing and leaning on each other. Skin on skin, chest to chest, just breathing in sync for a while.

Eventually you lather up his freckles skin and let him wash your hair, trading slow kisses and nose nuzzles.

You both don’t even bother drying your hair fully once you’re done.

Copia air-dry’s while you open up the windows in his room and run a towel over yourself. It’s a bit stuffy in his room what with the humidity of summer finally making itself known.

And finally, finally you both collapse properly into bed as naked as the days you were born.

You sink into a mess of tangled limbs and sweet smelling skin, damp hair, soft pliable bodies and the physical comfort of each other.

You run your hand through his chest hair, wiping away the few jewels of dew that cling to his chest hair.

In the quiet comfort, he offers a few things he’s happy to do if you’re still up for anything. He likes to read to you in bed sometimes, or if you’re too tired, you watch him play games in his ancient games console.

But when you lift your head from his shoulder and look at him, the man is barely awake. He might as well be sleep talking.

Turning his face towards you, fingers caressing his jaw, you kiss the corner of his mouth and it gets him to smile sleepily. His white eye cracks open a little, full of love and affection.

He nuzzles his nose against your forehead and wraps his arms around you.

You don’t need anything else right now. Just him. Just knowing he’s comfortable and taken care of.

You fall asleep in each other’s arms, satisfied, with full bellies and fuller hearts.

Naps With Copia

Nap #11: An Interesting Nap

*This does contain a very very very very mild spoiler for Rite Here Rite Now but it's not something that effected the plot of the movie*

For @angellayercake 💙

Papa Emeritus IV x Reader

These are all stand alone chapters so you do not have to read one before the other! This series came from my post about wanting to nap with Copia all around the abbey. The stories will all have gender neutral readers and soft Copia naps.

Warnings: again just a very very very mild spoiler for the movie, it's based on a brief moment in it! No other warnings, just Copia being loving and soft, sfw, 980 words, not beta read sorry (thank you to @gothdaddyissues for the dividers and @foxybouquet for the Italian help!!)

“Ah, so that’s where it disappeared to.”

Copia’s voice had you blinking awake, squinting against the lights that were backstage.  Your cheeks heated up and you shuffled further under your makeshift blanket to hide them.  Thankfully your Papa looked more amused than anything, a smile pulling at his lips as he dropped down to his knees next to the couch you had claimed.

“Sorry, Papa.”

“Sorry for what, corvetto mio?”  He chuckled when you glanced down at what was covering you, the gem-encrusted robe he wore during rituals.  “Well, it does look lovely on you I must say.”

You burrowed deeper at his complement, until just your eyes were visible.  Copia looked behind him when there was the clatter of boots, the ghouls chasing each other off the stage and then scrambling around to put their instruments away.

“Ai!  No running!”  

He groaned in exasperation when they ignored him, banging the metal doors open and going off to do Satan knows what.  When he mumbled something about gray hairs you reached a hand out from under his robe so you could cup his cheek and get him to meet your eyes.

“I love your gray hair, Papa.”  Copia bit his lip, tilting his head to the side to press against your hand a little harder.  Some of those lovely gray hairs of his tumbled across his forehead and he just looked so lovely you had to tug him close so you could kiss him.  His forehead was first, followed by his precious nose and finally those irresistible lips for a brief moment before you pulled away.  “I love you.  I’m so proud of you, have I told you that yet?”

“Maybe once or twice.”  He grinned and then lifted up his robe to climb onto the couch with you.  “Scootch over, let me join you for a little nap, eh?” 

After a few unfortunately placed knees and elbows the both of you found a comfortable position, one of Copia’s legs shoved in between yours and his arms wrapped around your back.  Your face was pressed against his neck, your lips hovering over where his pulse was strongest.  Another spot you loved to kiss so you did just that, letting your lips linger so you could feel the steady beat against them.  It was too much to resist to poke your tongue out, tasting the sweat and paint that had run down his neck during practice.

“Corvetto mio, if you don’t stop–ah,”  He hissed when you nipped his skin, his voice a little shaky when he continued.  “This nap will get very interesting if you keep that up.”

“Maybe I want an interesting nap, Papa.”

He groaned when you nipped at him again but he didn’t pull away, instead his hands slid down your back stopping when he could slip one of them just beneath the hem of your shirt.  You shivered as the leather of his gloves touched your bare skin.  Copia’s chest vibrated against you when he laughed at your reaction.

The bastard knew you had a thing for his gloves.

In retaliation you grabbed his sparkly scarf, tugging it out of the way so your mouth could reach more of his neck.  He stroked up and down your back as you left more marks on his skin.  Marks you’d have to remember to cover back up with makeup after you both left the safety of the couch.  Your fingers began to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, opening up a handful of them before Copia let out a frustrated moan, removing his hands from under your shirt so he could stop you.    

“I don’t think this is the best spot for an…interesting nap, corvetto mio.”

“Ugh fine, have it your way.”

A little yelp escaped you when he wrapped an arm around you once more and tugged you as close as he could.  Your face was tucked against his neck again, his own face lowered so his lips brushed against your ear when he spoke in a low voice.

“Oh I will have it my way later, I promise you that.”  You shivered against him, pleased when he rubbed your back again and then tugged the robe back up over your shoulders.  “Besides, I know how rambunctious you get and we don’t want to damage this damned thing.”

“Whatever you say, Papa.”  You giggled when he pressed a noisy kiss to your cheek before settling along his body more comfortably.  “What do you keep calling me?”

“Hmm?”  Copia’s voice was sleepy, the poor man already drifting off.  No doubt exhausted from working so hard during the tour so far.  “You mean ‘corvetto’?”

“Sí.”

“Crow.”  You frowned before lifting your head to look at him.  He was giving you the special smile only you ever saw.  The one where you could see all his love and fondness for you.  “You are like a little crow, stealing my sparkly things.  Like my robe.”

“I was tired!”  His smile grew at your grumpy look, a leather encased finger tapping the pout you were giving him.  “And cold.”

“I didn’t say anything, amore.”

“Yes but you were thinking something.”

“The only thing I was thinking about was how much I adore you, corvetto mio.  And how happy I am that you are here.  With me.”

He quietly wiped at your cheeks with his scarf.  Brushing the few tears away that escaped your eyes.  

“I think after this tour is over I’ll be able to afford even more sparkly things for you to steal.”

“I don’t need sparkly things, Copia.”  You lifted your head up so you could kiss him, moving your lips gently against his and pulling away before the kiss deepened as it inevitably would.  “I just need you.”

“Then you’re in luck, amore.”  He pressed against the top of your head before continuing,  “Because that’s something I can always give you.”

~ Naps With Copia series masterpost ~

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I Will Hold You For The Minute

I have a lot of feelings about this movie, too many to express, so please take this even though I'm sure it is not at all coherent <3

Content: 1.1k words, Copia x gn!reader, soft and angsty, idk i have too many feelings right now, ghovie related, Copia stresses a lot, lots of kisses, sweetness, that new fit oh my fucking satan its so hot, no beta.

It is so late that the Ministry halls are deathly silent, with only the rodents out of their hunts. It’ll probably be morning soon, you haven’t looked at a clock for hours, but the world outside remains cool and black. 

Today has been… a lot. That is the only way you can think of describing it. Overwhelming, emotional—like a tornado has ripped through the halls… and yet everything is the same, untouched. 

The man you love, standing before the mirror in his room and studying his reflection, is still here. He’s still Copia. 

Alive and breathing. 

You watch him from the doorway of his bathroom, having just slipped the last of his paint pots into the cabinets, stored away, wondering if they’ll ever be used again. Probably, most likely not. Melancholy has been a familiar friend for you today, and you cannot even begin to imagine how Copia is feeling. 

Copia, now Frater Imperator. 

It is surreal. 

Copia’s got an appraising face on. You watch his gloved hands touch the black glittering clerical collar, smoothing down the front of his new, stunning jacket. It is beautiful, tailor-made and spun from the finest wool with twisted, peak lapels made of the softest, shiniest satin. Attached to the lapels and edged with black gemstones, two precious rubies are pinned with a chain connecting in the centre from which a black grucifix swings. It sparkles under the lamplight, like stars against a black sky at the bottom of which, a ruby red tear-drop gem dangles. It’s ridiculous, maybe even a little bit impractical, but it's certainly Copia. And he looks damn good.

He fiddles with the collar and adjusts his cuffs for the hundredth time that night, and you watch his shoulders visibly slump when he meets your eyes in the mirror. You can't help but smile. How can you not? You love him, adore him with everything you are. 

“Hey,” you whisper, stepping into the room, “the bath is ready…”

Copia nods, his eyes back on his reflection. You pad up to him, barefoot and wrapped in his robe that hangs off your body, sliding an arm through his elbow. You lean against his shoulder, squeezing his bicep. The material creases under your touch, cool and crisp.

“Are you ready to get all this off?” You say again, softly, stroking up his arm tenderly. 

The stiffness that grips him is telling enough. When you find his gaze again, his unblinking and wide eyes are glassy, a little of his paint starting to smear down his cheek with a single tear. You can’t help when your own eyes start to burn. The emotions of the day are finally coming to a head. You’ve both been as strong as you can, an unspoken rule that matters not behind closed doors.

“You did so well,” you whisper, sliding a hand down to his tense one. When you lace your fingers through his, his grip is vice.

“Amore…” The way his voice falters on the term is too much for you.

“I’m so proud of you,” you sniffle, your own tears falling. You grip him tighter, leaning into him, watching your pictures in the mirror. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Copia. My Copia…”

When his face crumbles, you pull each other in a tight, suffocating embrace. Copia buries his head in your shoulder and finally, finally, a sob breaks from him. His grip on you is tense, gloved fingers grasping at you desperately, like he’s afraid if he loosens his hold for a moment you’ll slip through his fingers like smoke. He wets your neck with tears, trembling as you stroke a hand through his soft hair and nuzzle into him. 

You kiss the soft, secret space of skin just under his ear, forever marked by your mouth as you hush him. You whisper words of affection and love, pouring everything you have into him, filling his cup with your light while you replace yours with his dark in the hopes he can find some relief. 

“I’m so proud of you,” you tell him again, softly, half-choked. “Everyone will be… so proud of you.” 

“I—I hope I did good for them. I hope I—I was good enough,” he whimpers on a shaky breath.

