The Band Ghost Fanfiction - Tumblr Posts

Terzo x F Reader - Spanking, Degradation, Breeding

Thank you katfish__ on Twitter for bringing my words to life! Check out her full NSFW version here.

**WARNING for explicit content below**

One Missed Text

Summary: You haven’t returned Papa’s text! - or did you? Well either way he’s very upset with you for seemingly ignoring him, and he intends on teaching you a lesson in manners.

CW/Tags: male masturbation, spanking, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (P in V), rough sex, degradation, possessive behavior, breeding, blood, aftercare, spit kink

Word Count: 3.3K

Author’s Note: Happy Valentine’s Day, lovelies! I’m bringing back an older fic of mine from AO3 that I haven’t posted here before. I hope you enjoy it!

Poring over text, you sighed. Sister would have your head if you didn’t complete your work by Friday. You were searching for hours in the Unholy Books for references to give her on the week’s upcoming Black Mass sermon: gluttony. That was not nearly as exciting as lust – unless, of course, you were gluttonous for a slice of your beloved. Speaking of, Terzo had not returned your last text message. You were hoping for a midday romp to break up the monotony of the day’s tasks.

You were both teasing each other throughout the day, as you often did on the most boring days to keep each other entertained during the endless meetings and duties. The other Siblings would tease you when they saw your face light up. “Another text from Terzo?” they would ask, knowing full well the answer. What was the subject matter of those messages?…well, that was a secret after all.

“Please…” he had begged through text today (mixed with several undecipherable emojis) after you sent him a quick nip slip photo. “I must have you. Come to me.” That was over two hours ago.

“Name the time and place,” you responded. You saw the text bubbles indicating he was typing, over and over, until they finally disappeared. Frustrated, you tossed your phone back into your purse and continued perusing the books. It felt like forever had gone by. You picked up your phone again just to check for a notification. Nothing. And it had only been 5 minutes. He was so eager before…what happened?

…

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, Terzo was pacing back and forth in his office. He stared at his phone, no notifications staring back at him as if mocking him. He huffed and put his phone back in his pocket, and paced around some more, continuously pulling out his phone every 30 seconds.

His dearest had sent him the most salacious photo (which he immediately saved to his photo roll)…and he felt the heat rising in his trousers. Thank Lucifer he had no more meetings so he could fuck your brains out in his office.

He had responded to your last text inquiring the time and place, “Now. My office, ovviamente. Where else potrei scoparti in pieno giorno cosi forte da dimenticarti il tuo nome?” but you had not responded and he was growing more and more frustrated by the minute. Was the last text too much? Surely not; you had fucked in every scenario before – slow, fast, loving, passionate… aggressive. Maybe you weren’t feeling his assertive tone today? Oh, how he hated the increased paranoia and anxiety that came along with being in love; it drove him mad.

He opened up his camera roll, where he saved all your cheeky photos to his ‘hidden’ album. Texting the password to the album with his left hand, he started to thumb the erection forming in his pants. He leaned back in his office chair and kicked his legs up on the desk, scrolling through the photos while unbuckling his belt and undoing his pants with his right hand. He grabbed a few tissues from his desk and tossed his head back, imagining your mouth on him as he stroked himself faster and faster.

…

It was nearing 5 o’clock and you still had not heard from him. The day was over, and you decided to take up the Siblings’ offer of joining them for dinner and drinks. You headed over to the mess hall and grabbed a bite to eat, chatting with them over a pint and trying to enjoy Ghoul karaoke night (Alpha was “performing” in a series of barking and hissing). You felt a bit dejected, drowning your sorrows in French fries and lager, but tried to brush it off – figuring Terzo got busy during the day. Ever since he had been anointed Papa you saw less and less of one another.

You decided instead of feeling angry, you would reward his hard work with the best fuck he had ever received. You downed the rest of your drink to give yourself a little extra liquid courage, waved goodbye to your friends, and headed back to yours and Terzo’s bedchamber.

When you walked in, you found him leaning against the dresser, cigarette in his mouth and lighter in his hand. Just before he lit up, he caught your gaze and rolled his eyes. You hadn’t realized but your demeanor had changed as soon as you saw the cigarette, your brow furrowing in disdain.

“Come to piss on the fun again?” he huffed, shoving the lighter and unlit cigarette back into his pocket and walking into the bathroom.

“What?” you asked incredulously, following him. (“Not in our room!” you exclaimed the last time he lit one up in bed with you post-coitus.)

“See what you make me do!” He fumbled around in the top drawer of the double vanity, pulling out a nail file, and began to file his nails a little too forcefully.

You stood in the doorway and propped yourself against the doorframe.

He pointed the nail file at you. “You left me hanging today, amore.”

“Me?” you asked, still incredulous at his lack of self-awareness today. “What about you? I was waiting all day for you to tell me where to meet you.”

“Amore!” he exclaimed again, throwing his hands up in the air. His anxieties were building up in him like lava. “So I’m the problem again? I told you to meet me in my office. I waited for you all day – you see how crazy you make me? I even had to take care of this myself – ” He motioned down to his pants, a small tent already formed in his trousers.

You looked down and smiled at the sight. You couldn’t help feeling a little amused. In a way you felt powerful to have such an effect on him.

“Oh you think it’s funny, eh? Well we’ll see how you like being punished for such insolence.”

“Terzo my love, I was waiting for your response all day,” you assured him, but he wasn’t having it.

He exclaimed something unintelligible in Italian under his breath, throwing his hands into the air again then continuing to aggressively file his index and middle fingernails on his right hand. His face turned mischievous as he eyed you out of his peripheral. He turned to you and asked, “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Your face blushed instantly as you knew where his mind was headed. The arousal that had been building up between your legs all day suddenly came trickling down your thighs.

“Don’t act so innocent, amorina,” he said with a smirk. “I know you like to tease and brat, but I expected you to behave today.” He walked around you slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.

