Ibi May All Your Days Be Filled With The Same Love That You Write With And The Same Comfort Your Words Bring To Others - Tumblr Posts
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.