“Oh, you did so well,” you cradle the back of his neck and press your cheek to his before you nudge him back. The paint around his eyes is a messy smear down his cheeks, his top lip mashed and smeared into his bottom.

You cradle his handsome face, stroking bare thumbs over his cheeks, catching tears and smears of black paint. His eyes are bloodshot, the white iris starker in the centre of its red rim. The wrinkles of his face are deeper somehow with the stress, with all the loss and heartache, but it doesn’t detract from his beauty—from your Copia.

Leaning up on your tip-toes, you press your forehead to his and close your eyes. His hands stay around you, keeping you close. He’s still tense, but softening as the emotions are finally allowed out of the floodgates. 

“You did so well, my baby. My beautiful, sweet man,” you reaffirm again, smiling bittersweet, pulling back to kiss his cheek. Copia closes his eyes and sniffles again. 

“You will always be Copia. Nothing will ever change that.” You kiss his opposite cheek, speaking between sweet pecks. Copia starts to sway with you, slow, ample movements as you speak. “No matter your title,” another kiss, “no matter your appearance or your dress.” You kiss his forehead. “Papa Emeritus. Frater Imperator Copia.” You kiss his wet lids and the tip of his nose. “You will always be loved and treasured, forever. By your fans, by me, by everyone, my sweet boy. I know we are all so proud of you even if it all feels shit right now.” Your smile is bittersweet when he cracks his eyes open. They’re less watery than before. And you chuckle, quietly, nuzzling your nose to his. He lets out a heavy sigh.

Finally, after a few more bittersweet tears, you kiss him on the mouth. You melt into each other, gripping his lapels, his hand on the back of your neck, everything so soft, solid and shaky all at once. It’s strange, to finally watch the balloon that's been inflating beneath his ribs finally pop. 

“Ti amo,” Copia crokes roughly. “I don’t know what I would ever do without you, amore.”

You bring your hands up once more, caressing his temples and stroking through his soft, mousy hair and greys. He purrs, mismatched eyes fluttering. He pulls you in for another deep kiss, humming into our mouth when you part your lips.

It will take time to accept the changes, you know, neither of you will ever get used to such a huge shift… You’ve both always been afraid of the future and talked about your fears and anxieties in the late morning hours when neither of you could sleep. But you’ve done it before, and you will do it again, together as one.

You know that with him, the future doesn’t look so foreign.

<3

masterlist ⛧ Ao3

longing - papa emeritus iv x f!reader

at a certain moment during a performance, copia thinks of you.

a/n: the mic holder fingering will always be in my thoughts. 1.1k words. fingering, obviously. 18+! mdni! ao3 link.

He had done it again.

Every night he loses himself, a brief moment where his mind wanders off beyond the crowd, beyond the crushing responsibility of furthering the the Clergy agenda. Copia thinks of you. He closes his eyes and feels the music, drawing in a sharp gasp as his hand drifts up the mic stand. You’re so far away back at headquarters with your own duties. It hurts for him to be away this long. He misses how soft you feel in his arms, how you laugh at his really dumb jokes and the more suggestive sounds you make when he touches you in just the right spot.

Copia’s finger pushes into the mic holder and fingers it, eyes squeezed shut and lips parting at the thought of it being between your legs. The roar of the crowd brings him back down to earth, back down to the moment. Eyes shoot open and he wrenches his finger from the mic stand, a mix of shock and disgust on his face. He’s learned to play it up because of how often it happens. He thrives in front of a crowd but after being away so long he yearns to be back in your bed, buried under the covers with an old movie on the tv. A quick turn and he’s marching back off stage with the ghouls wrapping up the song.

Long, slow exhale as he walks up to the golden mirror, taking a moment to regard himself. He smoothes out his jacket and fidgets with his cravat when he’s distracted by a figure in the mirror behind him. A gasp! And then he gives noises that can only be described a Copia noises when he realizes it’s you. Oh, it’s you. He’s on you so quickly, boney arms wrapped around you and pulling you in close. Heart is pounding in his chest as he continues making excited noises until the words finally come out.

“I was just thinking of you.” Copia is breathless, burying his face in your hair to drink in your scent. How he missed you so. He’s nearly trembling, overcome with deep love and affection for you.

“You’re doing so great, Copia.” You whisper and hug him back just as tight. “I… I don’t want to distract you, though. I can wait in the wings until you’re done for the night.” He feels you start to move away from him but he tightens his grip to keep you firmly in place.

“Nononono. Stay here.” Copia runs a gloved hand through your hair. “I eh, have some time.” He leans back to look at you and my god, does it stir something primal and deep inside of him. Thoughts flit back to the mic stand. “I have something to show you, actually.” He hums and takes you by the arms and pulls you off into a dark corner of backstage. His heart pounds in his chest. There’s not much time but he can’t let this moment with you slip away. Once he has you out of view his mouth finds your earlobe, catching it with his teeth as his hands desperately paw at your clothes.

“P-papa!” You squeal as his lips travel down your neck.

“Shhh-shhh, amore. They mustn’t hear us.” Copia huffs and nips just below your jaw. You gasp as his hand slips down the front of your pants and he takes a breath to lean back, taking in your wide eyes and how your breath quickens with a groan. You are so delicious he can hardly stand it. “I’ve longed for you. Every night I think of you, wishing I could touch you again.” His voice cracks and he presses his forehead to yours. You’re speechless. Copia’s fingers toy with the hem of your underwear, humming in approval at the wetness that pools through the thin fabric. He pushes the fabric aside and slips a finger inside your slick folds.

Your mouth drops open in a low groan that Copia quickly swallows with his own lips. Both sighing together, with him peppering you with slow, deliberate kisses as he works another finger inside. He stretches you open and sinks his fingers as deep as he can, languid strokes that make your toes curl in your shoes. You want to cry out, to moan and huff but you can’t — you can see some movement behind him, the stage crew doing their jobs of moving equipment and instruments. Copia’s other hand snatches you by the chin and forced you to look into his eyes.

“Stay with me, amore.” He hisses against your lips before claiming them with a fiery, possessive kiss. Tongue invades your mouth, drinking in all of your sighs and moans. He thrusts his fingers inside of you at a rough pace, curling them once they’ve sank in as far as they’ll go. Your knees start to buckle, core impossibly tense from how he tears you into pieces. Nails dig into his black jacket, gasping into his mouth while half-lidded eyes meet his mismatched gaze. A growl rumbles up from Copia’s throat. He loves seeing you like this, utterly under the spell of his skillful fingers.

“I-I’m here.” You choke out, breaking away from the kiss but tugging him in closer so that your noses touch.

"Va bene." Copia whispers back, his voice a soothing balm over your senses. His fingers continue their relentless rhythm, drawing you ever closer to the precipice. Your breath hitches, body trembling as he coaxes you towards a shattering release. The world narrows down to just the two of you, lost in each other, hidden in the chaos backstage. Heat rushes to your face and spreads throughout your body until it’s too much to take. Your body convulses and a shattered cry falls from your lips, your climax overtaking you. He groans in approval, pressing slow kisses to your temple and then down your cheek before ending with one unbelievably tender kiss to your lips.

“I must return to the stage, amore.” Copia muses as he pulls his fingers from you. He brings them to his nose, taking a long whiff of the heady scent before licking the slick off his gloves. “I am… so happy you are here.” You see that twinkle in his eyes that made you fall hard for him in the first place. He cups your face, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones to soothe you from your high. You take him by the wrist, a shuddered breath leaving your lips.

“Burgers after?” You manage to crack a smile between huffs. His face lights up and he pulls you in for a warm hug.

“Burgers and fries, baby.” Copia plants one last kiss to your cheek and gives you a squeeze before skipping off to back to the stage.

𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐚 𝐱 𝐠𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

!!! this fic contains spoilers for RHRN, do not read on if you wish to remain spoiler-free!!!

It is an involuntary trust exercise. To give up what he built for half a decade, the legacy he took over, being forced to let it rest in the hands of someone else. Or: Copia is taking up his new position. It’s not an easy feat.

content: 1.8k words, gn!reader, angst, grief, hurt/comfort, some fluff and kisses, post!rhrn so spoilers, established relationship

Masterlist – Ao3 link

1 – White dust sheets cover the furniture like ghosts of a life left behind. The path forward is hidden underneath layers of insecurity and grief but as he packs up years of work in pre-used cardboard boxes it almost feels as though he cannot see the path at all.

His new office is just down the hall. It is a fast job. Two trips and his desk has become another ghost. One more trip and he has emptied out all personal belongings from the dusty shelves. The rest stays, not useful to him anymore in his new function.

It is an involuntary trust exercise. To give up what he built for half a decade, the legacy he took over, being forced to let it rest in the hands of someone else. Unlike his brothers he had no way to prepare who follows his footsteps and perhaps that is where the ache in his belly comes from – the uncertainty.

He cannot quite bring himself to unpack the boxes in his new office yet. But it is not his office anyway, Copia thinks. No, it is his mother’s office and he feels like an intruder placing his things on her desk. Her smell clings to the old fabrics, clings to him, a strong perfume that Copia has not been able to get out of his nose ever since he covered her body with yet another white sheet.

Yet another ghost.

It has not been long, he tells himself, a weak comfort. As he stands here with an old card she wrote him – Welcome Home, C! – he can hear the clicking of his mother’s shoes on the tiled floors like a faint echo that haunts the hallways of the Ministry. Everyone is busy preparing for this transitional period, mourning their Mother Superior, but now it is Copia who has to guide them, navigate them through this darkness.

He realises that he himself has footsteps to follow and that he is just as unprepared. A new era, for all of them.

“Love?”

He turns and his world lights up for a brief moment. You occupy the doorframe in a black mourning habit, the one all Siblings chose to wear in honour of his mother. Of course he finds that it suits you better than anyone else. But perhaps that is because he has felt the sturdy fabric against his wet cheeks so many times now that it means comfort, home.

“Do you still need help with the boxes?” you ask.

All he can do is shake his head. You approach and he wants to close the card, hide it away, not even sure why. You have seen the fallout, you have held him through the worst of it. Perhaps he is ashamed, in a way, that he cannot move on as fast as his new role demands of him.

“Was this from her?” you ask, nestling up to his side.

“Mhm.”