You gulped. “Check your phone,” you piped up. He rolled his eyes once more in response. You reached forward, trying to get to his pocket, but he easily swatted your hand away. “Check it!” you urged. “I would never leave you unanswered.”

He seemed skeptical but pulled out his phone and went to his messages. “Oh,” he said, suddenly changing tone. “It appears I did not hit ‘send.’”

“See?” you said triumphantly, trying to get past him to look at his screen, his futile attempts to keep you from looking failing. He tried to erase the message quickly but you read it just in time, blushing again at what he would’ve sent you.

He shook his head as if shaking off the embarrassment of his unnecessary theatrics. “This changes nothing. You should have known where to come and to obey me as soon as you saw the last message.”

You smiled at him, amused that he did not yet have the poise nor the patience that his older brothers had as head of the Satanic Church. He might’ve had a few forehead wrinkles, but sometimes he reminded you of a younger man. He certainly had the impetuousness and stamina of one.

You stepped back into the room, hooking one leg seductively over the leather armchair in the corner, exposing your upper thigh through the slit in your habit. “That’s right,” you said, running with his game. “I was so disrespectful to not heed your call right away.” You took off your veil, tossing your hair back and running your hands through it to smooth down the flyaways.

As you were busy trying to look as seductive as possible, he slid right up next to you, his hand reaching through the slit in your habit. He inhaled the scent of your hair and groaned under his breath, his hand pawing at the hem of your panties. His hand trailed against the cloth, feeling your wetness already saturating it.

“I thought of you all day,” you whispered against his neck, feeling his breath on your cheek, the smell of his spearmint gum washing over you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders affectionately.

“I can tell,” he said. His touch could be so soft and delicate – when he wanted to be – he had already snuck two fingers past the hem of your panties at your entrance. He brought his hand up his under his nose, thumbing your slick in between his fingers. He turned you around roughly and unzipped your dress in one motion. He tore the fabric off you, exposing you in nothing but your bra and underwear.

“Take them off,” he said, gesturing towards your panties. You obeyed swiftly, and tossed them to the side, wearing nothing but your bra now. As you did that, he took off his belt and kicked off his shoes. He folded his belt and snapped it, almost threateningly.

You eyed the belt from the side, your arms steadying you against the armchair. He had never used a belt on you before; you were only used to the palm of his hand, and he was usually quite gentle.

He saw the glimmer of fear in your eyes and came up behind you, placing the belt on the arm of the chair beside your elbow. “I’ll be gentle for today, amore,” he assured, slipping his hand between your thighs, teasing your wet entrance again. Instinctively, your shoulders relaxed and you sighed, relieved.

“But still you must be punished, no?” He took your chin in his free hand, forcing your face to the side, closer to his lips. You nodded in his hand, moaning slightly as his fingertips roamed around, pushing inside your entrance teasingly. “You see how horny you make me, mmh?” he whispered into your ear, groaning on the last syllable. He pressed his clothed erection against your bare ass, his cock twitching in his pants.

“Open,” he commanded, squeezing your mouth open. He gathered up a wad of saliva in his mouth and spat into your mouth, then clamped your mouth shut again. “Swallow.” You gulped. “That’s Papa’s brava ragazza. You’ll do anything I say.”

You eagerly anticipated his next move, wanting to feel his warm seed rush inside you after waiting all day for him, while simultaneously wanting him to take his sweet time antagonizing you and denying you your pleasure.

“What is my punishment, Papa?” you asked enthusiastically, hoping for him to continue using you.

“I think naughty girls deserve to get spanked by their Papa, don’t you?”

You whimpered slightly and nodded, your chin still in his tight grasp. “Yes Papa,” you feigned lament, hanging your head slack in his palm.

He released his grasp on you and withdrew his fingertips from your cunt, and you slumped over the armchair, holding yourself up by your elbows.

“You disobeyed me today,” he said warningly, palming your ass forcefully – yet still softly – massaging the area before striking again. You nodded in agreement. He cracked his belt again for dramatic effect. Crack! This time the leather hit you harder than his hand, stinging your skin a little. CRACK. You moaned louder, feeling the pain more now. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you mia piccola puttana?” he laughed, sticking his middle finger inside your cunt and feeling more wetness trickle out. He took his finger out and wiped your juices on your back before continuing.

Relentlessly he continued, spewing various obscenities at you in Italian. “Who do you belong to, whore?” he kept asking. “You, Papa!” you would shout through stifled yelps. Every few strokes he would sneak in a gentle touch to your raw skin, soothing the redness.

“You come to me when called next time,” he said. “I do not have all day to wait for some filthy slut to pleasure me. Nor do I have the time to take care of myself day in and day out.” He threw the belt to the side, opting for a more personal touch.

You whined in agreement, preparing for the next strike.

SMACK! he spanked you harder with the palm of his hand. “Mmm!” you mumbled, your flesh throbbing. SMACK! he struck you again.

“I am in meetings all day tomorrow,” he continued as if he was not ruthlessly punishing you and just striking up normal conversation. SMACK.

“Ah! Mmm – then I will be waiting for you here when you return after a long day.”

“No, you’ll be on your knees like the good little slut you are,” he said. Smack!

“But Sister will see – ah! – and anyone else in the room – ” you began but he stopped you.

“Silence!” he hissed, striking your ass once more, even harder this time. “It’s time you put your whore mouth to use and show everyone who you belong to, who you worship.”

All you could do was nod in agreement as he struck you across the ass again. Your skin was raw and aching, and you longed for a more delicate touch. Almost as if reading your mind, it seemed Terzo had ceased the punishments – for now. You peeked behind you and saw him hurriedly take off his clothes. Soon he was undressed, and soothingly caressing the red skin on your rear.

“Are you well, amore?” he asked in dulcet tones, lulling you into relaxation. “I know that was rougher than usual.” He touched your back comfortingly.

You trembled, still holding yourself up against the armchair, but nodded assuredly.

“Good,” he said, inching closer. You could feel the head of his erection prod against your thigh as he leaned in close to your ear. “We aren’t through. Are you ready to be bred like a brood mare by your Papa?”