His hand is trembling lightly as you lay yours to rest on top of his. The swipe of your thumb against his bare wrist sends goosebumps down his spine and when you wrap the other arm around his waist his eyes are watering.

“Perhaps you can frame it, together with some photos,” you suggest.

He nods, leaning into your embrace as a solid rock forms in his throat. You hold him and he lets the silent tears run down his cheeks, gathering at the dip of his chin. Your thumb continues to draw slow crescents over his pulse. He can’t speak. He does not have to.

✦ ✧ ✦

2 – He is glued to the mirror.

You try not to fuss, he is nervous as is. It is first official day, after all.

“I didn’t know you had a new uniform,” you say with a lint roller in hand, joining him in the bedroom. The jacket is brand new, all black but unusual in its ornamentation, satin lapels that run from his neck towards his armpits. A clerical collar underneath sparkles against his Adam’s apple.

“I eh… splurged,” he says, cheeks dusted a bashful red.

He says it like he is wasteful, does it whenever he treats himself to something, but you also know he is wearing the same black winklepickers he wore as a Cardinal ten years ago, never replaces any pieces of clothing until he finds holes in the fabric, that he only bought new jackets when he could use them on stage to look his best for the audience. The suit is no different, it is as much a boost to his confidence as it is a display of his new status. A performance.

“It is a rather nice suit,” you note, running the lint roller down his back.

“Mhm.” He pauses, looks down at himself and tugs at the sleeves. “It is… unfamiliar.”

“You wear it well, Copia.”

He smiles and his confidence resurfaces. You find that he looks handsome in a completely new way. You have seen so many facets of him that you can tell he is beginning to mold himself into this role, even if he might not see it himself yet. In the mirror, a stranger is looking back at him through black-rimmed eyes but in time he will see himself again, a grown version.

“It is not all,” he says. “I… found something. In the desk drawer.”

He points to a velvety black box on the dresser. Inside, you find a beautiful ornament, two ruby brooches holding a bejewelled black grucifix, another ruby at the bottom. It is one of the most beautiful, elaborate pieces you have ever seen.

“A gift, I think.”

He looks uncertain when you glance up. But you have no doubt that it was meant for him, meant for today. You carefully take it out of the box, delicate as it looks it feels sturdy and well-crafted. One brooch to each lapel and the grucifix dangles over his heart. Light from the window catches in the gemstones, a prism splitting the ray into sparkles that reflect in the mirror, a spectacle of multicoloured beams flickering across the walls.

Copia watches the dancing lights, mesmerised, until the sun hides behind a cloud and the room is gloomy yet again. When you focus back on him a tear pearls from his left eye, running down his cheek and leaving a black streak in its wake. The piece is more than jewels – it is a memory, a promise, a token of trust.

“It is beautiful,” you say. “As are you, Copia. So beautiful.”

His smile is tinged with sadness but there is hope, now, too. You smooth out his jacket, admiring him for a moment, unconcealed, and he must see it in your eyes because the smile shifts until one corner of his mouth pulls into a lighthearted smirk.

“Do I get a kiss?” he asks.

You grab the satin and pull him close. One day you are going to peel him out of this jacket and it won’t feel heavy anymore.

✦ ✧ ✦

3 – You gently wipe at his under-eye. The black smudge is persistent and you stop when the skin turns red. Copia’s eyes are closed even as he holds you. Wrapped around you he feels hot to the touch, almost feverish. He has gone non-verbal since he came home and you give him the space he needs, soft touches, rest and quiet.

The tension of the day still sits in his muscles, you can feel the knots when you run your hands over his back. The hot shower did not help, nor did the pasta he barely touched for dinner. He did well, everyone said this to you today. Whether he feels it you are not so certain.

You lean in and press a kiss to the round tip of his freckled nose. He blinks at you through tired, reddened eyes, lips curving into a lazy half-smile. His hand tightens at your waist, slides underneath your shirt to feel your skin. He’s your whole world molded into the shape of a man. Love, stored in the crinkles of his crow’s feet, every line on his face, in the brushstrokes of grey at his temples, an endless supply.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, trailing the curve of his spine.

His eyes open and you feel guilty for disrupting his peace. But then he pulls you ever closer, squishing, the softness of your bodies mingling with a comforting warmth.

“I don’t…” He stops, brows pulled together. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“I have no doubt that you can.” You study his features, move your hand to trace the lines of tension and smooth them out. He lets you, eyelids fluttering at the soft touch. “Every day from now on will be easier, Copia. My baby, I have such confidence in you. Unshakable.”

The words stir something in him. Some wetness gathers in his odd eyes but he blinks it away. You have to fight your own tears, good tears, for how far he has come. Then Copia nods, nods again but with more conviction. A deep exhale through his nose and he swallows the doubts away.

“You are right, always,” he says. “I was Papa Emeritus IV, eh? I did that.”

“You did.” A smile, proud and amused. “And now you are Frater Imperator.”

“Mhm, I am.”

“You are the head of this church, they are still your flock, adoring you, admiring you, trusting you. None of this has changed.” You cradle his face in both hands, a firm press of your thumbs to his cheekbones. “And you are still the man I love.”

“I am?”

“Forever.”

He closes the gap himself, a grateful kiss, seeking. You try to give him what he needs, firm and soft kisses, hands roaming, legs entangles. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, deeper still until all air escapes you and a dizzy fog fills your head. He is all you know, all you want for the rest of this life you live together.

The kisses slow down, not any less deep, and he cradles your head, keeping you pressed together. There is some need building, a languid wave that fades out in ripples. You feel him stir against your leg but he is not quite here with you, not entirely, and it subsides after a moment.

He breaks away with a heavy sigh, keeps his eyes closed.

“Perhaps not tonight,” you say, stroking his hair.

He nods and rests his forehead against yours. His breath tickles your nose, the embrace tighter than before. It feels easier now, somehow, and you can picture it so clearly. The future, him, and even in your head the world is quiet as you hold him close.

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

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Movie Night

Copia x gn!Reader

Summary: The movie (no spoilers here) made me feel are warm and fuzzy so I wrote some comfort Copia. 1k words.

tags: gross domestic fluff. established relationship.

Copia’s suite was bathed in a warm glow, courtesy of the large vintage (his words) television he was adamant about using for occasions like this. The wood-paneled vacuum tube TV weighed a ton, but he insisted on propping the thing up in front of his perfectly functional flatscreen to watch his “special movies.” 

You’d scoffed at the first invite of course, wondering why in the hell Papa Emeritus was seemingly asking you to stop by and watch porn with him when you barely knew each other. He quickly and nervously explained that he simply meant they were his favorite films—a collection of old VHS copies he had carted around for his entire career. Each one was more or less in pristine condition, minus some fading or wear and tear on the old paper sleeves. He treasured these movies, keeping them locked away from ghouls or unruly older brothers for years.

But he wanted to show them to you.

Your adoration for him grew with each showing, the way he would tell stories about why whatever movie meant something to him. Sometimes it was an emotional attachment tied to a pivotal moment in Copia’s life. Other times it was just because he thought the movie was so cool. One movie at a time, your chosen spots on his sofa drifted closer and closer until the night he finally asked permission to kiss you. You gave it happily, filled with the flutter of butterflies over this sweet man.

Now his rooms were beginning to feel more like a second home, a place he wanted to share with you as much as those old videotapes. You were so comfortable with him here, happy to doze off and wake next to him on that overstuffed sectional. There was more than enough room for the two of you, but Copia liked that you’d cuddle up to him or use his thighs as a pillow after a long day. You never wanted to cancel movie night with him.

The notes of Copia’s cologne mixed with the scent of butter from the bowl of popcorn he always made for these dates. There was a touch of sugar in the air, the chocolate and peanut butter candies slowly melting in the popcorn bowl. Copia absently grabbed another handful and made a tiny happy sound as he chewed the salty and sweet snack.

You pulled your blanket a little higher, wrapping it around your shoulders before shifting in your seat. A little sigh left your lips as you settled your head in his lap for the millionth time. He lazily threaded a hand through your hair, while the other traced the familiar buttons on the remote. The movie paused and actors stilled mid-conversation, a discussion you’d stopped following some time ago.

“Dolcezza? Is everything okie dokie?” he asked softly.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed in response. “Just getting comfortable.”

He chuckled—a gentle heh heh heh that you were falling in love with—before he began to speak again. “We’re gonna need a bigger couch.”

“Hmm?”

“Ah, just a little movie joke, dolcezza. Never mind me.”

“I like your jokes,” you replied sleepily. 

“Really?” 

The surprise in his voice hurt a bit. You hoped after this many movie dates he would have realized how much you enjoyed everything about him. But insecurity and doubt occasionally liked to chew at the man’s insides. No amount of face paint or bejeweled robes could hide those moments from you.

You pushed yourself back up so you could look him in the eye. “Copia.”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “Forgive me, dolcezza. I didn’t think anyone liked my jokes.”

“Well, I do. So there.”

He smiled again, brighter this time.  He draped an arm over your shoulders and pulled you a little closer. “What has two thumbs and really likes you?”

You furrowed your brow, deep in thought. Pointing at the tv you asked, “the shark?”

He shook his head, that delightful laugh returning. “That guy has no thumbs.”

“Ah well,” you conceded. “Is it…the guy on the boat?”

“Now you’re breaking my ass, dolcezza.”

“Pretty sure you mean busting your balls.”

He winced and covered his crotch. “Not without a safe word.”

You tried to fight it, chewing your lip to keep from laughing, but he raised an eyebrow and wiggled in his seat to draw it out of you. An uncontrollable giggle bubbled up and forced you to hide your face against his shoulder to try to stop. His hand trailed down from your shoulder, squeezing your side before tucking you even closer under his arm.

“You know, dolcezza,” he began nervously. “I love your laugh.”

Your heart raced. It was a word neither of you had used in relation to each other, instead carefully places likes had peppered your conversations over the last few weeks. But you’d felt it for a while, slowly but surely you were falling. And not just for Papa as so many others did, but the man underneath it all. The man with the silly jokes and cheesy dance moves. The man with the special tv for his special movies who groaned every time he sat down. The man who’d acted like you were worthy of a Nobel Prize for introducing him to putting candies in his popcorn.

That was it. You loved Copia.

“Love?” you asked, searching his mismatched eyes for any hint as to what he might say next.

“Sì, love,” he confirmed easily and tapped you on the nose. “I love your laugh.”

You grinned back at him, happy to be at his side like this. “Well, I love your jokes.”

He brought his hand to your chin, tilting your head slightly as he leaned in for a soft kiss. His lips brushed yours, leaving behind the familiar taste of movie night.  “And I love you.”

You melted against him, body too warm as the butterflies in your stomach stirred back to life. “Oh, Copia,” you sighed. “I love you, too.”

might turn these into a series? idk.

A Thousand Kisses

For an Anon that requested a lazy kiss with Copia.

Papa Emeritus IV x Reader

Warnings: soft, tired and kissable Copia, sfw, 540 words, not beta read (thank you to @gothdaddyissues for the dividers)

“I never want to move again.”

You grinned at Copia even though he couldn’t see it with his face buried in his pillow.  The poor man had been practicing with the ghouls all day for the upcoming tour.  When he finally showed up at your door it was with a hoarse voice and a stiff posture.  You couldn’t even get his clothes off without him groaning every time he had to move.  As soon as you had wiped off most of his makeup and made him take some painkillers he had collapsed onto the bed.

“You should really take a hot shower, otherwise you’re not gonna be able to move in the morning.”

“I can’t move now, amore.”  He turned his head to the side so his voice wasn’t muffled, his bright green eye focusing on you.  “I’m broken.”

“Broken, huh?  That’s too bad, Papa.  I’ll have to adjust my plans for tonight.”

“Pl-ah cazzo,”  Copia whimpered as he rolled onto his back, taking a few deep breaths before trying again.  “Plans, you say?”

“You know, just the usual.”  You toed off your shoes and crawled onto the bed, moving slowly until you were resting on your side next to him.  His chest rumbled like a purring cat when you rubbed a hand up and down his bare chest.  “A candlelit dinner, some dancing…”

“Please don’t say dancing right now.”  

He pouted when you laughed at him and you couldn’t resist shifting so you could kiss his full bottom lip.

“What about wobbling, Papa?  Would you wobble for me?”

“Amore, you know that I would normally do anything for you, yeah?”  You nodded before resting your chin on his chest.  He managed to bring a hand up to your cheek, swiping his thumb across it gently before speaking again.  “But Lilith herself couldn’t get me to wobble right now.”

He smiled softly when you kissed his palm before he laid his arm back down on the bed.  Even that had him wincing and you frowned down at him. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, Papa?  Anything at all.”

Copia was quiet and still for a few moments, long enough you almost thought he had fallen asleep.  You started to move away to let him rest but he slid an arm around your waist to keep you in place.

“Anything?”  He opened his eyes and gave you a lazy smile when he felt you nod against his chest again.  “A kiss then.”

“Just one?”

“Hmm, or two.  Three maybe, if you feel I deserve it.”

You leaned in to give him the first one, your lips lingering on his for a couple of seconds.  It was your turn to cup his cheek, rubbing at spot of white that you had missed earlier.  Copia’s eyes were bleary with sleep and you stifled a grin when you realized he probably wouldn’t last till the third kiss.  It didn’t matter though, you’d still give him all the tired and lazy kisses you could until he was asleep.

“You deserve a thousand kisses, Copia.”

“A thousand, amore?”  He smiled against your lips when you gave him the second one, his hand idly rubbing up and down your back while he gazed into your eyes.  “I’ll hold you to that.”

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you 💙

My Masterlist ~ My Archive of our Own ~ My Ko-Fi Tip Jar

i was waiting for the perfect time to use this tobbe gif and i think it's here 😭😭😭

Had this one hanging around in my drafts for a while.

Dedicated to @sakuraspoke - both in the hopes the rest of your week will be less tough, and also as payment for all the glorious Tobbe gifs you bless us with. Godspeed angel 🫡

Had this one hanging around in my drafts for a while.

Dedicated to @sakuraspoke - both in the hopes the rest of your week will be less tough, and also as payment for all the glorious Tobbe gifs you bless us with. Godspeed angel 🫡

Freckles and Rigatoni Lines

Happy birthday, @ghelullu :) ♡

content: 850 words, copia x gn!reader, can be read as papa or cardi, slightly suggestive/post sex, naked cuddles, cake eating, tooth-rotting fluff, MDNI

His hair tickles you awake.

At least you think you must have fallen asleep because you can’t remember it being dark outside when you closed your eyes. Copia is wrapped around you like a blanket, all soft skin and easy snores. You shift a little to release the pressure on your neck only to feel the stray crumbs of the cake you shared earlier pressed to your side, some frosting melting against your skin.

You feel sticky in other places as well which makes you smile against his neck. Copia had promised you the day would end with sweets and orgasms. Not that you ever doubted him or his abilities to make this a reality but in truth you still struggled to believe your luck in finding this man.

He is a furnace and it’s not exactly cold in the room, but you can’t bring yourself to move just yet. The shower can wait until you’ve had your fill of the remaining smell of his cologne and the feel of his sweaty skin glued to yours. Your belly is all fizzy but not from the delicious food you shared over dinner. He had made sure the day would be perfect, in all aspects, and the happy butterflies were untameable tonight. You felt loved – wholly, supremely loved.

Your head rests on his shoulder, one leg tucked between his and his arms keep you pressed against his hairy chest. There is little wiggle-room, but you manage to slide one hand up and draw a soft line over his love handle, back and forth. He is so soft, faint stretch marks littering his sides, the rigatoni lines as he likes to call them, and you press your lips to his Adam’s Apple.

Copia hums, half-awake, his fingers curling over your buttocks. You chuckle and he only pulls you tighter, exaggerated as though he wants to pull you into him. When he releases you with a sigh one of his hands settles on your knee, the other on your upper back. You squeeze his hip and he smiles lazily down at you, eyes crusty and curtained by loose strands of hair that have fallen into his face. He looks lovely, happy, content.

“More cake?” he asks.

You shake your head, bringing your hand up to brush the hair from his face. Through his smeared eye paints your thumb is greeted by countless freckles as you swipe it over his cheekbone. Summer suits him, you think, those Mediterranean genes thriving with the increased sunlight. They stand out prominently, patches of brown spots littering his skin all across his body. Looking at him feels like you’re on vacation, a reminder why summer is not all bad.

“I’m quite content,” you whisper, tracing the lines of his face until you reach his very pink lips.

He traps your thumb with them, then grabs your hand to press more kisses to your palm, your fingers, your knuckles. He is soft, though his cheeks feel a little scratchier now at the end of the day. It’s a lovely contrast.

“That was my goal,” he says, leaning in for a lazy kiss. “Though I would not say no to the other half in the fridge.”

“Only if you grab it,” you mumble, the thought of leaving the bed not at all enticing.

“Ah, I spoil you for one day and already you got used to it,” he grumbles playfully.

Instead of a reply you lean in for another kiss, this time with more effort. He reciprocates, releasing your hand in favour of cradling your cheek. You sigh, tugging at his hair a little until he opens his lips and deepens the kiss. His tongue moves against yours and you think that perhaps you do want some cake after all, if only to kiss the frosting from his lips when you’re done.

“You can be very convincing, amore,” he says after breaking away, looking at your pleading face in contemplation. “Ah shit, okay, I will get it.”

You roll onto your back once you manage to untangle your sticky limbs and it feels good to straighten out your spine for a moment. Your body aches in the way only a beautiful day makes you ache, tired but happy bones. You smile when you hear Copia rummaging in the kitchen, the fridge door opening and closing with a healthy set of excited giggles.

He returns with two forks and a generous slice of cake to share. When he sinks down beside you you sit up and allow him to feed you the first bite. It tastes better now in the quiet of the night, a treat after a treat – second dessert.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss some frosting from his chin. “It was a lovely night, a lovely day.”

He smiles, proud and happy, closing the gap for one of those sweet, sugary kisses you’ve been exchanging all evening. “Only the best for my baby.”

“Does that mean I get the last piece of cake?”

A frown, lips pursed as he stabs a crumb with the fork. “Ah, I would not go that far, amore. There are limits to my generosity.”

I hope you enjoyed! Happy birthday again ♡ (header credit)

a little birthday snooze // copia x gn!reader

summary: it's copia's day, but he's not quite ready to get out of bed yet.

tags/details: sfw, 500 words, just a bit of fluff with the birthday boy. thanks to @gothdaddyissues for the divider!

hello! it's my birthday! and as a gift from me to you (that's how it works, right?) here's a short little soft copia moment ♡ it's this community that inspired me to write again after a long time, and to share again after even longer, and i just wanted to say thank you, to everyone here who makes this place what it is. i'm one person who feels a lot less Alone than i did 6 months ago and i have you all to thank for that. whether we've talked a lot or a little or are yet to meet, thank you. you're great. ok, love you, bye.

The alarm clock on the bedside reads 8:00am when Copia feels a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"Hey, sleepyhead," you whisper, nuzzling him with your nose. "Wake uu-uup. Today's the day!"

"Hmm, and what day is that, amore?" Copia asks through a yawn, rubbing his eyes as they adjust to the light. "I can't remember."

You give a knowing smile, your own eyes still heavy with sleep, and kiss his forehead softly. It's not that he doesn't enjoy his birthday, or that he's particularly concerned about growing older, but sometimes he would rather it passed without much acknowledgement. So many of his days are spent with more eyes on him than he can count, that often he would just prefer as little attention as possible.

He watches you intently as you start to gently brush his wayward bed hair away from his face. "Happy birthday," you say, cupping the side of his face in your hand. Copia closes his eyes and leans into the feeling of your thumb caressing his cheek.

"Thank you, amore," he whispers, turning his head to kiss your palm. "I'll be with it soon enough. Just give an old man a few minutes to wake up."

"It's okay, take your time. Let me go and get some breakfast ready," you say, turning to get up.

"No, no," Copia protests, pulling you closer to him. "In a little while, amore."

"But yo–"

"Just a little while longer, cuoricino. Now, come here to me," he says gruffly, tickling his fingers over your sides and rubbing the slight stubble on his chin into the crook of your neck, eliciting a sharp yelp from you.

"Copia, please," you plead, half-laughing, half-shrieking as Copia's hands continue to squeeze at your waist.