You gasped as he took you from behind and grabbed you roughly by the hips. He pummeled into you uncompromisingly and determined. There was no graceful entry like when you usually made love; this one was a furious desperation of a man who needed carnal pleasure immediately. “Fuck – Terzo!” you exclaimed, adjusting to his length.

“Take it, whore! That’s it, Papa’s little cum rag. So fucking tight, Lucifer – fuck – cazzo!” he grunted through rough thrusts. You were that tight because he had not worked you up enough in between your punishment and his pleasure. Eventually after a dozen thrusts, you acclimated to his rhythm and pushed back into his cock when he rammed into you. That drove him wild. He cried out an indiscernible, animalistic noise that turned into a laugh. “Oh fuck – Satanas you do it so good – fuck –”

It always pleased you to hear your usually eloquent Papa turn into someone who could barely speak, all because he was inside you, bewitched. Your head spun and face flushed as he continued to pound into you, gripping your hips tighter and tighter until you could feel a warm liquid drip down the sides of your thighs. He was still going – he hadn’t cum yet…

He hastily grasped around your neck and clutched at your breasts until firmly grabbing your shoulder with his left hand, holding you tightly in place, and you smelled iron. You glanced down at your chest and saw bloody fingerprints across your skin. Sticky and metallic, the sensation hit you, making you dizzy. His right hand trailed across your thigh around to your front, smearing more blood along your side to your front.

He deftly parted your labia and circled your clit with his fingertips, mixing your blood with your cum and using it to glide over your sensitive bud.

You moaned, unable to speak clearly. You continued clutching onto the armchair for support, feeling weak at the knees. “Yes – right there – ” you muttered as he delicately fingered you while ruthlessly thrusting into your cunt from behind. You cried out in passion as he hit your g-spot and you could feel your orgasm was close.

“Esatto, ecco la mia brava ragazzina. Vieni per me, mio angelo del peccato.” As he rammed into you with precision, his breathing quickened until he was moaning your name. “Ho bisogno di te, ho…bisogno – di – te,” he stifled, cock quivering inside you.

You shuddered under him, your body trembling as you came. Your body rocked against his chest and he kept his rhythm, never breaking away from his hold on you. You cried out in ecstasy and slumped forward further over the arm of the chair, spent and breathless.

Wasting no time, he grabbed onto your elbows to pull you closer and thrust into you harder and faster. “Your cunt will be full of my seed – fuck!” he said. You yelped, wanting to relax but he drove through you to his climax, his warm cum coating your walls and seeping out onto your thighs. He groaned, finishing out his high on three final slow thrusts, until he collapsed on top of you. The both of you lay in a crumpled heap on top of the chair for a moment, catching your breath.

“Merda!” he exclaimed, pleased. He kissed your shoulder blade then got up, pulling out of you finally. He crouched down beside you and tucked your now unkempt hair behind your ear. “How is la mia principessa, hm?”

You nodded and smiled, closing your eyes contentedly but unable to speak just yet.

“Ah shit,” he said, looking you over and realizing you were bleeding from where his nails dug in too tightly around your hips. He picked you up and threw you over his shoulder and took you into the bathroom, sitting you down by the bathtub.

“Ah,” you muttered, wincing. Your rear end was still throbbing from earlier and the cuts in your thighs were stinging.

He rummaged through the drawers and pulled out antiseptic, cotton balls, and bandages. He took a washcloth from the cupboard and ran it under the tap. He knelt down beside you and wiped away the bloody fingerprints all over your body. He wiped off the wounds on your thighs with such tender care you would not have guessed he was the same man fucking you senseless just moments ago. He put antiseptic on a cotton ball and swiped your cuts.

“Ouch!” you mumbled, the stinging overwhelming for a few seconds before subsiding.

“I am sorry I got overzealous, amore. You just make me so fucking crazy.” He opened the bandages and gently smoothed them over your skin, careful not to reignite the pain.

“It’s okay, love.” You smoothed back his hair and gazed lovingly into his eyes. He glanced down at your entrance, still leaking with his cum from moments ago. “It didn’t take,” you said.

“Mm?”

“I went back on the pill last week.”

“I know, tesoro. I saw the pill pack on the counter. It is fun to pretend.” He kissed your forehead.

Italian to English Translations

ovviamente (obviously)

[Where else] potrei scoparti in pieno giorno cosi forte da dimenticarti il tuo nome? (“[Where else] could I fuck you so hard in broad daylight you’d forget your name?”)

Amore (love/my love)

Amorina (love/sweetheart)

brava ragazza (good girl)

mia piccola puttana (my little slut)

cazzo (fuck)

Esatto, ecco la mia brava ragazzina. Vieni per me, mio angelo del peccato. (That’s right, my good little girl. Cum for me, my angel of sin.)

Ho bisogno di te (I need you)

Merda (shit)

la mia principessa (my princess)

tesoro (treasure)

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."

The Repugnant

Chapter Two: Setting Sail

Read Chapter One

Your father always warned you that you were too curious for your own good. After hearing rumors of the pirate ship The Repugnant in the area you snuck out of your father's villa to try and get a peek at the dreaded pirate and his crew of monsters. But what happens when Captain Mary Goore gets a peek of you first?

Mary Goore x Female Reader

Warnings: vampire!pirate!Mary Goore and special appearances by Copia and Terzo, vampire shenanigans, horror, violence, no one is dead but they're not exactly alive either so ye be warned, um canon accurate Terzo?, nsfw 18+only mdni, 2,500 words (thank you to @ghuleh-recs for the banner, collage and dividers!)

Your blood was on fire.

Mary had spent a few moments licking over your pulse, chuckling at your continued pleas to let you go.  At the first touch of their fangs your knees went weak and Mary settled more firmly against you to keep you upright.  The pain was blinding, making your mouth open in a silent cry as it seemed to build and build.  You had never felt pain like this before, never felt anything like this before.  Your hands clawed at Mary’s back but it was no use.

You were going to die in this alley.

As soon as the thought crossed your mind Mary pulled away.  You couldn’t stop the whimper that left you as his fangs pulled out of your neck.  Despite his bite only going on for a handful of moments it felt odd not to have them there anymore.  Like you were empty almost.  The feeling scared you, your mind wandering to the stories your nanny had told you about those that fell under a vampire’s thrall.

“A thrall?!”  Mary’s head whipped up, their eyes brighter than any ruby you had ever seen and their smile wide and dripping with your blood.  “That’s adorable.  Do you wanna be my thrall, little starfish?”

“I don’t want to be your anything.”

“You say that now but I bet I’ll change your mi–shit!”

Mary doubled over when you jammed your knee into his crotch.  Their grip lessened enough that you were able to shove them down onto the mist covered ground and escape past them.  You stumbled across the uneven cobblestones, desperate to at least get to the street.  If you got there you’d have a better chance of getting away and hopefully either finding somewhere to hide or one of your father’s soldiers.  

As you reached the end of the alley the mist became thicker and nearly impossible to see through.  Mary shouted behind you and you dared a look back right as you reached the street.  The only thing you could see were his red eyes glaring at you from the mist and you knew that would be something that would haunt your dreams for years.  You gasped when your foot got caught on a stone and you stumbled, bracing yourself to land hard on the ground except the ground never came.

“Steady now, ragazza.”  

The heavily accented voice drifted over you as you tried to steady yourself in the man’s grip.  You looked up to thank him, expecting to see a soldier but your words froze in your throat.  

There was nothing there.

“Wh-what…”  You tried to pull away from whatever had a hold of you but the grip was firm and a chill began to creep up your arms.  “Let me go!”    

“Yeah, Copia,”  Another chill ran through you but this had more to do with the monster now standing at your back.  “Let go of my snack.”

“You were supposed to bring her to the ship, idiota.”

“I’m working on it.”  Mary wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you back against their chest.  “Just got a little sidetracked is all.  Did her daddy get the note?”

“Sì, Phantom left it on his front door.”  

The hold on your arms finally disappeared and you quickly wrapped them around your waist.  Behind you Mary laughed and you whimpered when you felt their breath on the wound they left on your neck.

“What’s the matter, starfish?  Never seen a ghost before?”  Your eyes searched the mist before you, trying to make sense of what was happening.  A ghost?  “You have to focus now.  Just watch.”

As Mary spoke the mist before you seemed to get thicker, swirling and concentrating until it began to resemble a figure.  Your eyes trailed up from the cobblestones, taking in the man that was seemingly appearing from nothing.  He was still not entirely there, the building behind him visible through his body.  The only things that seemed solid about him were his green and white eyes and right now they were focused on you.  

“Ciao, bella.”

“Hey!”  Mary slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you securely against their chest.  “None of that, she’s mine.”

“I just said hello!”

“Yeah but that’s how it always starts.”

The ghost, Copia, rolled his eyes but you could see a hint of a smirk on his face.   

“We need to go.”  Copia took a few steps back, his form briefly disappearing into the mist before he was visible again.  “Before the spell wears off preferably.”

“Where are you taking me?”  You tried to dig your heels in but Mary was too strong, easily pulling you along as they began to walk down the street.  Ahead of you Copia’s eyes appeared off and on but he seemed mostly concerned with if anyone was following you.  “Are you…can I go back home?”

“Nope!  Someplace even better.”

Fighting was useless so you let Mary pull you through the streets.  There was random shouting around but you never caught sight of anyone else.  Occasionally Copia would disappear completely only to come back with blood dripping from a very real looking sword in his hand.  So many questions were building up inside of you but you kept your mouth shut until you finally saw your destination.

The Repugnant.

“No!”  You shoved at Mary with all your might, kicking at him when they lifted you into the air.  “Let me go!”

“Sorry, starfish.  You’re stuck with us for a while.”  Mary grunted when your foot connected with their knee, letting go of you with a curse.  “Copia!  Take her!”

You quickly looked up from where you had fallen onto the street, your eyes immediately meeting those of the ghost.  The moon peeked through the clouds and you were able to make out more of his face.  Hair that was blowing wildly around his head despite no breeze around, sideburns and then a mustache perched over a smug grin.

“Mi dispiace, bella.  Captain’s orders.”  

All the fight left you then and you didn’t say a word when the strange cold hands lifted you up onto your feet.  There was no telling what they’d do to you if you kept fighting them.  At least for now it seemed they were trying to get something from your father so perhaps you were safe for the time being.  You turned your head to look at Mary, shivering when you saw their ruby gaze on you.  The bite throbbed under his stare and you couldn’t help but press one of your hands over the still bleeding wound.

Maybe safe wasn’t the best word to use.

Mary started stalking towards you, their eyes glued onto your neck.  You shivered when they reached a hand out to pull yours away from the bite wound.  Copia muttered something behind you and Mary jerked their head towards the ship.  Mary’s grip tightened on your hand as the ghost disappeared, leaving only cold air behind you.

“Are you going to behave, little starfish?”  When you nodded weakly Mary smiled and licked their lips.  “Good.  I’d hate to have to tie you up.”  Mary brought your hand close to their face, sniffing at your skin briefly.  To your horror they stuck their tongue out and lapped at the blood that had gotten on your hand.  “Has anyone ever told you how good you taste?”

“Please…I’m sure my father would pay anything you asked for to get me back.”

“Oh I’m counting on it.”  They laughed when you tried to tug your hand away, holding it even tighter.  “On second thought maybe I should tie you up.  Drink my fill of you while you can’t do anything about it.”

“No!”

“No?  You don’t like that idea?”  Mary grinned and yanked you against them, one hand slipping around your waist and resting low on your back.  “You’re right, it’ll be more fun to have you put up a fight.”

Their mouth descended on your neck again but instead of teeth you just felt the wet strokes of Mary’s tongue.  They lapped at your neck slowly, cleaning up the blood that was quickly drying in the night air.  You let yourself go limp against them, silent tears streaming down your face while they worked. 