"Say you'll stay in bed with me," he orders through a chuckle before giving a quick kiss to your shoulder, "What do you say? A little birthday snooze with your Papa, eh?"

"Okay, okay! I'll stay!" you surrender, and Copia immediately pulls you to his side, resting your head on his chest and enveloping you in his arms.

"Perfetto," he says with an exaggerated roll of his tongue, and you don't need to look at him to see the smug, contented look on his face.

The two of you lay in a comfortable silence with only the occasional chuckle escaping you as you catch your breath. Your hand wanders over his chest and the softness of his belly, fingers running through the thick hair that covers them. His fingers trace circles over your shoulder, the trail of his touch leaving goosebumps along your skin. You could stay like this all day, you think, stroking and caressing and breathing the musky scent of him.

Just as you are about to doze off, you're brought out of your thoughts by the sound of him softly snoring above you. Stifling a giggle, you raise your head slightly to place a tender kiss to his neck before nuzzling back into it.

Breakfast could wait.

rough day | copia x reader

This is a ficlet for my dearest @leezlelatch ♡♡

(around 1.4k words of fluff, female declinations used, Ao3 link)

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Just opening the door to your quarters is an effort that feels overwhelming after the agonising day you had. Swamped with work, the stacks on your desk never visibly dwindled even after hours passed, the light in your office fading to the orange glow of sunset, then to the pale hues of the moon. Your energy had been spent long before you could even think about going home and now you’re drained, physically and mentally, so much so that your fingers slip from the doorknob multiple times, your arm falling weakly to your side.

You’re ready to just give up, to fall asleep right here and now. Frustrated to the point of tears you let your head fall against the wooden surface, the dull throbbing in your temples only growing and settling somewhere deeper in your skull – the first signs of an unsurprising headache caused by staring at screens and papers inside your stuffy office all day.

Suddenly the door opens and your crutch is roughly taken away from you.

“I thought I heard– Amore!” 

You practically fall against Copia who struggles to catch you in time, letting out a surprised mamma mia. His arms wrap around you protectively, firm hands pressing into your back, one of his knees pushing your body upward so you’re not sliding to the floor like a sack of potatoes. One of his legs hooks around yours to keep you upright and you curl against him like a shrimp, a snug, slightly awkward fit. You vaguely notice that he’s wearing an apron, the rough fabric at your nose smelling of fried onions and herbs. Your stomach gives a painful rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten anything substantial in hours – not since devouring the sandwich Copia had packed you for lunch in the two minute break you had allowed yourself around noon. Have a good day, amore, he’d written on the post-it note he always left in your lunch box. It was almost ironic, reading it on the brink of a nervous breakdown with tears in your eyes.

“Oh, povera topolina.” He makes a cooing sound, softly swaying from left to right. “Looks like you had a rough day, eh?”

“Hmm,” is the only sound you manage to produce, feeling the tears burning in your eyes for what must be the tenth time today. The tension won’t fully leave your body, not even here in his arms.

“Let your Papa take care of you, amore mio,” Copia whispers, his hands moving over your back in broad, comforting strokes. “I have food on the stove. Papa Secondo made fresh pasta today, too much for his own use, eh? I will cook some linguine for you, I already made your favorite sauce. Do you want to take a bath?”

“Think I’ll just shower,” you mumble, fearing you’ll just fall asleep in the bathtub once the exhaustion fully washes over you.

“Sì, sì, of course. I will turn on the water for you so it’s hot when you’re ready. Can you stand, tesoro?”

Reluctantly you allow him to untangle your limbs and when your tired bones lose their support, your body feels heavy and useless. Copia presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, allowing you to adjust to standing on your own again. But he never fully lets you go anyway, just helps you to the bathroom where he promptly turns on the water. He reaches for the hem of your shirt, deft fingers opening buttons, zippers, the hooks of your bra.

“You don’t need to–“

“But I want to, cara mia.” He chuckles to himself, a high-pitched hehe. “I’m your rock, baby.”

You can’t help but smile, feel the love for him starting to outweigh your anguish as that familiar warm feeling in your chest starts to blossom. Copia lets some of the hot water run over his hand to check the temperature, wriggling his fingers before shaking off the wetness, a few of the warm droplets hitting your bare skin.

“Perfetto. Can you do it alone or do you want my help, amore? I can wash your hair or–”

“I think I’ll just wash it tomorrow,” you interrupt. “Just a quick rinse and then bed.”

“Mhm. Whatever my amore needs tonight.” Copia presses a lingering kiss to your temple, to your cheek and then to your lips, his hand grazing the curve of your hip before he guides you under the water – not without a gentle smack on your butt. “I will finish dinner, sì? We can eat in bed if you want. You pick the movie you want to fall asleep to.”

“Are you sure–“

“I am sure. You let your Papa do his thing now, no more questions.”

His expression is stern in his genuine concern for you and you muster a reassuring smile, more for his comfort than for your own. As he exits the bathroom, you can hear him humming softly to himself until he's too far away and the water drowns him out.

Ten minutes later you step back into your living quarters, only to immediately be caught by Copia. He leads you to the bed you’ve been missing all day where he built a small nest with your favorite fuzzy blankets and a handful of soft pillows. Before you can comment he sits you down at the edge of the mattress to help you into a fresh pair of pyjamas, carefully pulling your limbs through the designated holes in the garments. He stamps two soft kisses on each of your wrists, lips lingering for a few precious seconds before he helps you settle into the sheets, only to leave for the kitchen again.

Your achy muscles finally dare to relax, surrounded by the cloud-like comfort of soft fabric on freshly washed skin, the smell of laundry detergent and lavender pillow mist surrounding you completely.

Copia reappears with two bowls right as you’re about to fall asleep, wearing his own pyjamas now, the steam of fresh food wafting over his arms as he hurries over to you like he’s walking on hot coals.

“Ow, quick it’s burning my hand,” he says and you scramble to help him before he can spill the vivid red pasta sauce onto the white sheets.

“That was so fast,” you comment, taking in the beautiful sight of Secondo’s fresh pasta, so neatly cut into linguine, cooked by your doting boyfriend. He’s been honing his culinary skills for the past months with all the loving devotion he felt towards you, promising to cook for you as often as his own busy schedule allowed. The smell of fresh basil and tomato tickles your nose and another rumble tells you that your hunger is still stronger than the need for sleep.

“Fresh pasta is quick, only takes a few minutes,” Copia says. “Now, you eat and get your energy back, amore. Buon appetito!”

You eat a first forkful as the love of your life settles into the sheets next to you and not only the taste of the flavourful pasta but the sheer comfort of a homemade meal fills your whole existence with love and gratitude. The feeling is overwhelming, a desperately needed relief, a warm ray of sunshine piercing the shadowy clouds you’ve been carrying all day. As you finish your pasta you feel another wave of tears overcome you.

“No lacrime, amore,” Copia says, grabbing your empty bowls to set them aside. “Or I have to kiss them away and you know how that tickles.”

You smile. “Maybe I want to be tickled. You’re so good at that, my love.”

Smiling, Copia pulls you close to him so you’re on eye level, wrapped up in the fuzziness of your blanket and each others warmth. You’re still tired but the feeling has lost its painful edge. You take in the sight of your handsome Papa, his tousled hair, his bare features with a few remaining traces of clumsily removed make-up here and there. Lifting one hand, you trace the lines on his face all the way down to his neck. He sighs, leaning into your gentle touch.

“You have pasta sauce on your shirt,” you mumble, eyes following the trail of tiny red dots on his chest to a slightly bigger stain.

Copia looks down at himself, using his finger to wipe the excess sauce away before he smears it onto the tip of your nose. “Oh, look, you have pasta sauce on your nose! One more reason to kiss your beautiful face, topolina.”

And he does. His lips caress every inch of skin they can reach, kissing away tears and sauce and all of your worries, only stopping when he feels your eyes closing. Your lashes tickle his lips as the echo of your giggles slowly fades out and you finally slip into a peaceful slumber.

You're in my Blood like Holy Wine

Your mom gifts you a tattoo gun for your birthday, and word spreads within the Ministry: even to Papa Emeritus the Fourth.

this is no-smut, pure indulgent fluff that ive been thinking abt since my mom gave me a tattoo gun last christmas ✌✌💖💖💖

word count: 6,610 warnings: none, descriptions of tattooing.

ao3 link!

It had all started when your mother sent you a tattoo gun for your birthday.

You haven't been here for very long, amidst the shine of marble floors and delicate tapestries interwoven with the history of Lucifer's Fall, His connection with Man, His ever-occurring acts with righteous Time through art, music, silver bells tied around those willing witch's jaunty ankles. The Black Chantry has been more than kind to you, even supported by your parents who believe it is a spiritual necessity to explore other religions, to become a pilgrim of something you believe is cosmically Right.

But you had trouble with making friends, so shared during those weekly phonecalls back home, and a difficulty truly finding your own nuance behind the leather-and-paper wall you had grafted for yourself into the quiet center of the Ministry's great library.

So henceforth, the tattoo gun. Something fun and creative to do, your mother had said, and so, you had used it: first on yourself, with little designs on your fingers, the bulbs of your knees; smallish things in fun, pretty designs that weren't too big, but things that meant something to you, privately and precious.

And then your acolyte Siblings had taken notice, during supper or sermons within the whispering pews, and you had shared the acquisition of your birthday gift. They had complimented your style, the tightness and the shape of the lines and the art, and asked if you could give them one, too.

You agreed. And word spread.

A few months went by in that cyclical trade of ink and lavender-scented ointment, and your own tattoos grew larger, bolder, your trembling, nervous hands growing still in your continuing confidence, and the gossip spread of your expanding capabilities: you yourself never willing to take cold, hard cash as retribution, but wonderfully affirmed for a potency of sacred Trade. A switch of janitorial duties here, an extra piece of your favorite cake there, all based on the size and artistic quality of the home-made tattoo done for new, true friends.

And then one of the ghouls came to you, the broad, stocky creature fondly dubbed "Aether" by the Siblings. He had asked for a sweet little grucifix on the outer webbing of his right hand, to flash the fans on tour when he would perform his guitar tricks. He had offered to teach you some of those tricks as his payment, and you had spent the evening talking and laughing and mimicking his playing when the tiny tat was done quickly, the ghoul leaving your room with a chipper, fanged-tooth smile and a happily-wagging tail behind him.