What would become of you on Mary’s ship?  Was it full of more ghosts like Copia?  Or were there worse things on board, things that you’d only be able to imagine in your nightmares.  Would Mary drink from you again? 

Oh don’t worry, starfish.  I’ll be tasting you again.

You froze when Mary’s voice drifted through your head, looking at him in alarm when he straightened up to meet your eyes.  When you started shaking your head Mary just laughed before starting down the dock towards the ship, dragging you along behind them.  You couldn’t help but stare at the ship in awe as they tugged you towards it.  The tall black sails disappeared into the night sky but you could just make out the jolly roger flag billowing in the wind.  Mary stopped at the edge of the gangplank, a bright grin on their face while they reached up to cup your cheek.

“Soon you'll be begging for it.”

The deck of the ship was chaotic.

You found yourself hiding your face against Mary’s shoulder, scared to see what was around you.  There were shouts, snarls, growls…sounds that you had never even heard before.  You couldn’t even imagine what they might belong to.  It was almost a relief when you heard Copia’s voice.

“Are you putting her in your cabin?”

“No, she’ll be too distracting.”  Mary wrapped an arm around your shoulders and lifted your chin up with a single finger.  “She can stay with your brother.”

“Terzo isn’t going to like that.”

“Yeah?  Well Terzo is in no position to dictate what I do on my ship.”  The vampire poked the tip of your nose before addressing you.   “You don’t mind hanging out with Terzo, do ya starfish?”

“Wh-what is Terzo?”

“Ah, he’s mostly harmless.”  Mary tugged at your shoulder and started leading you towards the stairs that led into the ship’s belly.  “Honestly it’s probably the safest place on my ship.  Hard to say what the others might be tempted to do to you.”

“What are…”  You dared a look around you, freezing when your eyes landed on something that could only be described as a giant insect.  The creature cocked their head and blinked at you before a set of wings spread out behind them and they took off into the air.  “I think I’m going to faint.”

“Don’t worry, starfish.  They might be tempted but they know not to touch you.”  Mary continued to lead you through the inside of the ship, past various doors until they stopped before one at the end of the passageway.  “Only I get to do that.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Come on, we both know that’s not true.”  They began to move closer, crowding you back against the wall.  It was beginning to be overwhelming having them this close.  All you could think about was their tongue on your skin and their teeth in your neck.  Mary pushed their head up close, their lips grazing your cheek when they spoke.  “It sure feels like you enjoy it when I touch you.”

“That’s a lie!”

Mary easily blocked your knee and grabbed your hands when you tried to hit him.  You felt like crying when they spun you around to face the door to the cabin.

“There’s no use lying to me, I can already feel your emotions.”  They lowered their head and licked across the bite wound, their chest vibrating with laughter when you whimpered.  “Just imagine what I’ll be able to do when I get an even better taste.”

Mary had the cabin door open before you could think of an answer, shoving you inside roughly before slamming it closed.  You took a few tentative steps as your eyes adjusted to the dark room, nervously looking around for whoever or whatever Terzo was.  The small window barely let any moonlight in so you could just make out a bed, a dresser and a table with a couple chairs.  There were a few items on top of the dresser, one almost looked like a mannequin head but you were too scared to get any closer.  When your eyes finally adjusted to the dimness you were able to make out what looked to be a figure sitting in one of the chairs in the far corner.

“H-hello?”  You gripped your dress skirts in your hands to try to stop them from shaking.  “Terzo?”

“Buonasera, dolcezza.”  Your head jerked over to the dresser, startled when the voice seemed to come from there instead of the chair.  “Mi dispiace, I would have cleaned up if I had known I was going to have a guest.”

“I’m not a guest.”  It was hard to keep the venom from your voice but you couldn’t help it.  You looked back at the chair when the legs moved, one leg elegantly crossing over the other as you watched.  “I’m a prisoner.”

“Ah, so the Captain was successful then.  Bene, molto bene.”

“Yes, he kidnapped me.  Him and that ghost.”

“So you met mio fratello then?  Quite the sight isn’t he?”  Terzo laughed then and you nervously glanced towards the dresser top again.  “What you can see of him anyway.”

“Are you a ghost too?”

“Un fantasma?  Oh no dolcezza, I’m as solid as they come.”  

A horrible tingling sensation started crawling over your skin as you watched the figure in the chair straighten up.  There was something off about it but it was too dark to get a good look.  You couldn’t help but take a step back when they got up and began to walk towards the dresser.  The sparse moonlight caught the figure and when you finally realized what was wrong about them your jaw dropped.  

“You…you…”  

You couldn’t even get the words to leave your mouth as the horrific sight before you started to make sense.  No, not sense, nothing on this ship made any damned sense.  The sound of a match being struck filled the room and when you got a better look at Terzo as he lit some candles you stumbled back until you hit the door of the room.  The knob rattled uselessly in your hand, locked and unwilling to turn.

“Is everything ah, okie dokie, dolcezza?”  Terzo finished with the candles and then held the match out to the mannequin head.  You jumped when a face was briefly lit up in the light before the match flame was blown out.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“How are you…”  Your vision started to swim as Terzo picked up the head, his head, casually holding it in his hands at his waist.  “But that’s your…”

“Sì, I’m afraid my head got separated from the rest of me.”  Terzo lifted his head up higher, close to where it should be on his neck.  “I’d almost rather be a ghost to be honest.  Or un mostro.  What do you think, dolcezza?” 

Terzo thrust his head your way then, his lips turned up in a bright grin.  You barely were able to make out his features before the room began to get dark again.  As your knees buckled and you fell to the floor you could have sworn you heard Mary’s voice in your head...

Sleep tight, starfish.

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

la notte che è morta // copia x gn!reader

sfw. 880 words. grief/anxiety. not comfort heavy but a loving reader listening to copia share his feelings about that night in LA.

thanks to @gothdaddyissues and @wrathofrats for the dividers ♡︎

"It's funny, love. That night. The night she–" He doesn't finish the sentence, and you watch him as his eyes scan the distance as though he's searching for the words in the air. It's the evenings he struggles with most; you often find him here, sitting on one of the large concrete steps leading down through the gardens, on the particularly difficult ones. "I didn't want to take off my shoes."

"Your shoes?" you ask, tilting your head curiously and brushing a stray piece of thread from his hair. "Why your shoes, amore?"

Copia looks at you, and his face softens slightly. He studies yours for a second, touched and grounded by the affection with which you tend to him, until his eyes flicker away again.

"It was all such a blur," he starts, shaking his head as he recalls that night. "I don't even remember how I got to the hotel room. But I remember they kept trying to make me lay down, get undressed, go to bed. And it all felt so foolish."

Your eyes move to his furrowed brow, then down to his slightly open mouth. You watch the way he unconsciously runs his tongue along the back of his bottom teeth, how his jaw clenches slightly in the way it often does when he's uncomfortable; you resist the urge to bring your hand to it, to stroke his face and hold him close. You want to give him the space to keep talking when he starts to open up like this, as though any sudden movement will spook him like a skittish animal and he'll disappear again.

"All those little things. I thought, what is the point of it? I suppose part of me thought if I don't do this first, then they can't make me do that," he shakes his head. "I don't know, amore. It's silly."

"It isn't silly at all," you say earnestly, and Copia meets your gaze. "You were reacting in the moment to something none of us are equipped for."

He considers your words for a moment, takes a deep breath and gathers himself to continue.

"I just–It felt like all of those little steps were leading towards the end."

"The end of what?"

He sighs, running his hand through his greying hair and scratching the back of his head a few times. You can tell he's hesitating, still slightly self-conscious about what he's telling you.

"Of the day. Going to sleep was–I couldn't go to sleep because that would mean the day was over. It would mean that she was…" He stops himself. He can't say it. There's a pained determination on his face that breaks your heart, but you stay silent.

"And I know that… I knew that. I knew that she was–I watched it happen, amore, but–"

You can feel the anxiety in him rising. You see it in the way his leg is shaking next to yours, and this time, you can't help but put a grounding hand on his thigh, rubbing it softly and giving a gentle squeeze. Copia stills. His eyes find yours, and for a moment, the sadness in them looks set to overflow. But then he smiles, a small and weary smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He takes your hand from his leg and brings your knuckles to his lips, kissing them gently. Then he holds them there, softly brushing his lips against your skin.

"I knew she was dead," he says firmly, lowering your hand to his lap and holding it in both of his. "But there was a time during that day when she was still alive, amore, and I thought… If I let the day end now, there will never be–" he inhales sharply. "There will never be another day where she's alive."

The word comes out in a choked whisper, and Copia's head falls forward after saying it. Your eyes begin to sting with the threat of incoming tears, but you're brought out of it by the sound of him clearing his throat.

"There will never be another day where she's alive," he states, raising his head to look forward again. His voice is steadier this time, but he says it almost as though he's trying to get the message through his own head.

"Copia," you whisper, taking your hand from his and putting your arms around him. He instinctively wraps his around your waist, pulling you close and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You remember that night. That morning, really. You think of it more often than you would ever tell him. When you were awoken by a frantic call from Ashley. The way you had lost your temper as you begged her to put him on the phone. The feeling of the breeze on your skin as you stumbled out onto the balcony, desperate to reach the fresh air when the bedroom walls caved in. His smell on the robe you put on in a desperate attempt to have him close to you. The sound of his broken voice and the choked, heaving sobs when you finally heard from him.

The steady pattern of his breathing when he eventually fell asleep, somewhere over the ocean, still wearing his shoes.

inspired partly by personal experience and partly by the song 'lucky for you' by novo amor + gia margaret ♡︎

and i'm not what i thought i would be without you i'm not really sure why i slept in my shoes i'm nothing at all

What's In A Name?

Papa Emeritus IV x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10,218

Warnings: nsfw, light dom/sub, oral sex, glove kink, dirty talk, office sex

"It was undeniably, inarguably, most definitely fucked up. You had never meant for it to get this far - really. It had just been a mistake, and not even your own at that, just a stupid slip-up that had sparked something sick and wicked right in the pit of your stomach."

AKA: Whilst harbouring a secret crush you use your boss’ last name without him knowing. (I know nothing about tax returns or identity fraud, deal with it.)

Can also be read on ao3

Other fics here

It was undeniably, inarguably, most definitely fucked up. You had never meant for it to get this far - really. It had just been a mistake, and not even your own at that, just a stupid slip up that had sparked something sick and wicked in the pit of your stomach. An urge to fulfil some long-dormant, base need that had somehow started to form in the deepest part of your gut. An urge that had, admittedly, spiralled out of control weeks ago. An urge that currently had you pacing towards Copia’s office, pretty sure you were about to get fired.

You’d been Papa’s Personal Assistant for about six months, and up to now it had been going just swimmingly. The promotion had been a surprise, the latest Sister handing in her notice red-faced and vexed after being summoned to Copia’s office for yet another lecture. She had managed to last 2 months, admittedly his longest up to that point. But his PA’s always ended up the same, pacing and ranting endlessly in Imperators' office, notice in hand, begging to be moved elsewhere to spare his ‘incessant micromanaging’. You had been fairly new to the clergy, eager to make a good impression with a secret soft-spot for the newest Papa. With, unsurprisingly, few takers for the role all it had taken was a short interview with some of the higher members of the clergy and you were in, your own desk, a stripe of Papa’s blue added to your uniform and even an extra half-day off in the week (though, admittedly, you rarely saw it). 