And that brings you here– nestled again and beautifully comfortable in the back corners of the library, in a plush, leather chair; reading up on the artistic styles of 13th century manuscripts for inspiration, the beloved Clavis Artis– when Papa Emeritus the Fourth comes to call.

"Eh," comes a familiar sound, nearby to you; making you blink from those gold-hammered words and the too-wide mouths of thrice-headed dragons. "Ah. Hello?"

Your head perks up from the tome, held heavy and wide in your lap, to spy your Papa, full-faced and adorned in his glory of black ruffles, ratty pants, and cerulean-blue cravat, some feet away from your chosen chair. He waves bashfully. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Papa!" you greet cheerfully; immediately floored that the Head of the Satanic Papacy is speaking to you, directly. "How goes?"

"Ah! It goes good." He nods enthusiastically, and the leather of his gloves creaks as he fiddles with a soft folder of brown leather, a professional piece borne from suitcases and gilded inkpots. "Is this seat taken?" And he points to a dual chair of the same make, notched in front of yours to enthuse conversation.

"Oh, please! Of course," you wave, and he beams gratefully and takes the seat, the leather creaking as he sinks into it with a muffled murmur of comfort. You exchange polite beams, flabbergasted and blinded by the pleasant wattage of Papa's endearingly buck-toothed smile. What the fuck is happening.

"What are you reading?" he asks politely.

"Oh, um," you begin eloquently, and fold closed the book to show the cover. He makes a soft sound of deep appreciation. “Fantastic work. Are you studying?” he asks kindly, leaning softly his upper body to connect with you.

“Sort of?” you answer hesitantly. “I’m– yeah, I’m studying, I’ve been looking at how the lines flow in the drawings. The–” And your throat bobs: you’ve yet to have an actual conversation with the current Godphone of the Black Church, save for Communion, that tender placement of the hymns and the thin wafer placed upon your tongue, the warm lip of the gold chalice for the sacramental wine. “... the artwork of the dragons and the mermaids, the symbolism of vague powers. The color choices of the suns, and how sharp the hydras’ faces are drawn, with the little lines for their eyelids and lips. It’s all very pretty to look at, and something I’m … trying to emulate?” you explain, and Papa nods exuberantly; listening intently.

“Yes, eh, wonderful work!” he continues happily, his knee bobbing along in an anxious jilt. He clears his throat roughly. “Stunning glamor onto your personal path, yes. I’ve … heard you do more work?” he lilts, his voice pitching upwards, and you blink.

He is nervous, and he fiddles with that leather folder in his lap, as if waiting to include it onto this conversation. You tilt your head for more, eager to open wider this proverbial Door, and his throat bobs and Papa sighs through his painted nose.

“There is,” he begins slowly. “--a rumor that you are doing tattoos? For the other Siblings?” And your skin grows cold, your hands clamping white-knuckled reflexively at your tome.

“Am I in trouble?” you ask instantly, and Papa blinks rapidly, instantly waving his palms to soothe.

“No, no no no, not at all,” he’s sure to affirm gently, waving his hands hard enough to upset the ruffles linked at his wrist. “My ghoul– Aether,” he confirms. “-- speaks highly of your work, o-on his hand.” And he points to that same space over his glove; your eyebrows rising higher and higher with each pleasant inflection. “He talks about it so much that I think I could recite your entire conversation by heart,” he mentions dryly, purposefully, and you bark out a surprised, flattered laugh. It makes him smile, the gesture crinkling at those stark, harsh lines of his ritual paints.

“I’m glad he likes it!” you chirp, your face flushing, crossing your ankles to lean more closely to your Papa, to include yourself more clearly. “Did he want another one? Is he … asking through you?” you inquire, confused.

“Ah, no, not that I’m aware of?” Papa answers quickly. “But …” And he fiddles with the corners of his leather folder, and frankly, thrusts it towards you. “But I was hoping you could give me one? A tattoo?”

“Really?” you blurt, and take the folder to gawk. He smiles nervously, and you mirror it, and duck your chin to study that plain, dark brown folder. You flip it open absently, curious. “I-I’ve seen your artistry! Aether was very keen to include your talent, and your kind nature. How gentle you were with him,” he includes softly, and it makes you blush and turn shy, delicate in the way you stare up at your Papa through your lashes. You huff bashfully. “I-I … thank you, Papa.”

And professionalism comes as a needed glove, a tight, well-made piece of armor so easily grafted from these few months of writing and drawing and scouring the sleekness of human skin for permanent art, glorious in its starkness. You flip through those delicate pages, the interior of the folder come together as a meager sketchbook, and your eyebrows flex high, and higher, at the artistry drawn before you.

Reptilian skulls with bat wings and forked tongues, bulbous frogs with three eyes belching flame; ragged, corpulent rats with scarlet blood dripping from razor fangs. Terrifying and metal in comparison to the tender themes of your newish Siblings, but beautiful in the work of a true Artist. “This is gorgeous work,” you comment in a sudden blurt; unused to keeping emotional secrets, turning the page.

You see vampire bats with glowing eyes, grucifixes with lightning streaks, craggy trees holding a secret of vampiric teeth in the awning by the blackened roots. You laugh in proper delight. “Did you draw these?”

“I did,” he admits quietly, making your head snap up. And it is your Papa’s turn to huff bashfully. “I am fond of sketching. Do you know,” he says suddenly, shifting in his seat excitedly. “--that I designed my wardrobe, myself?”

“Well, that explains it,” you mention helpfully. You gesture to his outfit, the charcoal-dark ensemble, thinking of his sequins and tight silks on the stage. “The clothes you have in your repertoire have been immaculate. Gorgeous vividness of brilliant ideas,” you comment flippantly, and your Papa flushes hard, neigh visible past his black-and-white paints but burning profusely at his pointed ears, that patch of skin where the frills of his collar expose his throat. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and the endearing quality of this Great Throat of the Black Goat makes you beam, apple-cheeked.

“You’re welcome,” you say warmly, and continue to flip through the folder. “Which one would you like done?” you ask, keeping that cadence of sweet intimacy. You scoot closer to the edge of your seat, to offer half the folder open to him. He follows you, borne along with an eager dance. “Which one would you like to have done first?” you reiterate.

And he hums, and gently takes the folder from you. He flips idly through those pages, soft placements, a divot forming between his painted brows in a soft, studious thought. He makes a sound of epiphany, suddenly, and offers it back to you with a pointed finger.

Along the exposed page is an intricate, yet simple drawing of a rodent’s skull, its unhinged jaw opened wide with its jutted teeth, and with a ribbon intertwined through its yawning eyeholes and around its naked scalp. A jittered script points to the ribbon with a jerky arrow, reading ‘blue!’. You awe audibly. “That is lovely,” you breathe, and Papa beams.

“I would like this one,” he says helpfully, and rings out the ruffles on his wrist, and pats pertly the space of his right forearm. “Here, please. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer cheerfully. You shift the folder to study this drawing, furrow-browed; thinking of inks and the shades of the bends beneath the rodent’s eye sockets, that soft shadow where the opened jaw creaks. Of what color the blue ribbon could truly be. “Is this blue the same as your cravat?” you ask, pointing helpfully.

“Yes!” he answers eagerly, fiddling with that silky clothe.

And your head bobs in an excited nod. “I can do this,” you affirm cheerfully, and share joyous beams with your Papa. “When would you like this done?” you ask seriously.

“Oh, well.” He fiddles with that cravat, with the thick ruffles dripping from his sleeves. “When would you like this done?”

“My schedule is more open than yours, I’m assuming, Papa,” you try to defer, but Papa waves this away and bids you more comfort. “Copia,” he says, bobbing his gloved palms. “Please. You are il maestro artista here; I am merely a willing participant.” And the blessed eon that you can call him by his first name makes you titter, both nervous and buoyant. You blow out air in a studious pause.

“Tomorrow evening?” you offer gamely, and Papa– Copia bobs his head in an eager nod, cupping his hands together. “Tomorrow evening,” he repeats softly, and beams with all his teeth, and you cannot stop yourself from simpering openly.

He is so cute, so impossibly precious.

“I’ve heard that you don’t accept cash,” he offers, as you close his folder carefully, giving it back to him. You nod absently. "I'll need a copy of that drawing," you interject. "So I don't ruin the original." Copia nods quickly.

"Um, no, I don't accept coin. I work in trade," you explain gently.

“Of course, perfettamente,” he mimics amiably, and behind his paints that endearing wrinkle as he raises his eyebrows beseechingly. He opens his gloved palms to you, his folder held safely within his lap. “What would you like, then, in trade?”

And you think about it, staring off into space, your lips pursing in this quiet pondering. Copia waits patiently, and a heady blush forms where his eyes stare, drinking you in at the corner of your eye. You breathe deeply; flustered by his attention, and it comes to you.

You look back to him, worried. “I’m not sure if what I want could get you in trouble.”

“Ah,” he breathes, leaning back into his chair. “Then it is a good one. What is it?” he inquires.

“The incense,” you state. “That is held in the thurible during Mass. Is that possible?” you ask carefully.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, and grins at you, pleased and purring. 

You grin back at him, your nose wrinkling, your eyes twinkling; that delicate manuscript within your lap forgotten.

Tomorrow evening. Tomorrow and tomorrow, and you spend the rest of the day fretting and screaming and shrieking into your pillow inside the privacy of your single room. Papa Emeritus the Fourth wants you to ink his tattoo, and in speculation of the artistry, something he drew, himself, and something that holds personal significance, by the particularity of the rodent's skull and the prettiness of that spiraling ribbon.

You are freaking the fuck out.

You fall back into professionalism: setting your shoebox of your inks and widgets and sketch papers onto your meager coffee table, a thrift find when one of your clients– now one of your many friends, blessed connection– had dragged you into town for more furniture and quality time, how wonderful this expansion of the Arts. Your mother had blessed you with human connection, that need to share stories and laughter and gaiety of personal inflection, human individuality. Your shoebox keeps that mechanical toy, the foot pedal and the tiny, digital motor to have it run, and the replacement needles and the plastic slip of fake skin with which to helpfully practice.

You doubt you’ll need to practice at this rate, but it’s nice to have for those unique cases. You plan coffee and an accouterments of snacks, and remember a rumor that Papa Copia likes juice, in any form. You snatch small packets of powdered fruit drinks from the kitchens, sneaking tart-and-sweet pastries that could be refrigerated and eaten fresh.