It hadn’t taken you long to realise that Copia was not, in-fact, an insufferable asshole, a particularly cruel employer, or a dictatorial micro-manager. He just appreciated when things were done a certain way. And - oh - you’d made the effort to learn, how he liked his papers filed and tabs colour-coded, how he preferred his stationary ordered at his desk, the exact temperature he liked his afternoon tea. It became easy, placing things on his desk before even he realised he needed them, slipping his old books back to the library without him asking, making sure his reading glasses were sat right where he would reach for them while he absent-mindedly flicked through paperwork. It just worked. The more time you spent with him the more you understood what he wanted, what he needed, just intuitively. Yes, Copia ran a tight ship, with little to no room for slip ups, but you soon realised it’s because it had to be that way. His keen attention to detail sometimes seeming like the only thing keeping the whole ship afloat and fully functional. 

Not that he had made it easy for you. It was like he had already resigned you to failure that first morning you showed up in his office, eyes flicking over you briefly before he looked back down his nose through his glasses, examining spreadsheets with a displeased hum. It had only pushed you, the more unmoved he appeared at your presence the harder you worked to get it right. The more paperwork he pushed through your desk without comment, the quicker you filed it. The more he complained about his tea not being right the longer you kept it brewing. The louder he scoffed under his breath at his ink running dry, the sooner you were there to refill his pen. Not with Ministry issued ink, no, but Copia’s favourite ink. The one imported from Italy in a gilded case, kept in the top right-hand drawer, behind his ‘secret’ chocolate stash. And it was worth it - so - worth it when he would give you that look. Like you had pleased him, that he understood what you had done, that he appreciated it, deeply.  

And it felt perversely intimate. Knowing someone so well when you barely knew them at all. You quickly learned Copia was not a morning person and did not like to chit-chat before at least 9.30am. His favourite lunch was on Fridays when the kitchens brought up a small charcuterie board paired with an expensive red to finish off the work week. He preferred the black olives to the green ones, even though you insisted they were the same just to wind him up and watch the smirk pull at his painted lips. You learned how he bit away at those same lips when he was expecting a phone call from Saltarian, and how he rubbed at his temples when he had been working too long, the both of you sprawled across the desks working into the early hours of the morning. 

Copia learned too. He learned that when you were stressed you’d chew on the end of his, frustratingly, expensive pens as you worked, brow furrowed as you read over his work. He learned that if he voiced his distaste for green olives for long enough you would eventually slink over to the other side of his desk and steal them off of his plate, neglecting to use cutlery, giving him the chance to watch your oil slicked fingers slip them gently into your mouth. He learned that you were eager, so eager, for every challenge he presented to you. Eager to prove him wrong, eager to impress him. He also learned that you liked to poke at him, test the waters, push his buttons just to tease. 

“Ai! This stress will be giving me even more greys, Sister.” He’d complain, whining and smoothing at the silver hair at his temples, checking his reflection in the gilded mirror in his office. 

“Oh, I do hope so, Papa.” You’d sigh back with a wink, savouring the way he would look over to you, eyes burning in the candlelight of his office, eyebrows raised in a mock warning.

And there it was. The fine line that you both danced around in the confines of his office. You initially made a point of not seeing him outside of work, intentionally ignoring the pointed silence that had started to emerge everytime Copia announced he was retiring to his rooms for the evening, avoiding his offices on your days off, only seeing him at Masses with the rest of the clergy. But soon enough it just became easier to spend your lunch breaks together, whispering clergy gossip over a now shared pot of tea. And then it was just easier to eat dinner together over paperwork, the kitchens bringing two dishes instead of the one. And then it was just easier to have a quick shared nap on the couch in his office when trying to meet a particularly challenging deadline, the weight of your head pressed nicely into the warm meat of his thighs as his gloved hand rubbed at your temple lightly. 

It was inevitable really. To be so close to a Papa, to be so close to him and have him seep into every crack, every crevice of your subconscious. It was funny, to see behind the facade, to witness him as just a man at his desk every day, swearing under his breath at his “horseshit” brothers who couldn’t balance out a spreadsheet to save their lives, and yet also see that he was objectively not just a man. The confidence with which he carried himself, the way he unashamedly let his gaze linger, his reluctance to ever speak indirectly or without purpose. And if you had to finish off most evenings alone with your fingers between your thighs and his name falling from between your lips, that was your prerogative. Copia didn’t have to know. You were driven, determined even, to not let it distract you. To prove to him you could work well, help him achieve his vision without getting preoccupied with something else. 

So, naturally, when the postman responsible for delivering your mail made a mistake, just a tiny, minor mistake, it should have been an easy fix, a laughable offence. When the postman dropped off the usual letters and packages with a warm smile, and a casual ‘Mrs Emeritus, I take it?’ you should have laughed politely and corrected him as you took the mail. You should have clarified your position, maybe even offered up your own name instead. You should have taken the mail to Copia and offhandedly mentioned the exchange so you could both laugh at just how ridiculous that concept was. 

Yet, before you could even think, before logic even had the chance to enter the equation you found yourself nodding, smiling as you took the mail with a surprisingly confident;

‘Yeah - that’s me.’ 

Any sense of professionalism, common sense or even decency were outweighed by the sudden, sick satisfaction at the implication not just of being his assistant, but his wife. Copia fucked around, you knew that, gathered as much from the gossip around the ministry. Not that you’d dared to ever ask him personally, though due to embarrassment or jealousy you weren’t really sure. You knew he had a reputation, that was just part of being Papa, it came with the job. When the urge took him he had any number of Siblings to choose from to satisfy him for the night. But being his wife. That was different. 

You’d shut the door, letting your back hit the dark wood as you grinned to yourself, cheeks still flushing at an implication you’d never considered before. You let the fantasy wash over you, picturing what it could be like, how he would hold you, how he would adore you, how he would fuck you. For a moment you weren’t just his assistant, who tidied his desk and sorted his mail and served his tea, but his partner. His equal. Your head had felt dizzy with it, the words of the delivery man still buzzing in your ears, pulse racing, cheeks flushed. You’d thrown the letters down on Copia’s desk a little more hurriedly than usual, rushing back to your own desk pointedly avoiding his gaze. If he noticed anything he did not comment, choosing instead to sort through the post with just a soft glance your way. 