And you’re still freaking the fuck out.

You think about it in bed, pajamas swathered across your showered body and swaddled in your blankets, staring up at the ceiling with the crickets chirping sweetly past your cracked window.

Copia wants you to do his tattoo. Copia asked you to call him by his first name. Copia, Our Papa with the buck-toothed grin, stared intently at your reaction as you had flipped through his personal sketchbook.

You squeal to yourself, loudly, squirming giddily within your bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy to you tonight.

Thankfully your chores for the next day are nonexistent, and it gives you better time to ground yourself over this fantastic impossibility, gossip and idle fancies with your friends in the gardens, in the library, shadowed in nooks for prayer and delicate candles with golden, sacred light.

And everything is ready, the fridge is full with treats and drinks, the juice stirred with plenty of sugar to chill.

Your dishes are clean and put away, all your laundry is folded; you even vacuumed. Your shoebox of assortments are spread out along your coffee table, the pharmaceutical bottle of alcohol and a fresh bolt of paper towels are set meticulously beside the notebook of your tracing paper.

You're still skittish, still trembling with excitement and nerves, so you decide to put on a record. Joni Mitchel's Blue album croons harmoniously in your living room when your door playfully knocks, five times, in a rhythm with which you're vaguely familiar. Shave and a haircut?

You guffaw despite yourself, and jog gently to meet him at the door.

"Two bits? Oh!" A clean-faced Copia greets you at the door, borne in his red, soft-looking tracksuit and his brown leather wingtips. His hair is shiny and smelling like his heady aftershave, that faintest scent of fresh roses, and he holds a small bouquet of delicate, pink roses, his leather folder held primly under his arm. He beams as he sees you. "Hello!" he greets, and offers the flowers cheerfully to you.

"Hi!" you greet, and feel dizzy, soft and adoring as you take the bouquet gently from his gloved hand. "These– are these for me?"

"Eh, yes," he admits bashfully, and leans his weight from foot to foot. You stand aside and open your door wider for him to come inside. "Do you like them?"

"I love them," you say softly, and he beams wider, clean-shaven and meticulous in his fresh eye paints. He is careful as he steps inside your room, making soft noises of concern and thought before he bends down near your kitchy welcome mat; shifting his folder better under his arm to untie his shoes. You bring the flowers under your nose, smothering them to you to hide your blushing face.

"Here: make yourself comfortable," you gesture finally, to the soft comforter of your couch and your living space, Joni singing sweetly to give the aura of a swoony romance plot. You break into nervous titters, and Copia feeds on your anxiety; laughing with you, standing straight; shoes removed. "Ah, thank you. I … I am not sure what you would like to do?" he states, inflection making his voice high.

You flap your free hand to your couch, encouraging him. "Please, this is your time, your moment." And Copia's breast inflates minutely. "Make yourself at home, and maybe even find a movie? Or some music you'd like." You point to your record player, your stack of records beneath it, and your beloved stash of movies, DVDs, and even some VHS tapes in their campy sleeves beneath your simple television.

Copia makes a precious sound of happy discovery, placing his folder delicately upon your coffee table, next to your tattoo kit splayed out onto its surface, looking curiously at this display; studying your meager room of your posters, your decor, your color choices of furniture and carpets, crouching down finally in front of your stack of movies. You wince when both of his knees audibly pop, but you politely make no mention of it.

You remove yourself into your small kitchenette, making yourself busy with a fresh pot of coffee, and a vase for your new flowers.

You smother a giddy squeal and press your face once more into those perfumed blooms. How sweet, how sweet is your goofy Papa. You hear him deliberate with your stack of movies, those heartsongs for boring evenings or moments where you had needed a thick blanket and a goodly portion of nurturing ice cream, and you try to steady your nervous hands as you find and fill a pretty vase with tap water; taking two random mugs from your cupboard, peeking your head past your kitchenette's frame to discreetly spy on him.

He looks like the statue of "The Thinker", to you: you cannot see his face, only the smooth waves of the back of his head as he crouches on one knee in front of your entertainment stand, his chin at his fist; holding and staring hard at a DVD case, with which you cannot see the title from at this angle. You smile brilliantly when you spy his socks, a repeating print of red-eyed rats and carved jack-o'-lanterns across a deep blue background, twinkling with flying bats shining with glitter glue.

Adorable man, by Baphomet's Love.

"Copia?" you try, and it makes him start, spinning on his knee to find you; grasping tightly at the DVD. "How would you like your coffee?"

"Oh!" he starts, standing up, placing his palm on his knee for balance. "Three sugars, please. Do you have milk?" he asks politely.

"I do. I also have creamer." You obnoxiously eye the DVD in his hand, and he looks at it as if surprised, then holds it up in both hands to better show you the cover.

You melt when you see the familiar poster of Almost Famous. "That is the perfect choice, I love this movie."

"Really?" he chirps, looking at it curiously; following behind you as you divvy back to your sink and dual coffee mugs. "I've never seen it before. I-I haven't had the time," he stutters, and laughs breathlessly when you beam at him, blushing up to the tips of his pointed ears.

"Then this is a gorgeous moment for new things! I'm excited for you!" you cheer, and he beams with you, all flushed face and riddled in freckles and goofy front teeth. You titter gleefully at each other. "Is this your first tattoo?" you ask. You dally with the coffee, precious mugs of steaming gold; adding the appropriate amounts of sugar and a bit of creamer from your fridge.

"Nope!" he answers brightly, watching you, fidgeting with the dvd case. "This is, eh, only my second tattoo." And without preamble, he pulls down the neck of his shirt, using the heft of his breast to expose that patch of ink to you.

You’re momentarily blinded by the beauty of his frantic bush of brown-and-salt hair, thrown in your eyes like fresh glitter, before your sight sharpens to sight that curling, looping bit of ink atop his left breast. “Oh, shit!” you call, leaning to squint at that perfunctory sign of the Mark of the Beast, that spiraling 666 that wraps around itself like a warming snake, three sets of three sixes. You bark bright, enchanted laughter; Copia’s cheeks apple in his pleased grin. “That is gorgeous work! That is the coolest thing,” you geek, awefully.

“Thank you!” Copia beams, and there’s no trembling hand nor nervous twitch in that proud flash of his naked breast, the barest glimmer of his pale areola peeking out over the stretched neck of his shirt. “It’s from my favorite movie. The Omen?” he offers, and you bob your head in an uproarious nod. “Yes! I know that movie! That is so cool,” you breathe, and you try to be professional; hiding your salivating– which, you would argue, is perfectly natural, in front of the bare titty of Papa Emeritus the Fourth– and study the simplistic artistry of the tattoo itself.

“The linework is sleek and even, and it doesn’t even seem scarred,” you mention amiably, and bob your head in an excited nod. A blush has spread across Copia’s paint-naked face, and the youth upon his expression from his proud, eye-crinkling beam is more vibrant than the glittering sun.

He giggles sweetly and covers up his breast, patting his little personal beauty over the shirt. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and the string connecting you both feels like the possibility of flirting, pure and twinkling sweet.

Coffee is made and the DVD is deliberated to your entertainment stand, to your television; the record player switched off midway through Joni’s perfected croon. You forget the importance and the impossibility of this night as Copia nestles into your multi-colored couch, hugging one of your throw pillows in his arms as you sit next to him; feeling his curious eyes watch you and your hands as you go through the practiced motions of getting your gun and your paints and pieces together for this new ink.

“I need to shave your forearm,” you mention suddenly: grateful that the kit has a disposable razor, with a smallish bottle of lotion to ease the slide. He perks up. “I already have!” he says, pulling up his sleeve to expose clean skin, riddled with delicate freckles. “I remember from my first time that it helps with the ink, so that the hair does not get in the way,” he says sheepishly, and you prevent the urge to clap giddily.

“You are quickly becoming one of my favorite clients,” you say happily, which makes him bark bright laughter and to cuddle tighter into your throw pillow. You’re too focused on your work to give him a better conversation, hoping that he finds comfort in your couch and aura and sweet-smelling incense you’ve decided to burn to give a better ambiance, and you see that he does.

In the corner of your eye, as you click the remote to start the movie, you see him shift and unclothe from the top half of his sweatwear, broad shoulders and pectorals moving smoothly as he undresses from his velvet jacket; rumpling it beside him and baring that delicious strength of his biceps and naked forearms beneath his tight shirt, bursts of aging hair married to his skin like rosebushes within Papa Primo’s sacred gardens.

You’re going to die here: you confer with his leather folder, tapping your finger to it and looking at him for confirmation. He nods warmly at you, nestling again into your couch.

"So when did you get your first tattoo?" you ask, as you trace that copied sketch of the memento mori onto transfer paper; as Alvin and the Chipmunks sing about Christmas amidst scenes of palm trees on your television screen. Copia snorts, crossing his legs beneath him in that dual attention of both the movie and you.

“Secondo,” he says, and you stop and look at him, your shocked eyebrows raised high. “It was my thirtieth birthday, and he wanted me to, eh, ‘break out of my shell’.” He fingerquotes, and it makes you snicker in twin empathy. “-- which meant I had a choice between a tattoo, a piercing, or puking into a public toilet from alcohol poisoning.”

“A good time!” you snort amiably, and finish the drawing. You slip on a pair of medical gloves, non-latex and hypoallergenic, and douse a hefty wad of paper towel with that helpful bottle of alcohol. “Why didn’t you get the piercing?” you ask curiously.

He hums in thought. “I wanted the tattoo at the time. I don’t know why I haven’t pierced anything yet.”

“I could probably help with that, too,” you offer amiably, not thinking. He chortles playfully and bounces his eyebrows at you, his face puckering in suppressed laughter. “I may take you up on that, artista carina.”

You shift closer to him, blushing and flustered, sitting sideways on the couch to face him, but before you reach for his arm in that remembered phrase and movement, you look up to him sharply. “I’m going to be pulling on you and moving you around,” you explain sheepishly. Copia’s eyebrows rise in interest. “Not really … man-handling, but something in relation to get angles and corners drawn on properly for you.”

“I understand,” he says kindly, and pats the exposed skin of your forearm; letting his hand linger, his gloved thumb rubbing along your skin as he stares at you deeply. You feel half-stunned as his white eye, glowing, amorous Orb, makes your internal spirit quiver. “I trust you. I lay myself within your capable hands, nostro straordinario artista.”

Your breath comes out in a wheeze; grinning, bewildered and mystified through the phrase, and you clean his forearm. Brusque, diligent, practiced movements. You can do this.

You place the second layer of the tracing paper delicately over Copia’s cleaned forearm, mindful of the tacky ink and spreading it over his skin with the tips of your fingers until the entirety of the drawing is pressed down, then, you remove slowly, carefully, the thin sheet of paper. The glaring holes of the rat’s skull stare up at the beholder, that transparent ribbon woven through its maw and teeth and framing that skull perfectly, asymmetrical, and you beam in a pleased victory. “Looks good?” you ask.

Copia looms over it curiously, and his grin is great, flattered and pleased. “It’s perfect,” he breathes, and wiggles a little on your couch. “I am so excited for this. Grazie mille.”

“You’re welcome,” you mention warmly, and finally combat your gun into your gloved hands. The movie plays on, Simon and Garfunkel framing this miraculous moment in its precious palms, and you dip the needle into the black ink to begin. You start the first line to test boundaries, the willingness of his skin and his pain threshold, and Copia gives a happy thumbs-up when you glance over to sight his reaction.

You borne yourself fully into the tattoo, drawing the lines and spreading certain parts of his skin taut with your free hand where it grows soft and bouncy, from age and a life of comfort and physical pleasure, food, luminous Sloth.

“This is a good movie,” he comments, as you fret the lines and almost frown in this study of your work. You smile without looking at him; thoughtful in those studious curves and workmanship to make his lines dark and even. “I grew up on this movie,” you murmur thoughtlessly, and feel the animal burn again when his eyes direct onto your stern face. You bounce your eyebrows playfully. “It adds a warm romanticism to the rock-and-roll era, when my parents played records and cassette tapes in my childhood. It’s my comfort flick,” you say happily, and you glance up at him shyly.

He watches you warmly, the Papa hearing his pilgrims. “It feels like history is repeating itself,” you continue, close to babbling before that searing gaze. “I grew up with acoustic guitars and harmonized singing, The Rolling Stones and Janis Joplin, and now I’m here,” you say. You twitch your wrist to get the corners of the artwork just right, slanting jerks and hilts to really get the rodent’s teeth to sit still and symmetrical. “Religious music and crowds singing to the gods. Folks throwing horns amidst sweat and lit lighters.” And you cackle, and lean over to your table to dip the needle again into the ink, refreshing it. “It … this place, it feels like home, to me.”

And Copia makes a sigh, a fond, precious sound, like a butterfly’s wing flapping along a Spring breeze. “I am so very happy to hear that,” he says softly, warmth within his eyes. “But, cara mia, I must confess: I’m surprised you did not speak more to me, beyond Our Communion.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit bashfully, using your thumb to make his skin tight, tatting the acorn-shaped nose hole. “You are so very important, and so busy, I’d assume, and I’ve never … been very good at talking to people. Of making friends.” And like a raindrop married back into the pond, the reason for your tattooing. A cyclical answer.

“Would you call me your friend?” he asks eagerly, and you’re so startled you stop tatting, staring up at him.

“Would you like to be my friend?” you rebute slowly, bewildered, flattered. He grins wide and nods, boisterously, the movement moving slightly his slicked hair. His eyes are eager and earnest, terribly so, and you had laid his arm into your lap to better bring him to your eyes; his hand grasps you on your thigh, the latex of his glove shifting the hair there. “I would,” he murmurs profusely, and you’re stranded on the island of your own disbelief.

“Then, you are my friend,” you simply, dumb in heart-warmth, and his beam widens up into the corners of his eyes, crinkling beneath his paint. You can see the slight sliver of his pink gums in his grin. He nods once, firmly, playfully.

You ink the rest of the rodent’s skull without immeasurable surprises, easy with that practiced slide and the rhythmic chant of “patience, patience” within your head, and half-way in the movie Copia’s skin begins to swell, delicate red, puffy skin preventing you from continuing. You pause, stopping the gun’s motor. “Break time,” you breathe, and Copia mues his mouth and flexes his hand, lifting his forearm to better see the art. His face breaks out into a stunning grin.

“Looks good!” he chirps, and it makes you smile, beamed and bashfully, flattered; stretching out your limbs and popping joints from that tight position on your couch. “I need to give you an ice pack,” you say, slinking off from the couch; cracking your back as you move back into your kitchenette.

“We can keep going after your skin cools down!” you call.

“Good for me!” he calls back. “This is fun! You really are a lovely host.”

“Oh, flatterer,” you snort, sorting in your freezer.

“Truther! This is all so comfortable.” Ice pack in hand, wrapped in a rag, it’s an animal flex of contentedness to find your Papa moaning softly as he stretches, stretching his long legs beneath your coffee table, his socked toes wiggling in an animal ease. A domestic sort of happiness blooms in your chest to see him snuggle deeper into your couch, eyeing your inked work with a growing expression of private satisfaction. He nods in a thank you as he takes your offered ice pack, pressing it gingerly onto that tender skin.

“I never asked,” you start, bouncing down into your couch, grabbing a bag of pretzels from your table. “What’s the symbolism behind this tattoo? Is it just because it’s pretty, or …?” you wave your hand, resting your check against the back cushion to watch him. You bounce your eyebrows meaningfully. “Is there something tied to it?”

“There is something tied to it,” Copia alludes, sipping at his lukewarm coffee. He makes a pleasurable hum. “It is the skull of my first rat, my little baby, the first one I ever had. Ophelia,” he murmurs, and pain and love radiates within his duochrome eyes. Your heart melts, and a little “aw” slips out from your mouth. He ducks his chin to his chest. “So named because everytime I looked at my shoulder, there she was. She was very sociable, and very affectionate. Mia dolce piccola bambina,” he murmurs, and lifts the ice pack to sight again that ink. He smiles at it lovingly.

You press your palm to that space above your own heart. “I am honored to ink this gorgeous work for you, Copia. That is precious to hear; I hope I’m doing her proper justice,” you murmur.

“You are,” he assures eagerly, and it makes you wiggle with flattery, biting your lip in this stunning grin.

He’s flattering you, he brings you flowers, he makes you laugh! He watches you as if you’re a painting, a gorgeous piece of a new puzzle, and you make him laugh whilst you recite your favorite quotes of the movie; jamming out to the songs and the beauteous scenes of clothes and artwork, and he points out and makes mention of wardrobe inspiration: things from the seventies, bell-bottom pants, snarking about his Old Man and how he could never wear anything this well, not like him.

His skin dims down from its inflammation and you continue onto the artwork, and Copia even helps with the color of the ribbon: bringing out that same, brilliant cravat from the pocket of his sweatpants! You treat it like a fragile teacup, infinitely mindful to keep that spreading ink away from the thin fabric as you mix colors for the correct hue.

“Have you ever seen Star Wars?” he asks obviously, as you dally with the finality of the ribbon and her colors. You snort brusquely. “I have not,” you answer shamefully, and it deepens when Copia gives you a truly baffled look. “I know, I never had the time. That seems like a common excuse,” you mention suddenly.

“We need to fix that. Immediately,” he says, final in acquisition.

“We do?”

“Yes, that is an important moment in media history. Those movies are a relic of human history, how have you not seen them?” he inquires bewildered, unbelieving. You guffaw at his fixation, and the ribbon is nearly done.

“I know of them!” you refute, laughing, and the ribbon is frayed at the end; you gently stray off the lines, blue and black and sweet white to interweave like real threads upon his freckled skin.

"I think this is done," you mention happily, and Copia perks up, looking at his arm as you put down the gun; conferring now with the paper towels, dabbling the alcohol to carefully wipe it down.

He winces from the burn of the alcohol, but nothing can diminish the sunshine beam across his naked face. He’s so giddy with this perfected artwork that he cannot suppress the wiggle, moving his hips like an excited pup even as you spin open a homemade bottle of healing salve to carefully massage into that newly-wounded skin. “This is beautiful,” he breathes, patting your kneecap, infectious in his glee. Your laugh bubbles out from you, twining with his joy. You release his arm finally, and he turns and twists it in front of his eyes to better admire the new, shining artwork. “Oh, Ophelia would love this, this is stark and so beautiful, nostra bella artista. Grazie,” he chokes, and his glee manifests in gleaming jewels, precious tears, at the corners of Copia’s painted eyes.

You breathe out a coo and hold your fists to your breasts, caught in his tender emotions. “I’m so glad, Copia, I’m so glad I could make this a reality for you.” You both laugh in wet sounds, threading together like red rope, and the forgotten movie sings of Tangerines and Dreams, shadowy flows and black glows, the credits rolling through snapshots of that great, rock-and-roll adventure.

Next comes the awkwardness of finality: rising to meet each other in frenetic energy, eager glances, mismatchings of future plans. You leave your pieces on the table, willing to put them away later; you walk Copia to the door, the both of you hesitant to leave this comfortable space.

“I think,” he says, suddenly, tying up his shoes. “-- we should have a movie date.” He looks up at you with raised brows. “I have all the Star Wars?”

Your heart speeds up; standing with him to escort him politely, fiddling with your hands. Your soul lifts with that need to spend more time with him. “Yeah!” you confirm exuberantly. Copia grins, relieved and excited, and your expressions are mirrored in this sweet glee. “I’d love that! You could finally educate me on movie history.”

“Yes!” he agrees, and stands, shoes tied. He hesitates for a moment, his arms shifting as if … and they raise slightly, and give the universal body language of asking for a hug, Copia’s expression drawn curious and delicately vulnerable. You bounce on the balls of your feet, and accept his hug without question, enfolding him in warmth as you are wonderfully enfolded.

He smells like spice and incense, coffee and roses; you sink into his embrace and the soft velvet of his sweater, holding your palms to his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath your palms. He hugs you tightly, breast to breast, enclasping you with a soft sound of pleased surprise. You rock together gently, feeling his contented smile pressing onto your temple.

“Thank you for today,” he murmurs, and it makes you smile wider, purring, resting your chin to his shoulder. “You’re welcome,” you say softly, and feel your heart pound, growing three more sizes in red, romantic ribbons.