That’s when it started. This problem. This perverse little game you’d been playing only with yourself. You’d tried to forget it, laugh it off as a joke and nothing more, just a mistake that caught you off guard. But that seed had burrowed down, deep into your gut where even you couldn’t remove it. Then it spread, reaching even into your dreams, filling them with images of dishevelled greying hair and slick leather gloves. It had appealed to some base nature deep within you, eager and possessive. Yes, the first time had been a mistake - but offhandedly signing a receipt with that same name certainly had not been. Neither had the second receipt. Nor had the third. Or that new email signature to an outside agency. Or the rooms booked under your name on the last tour. 

Who would know? You’d reasoned to yourself, knowing that the only person checking the paperwork was, by default, you. Copia was none the wiser, more important things to think about than receipts for minor purchases or email signatures. You’d never use that name inside the ministry, it was a dangerous game after all - playing with the Emeritus name. You’d seen what had happened to those who played games the Ministry didn’t approve of and you did not intend to join that list. It wasn’t even about the name, not really - just him. The fantasy that you were someone that was important to him, someone he was attracted to. Theoretically, it was foolproof. It was harmless, no one would ever find out anyway. It just gave you a thrill - the risk of being caught weighed up against the kick of using his name. 

Theoretically. 

It wasn’t until Copia pulled you aside one evening as you were aimlessly fiddling with his diary for the next day that your heart dropped into what felt like your ass. 

“We may need to be breaking into Terzo’s coffee supply the next few days, eh Sister? Hehe.” He’d chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair. 

You flicked your eyes over to him, taking in the way the leather waistcoat lifted as he stretched, pulling up his black undershirt with it, revealing the dark, greying hairs on his lower stomach. Satanas - you’re sure he did it intentionally half the time, just enjoying making you look. Realising you had absolutely no idea what he just said you shook your head.

“What?” 

He smiled at that, flicking his eyes away as he tried to repress it . 

“Tax Returns, Sister. We have a lot of paperwork to get through together.” 

“I thought we got … someone else to do that?” 

You blanched, your stomach flipping as you thought about the stack of paperwork in your locked top draw, signed with a name that is most definitely not your government name. 

“Ai - I am not paying someone to do what we are perfectly capable of doing ourselves.”

 Papa moved to stand behind you, hands coming down to squeeze at your shoulders reassuringly. You absolutely do not think of the size, or weight, of them as they cover most of your frame. 

“And we will do an excellent job as always, Sorella. Nighty night!” 

“Goodnight, Papa.” 

You had sighed in reply, your eyes following him as he moved down the hallway to his private quarters, knowing he’d used your favourite nickname to try and soothe you.

Shit. 

That is how you’ve found yourself pacing to your shared office, praying to any deity that will hear you that Copia does not, for probably the first time in his life, need to see every single detail and scrap of paper that has ever passed through the Ministry. After spending the night tossing and turning and triple checking the receipts just to make sure they definitely didn’t look like he had signed them, you had formulated a game plan. Realistically a few minor receipts would be fine going under the radar. You had made sure to never sign for something important, something there would need to be a paper trail for. You also knew that Papa, being the way that he is, had kept all of his most important paperwork with him, collated in colour coded folders next to his desk, obviously. There is no reason that he would suspect something is amiss, there is no reason for him to suspect you have a hidden stash of, probably illegal, receipts and invoices currently stashed in your bag ready to burn. And there is absolutely no reason for Copia to already be in his office before you get there. 

It seems that no deities have decided to take pity on you. 

You know he’s in a shit mood the second you open the door to the office. The first indicator is that he’s already drinking coffee - which he hates doing. The second is that he’s got an already well-used ashtray on his desk and a cigarette in his mouth, meaning he’s cracked open his also ‘secret’ emergency ‘stress-relief’ smokes. Those usually only make an appearance when he’s got those big annual budget meetings with the upper clergy. Shit. 

Doing your best to look objectively not guilty you sweep over to your desk, flipping your laptop open to check your emails. He’s on the phone, you notice, that stupid ancient phone holder balancing between his shoulder and his ear, cigarette balanced between his full lips. Whoever’s talking is clearly pissing him off, his brow is furrowed and he’s tapping his fingers against the desk. He also hasn’t acknowledged your presence yet which is unlike him, unnervingly unlike him. Unsure of what to do or say you just continue mindlessly tapping keys and clicking on already opened emails, doing anything to look busy and avoid drawing too much attention to yourself. 

“Pah!-” 

Copia spits out, slamming the phone down on the holder in response to whoever was on the other end of the line. You startle and look over to him as he finishes his cigarette with a deep drag. Now that you’re looking at him you can see the extent of his stress. Even under the paint you can see the heaviness under his eyes, the way the waxy pigment has started to crease with the tension in his brow, the way it’s started to rub away a little where he must have been rubbing at his jaw. His hair is just the right side of dishevelled where he’s been running his hands through it, the greys threatening to fall into his face as he talks. His scarf has been pulled loose, hanging somewhere near his chest rather than up near his ruffled collar. His desk is a wreck, different piles of papers stacked and stapled, different mugs strewn in between, an unlidded highlighter cast aside near the phone. He’s been at this all morning. He takes a breath, emptying his lungs of smoke and rolling his neck. 

“Sit.”  

You startle, jumping in your seat. He is not asking. 

“Regretting not getting someone else to do it yet?” 

You joke, trying to save it, though your delivery and flat half chuckle don’t quite manage to sell it. Copia doesn’t bite. 

“That was my brother on the phone.” 

Papa starts, you try not to think about how rough his voice is after taking a drag, much deeper than it usually is. You don’t have to guess which brother, that would explain his sour mood.

“You see, Sister, I am missing paperwork. Some receipts, some invoices - you know-” He motions with his hand as he talks, eyes scanning the papers at his desk, not looking at you just yet.

“So, I call my idiota brother, these things are usually his fault, si?” 

And shit, he’s definitely stalling, he’s getting at something here and you’re hoping, praying it isn’t what you think it is. You force your bouncing knee to still itself, willing your face to be straight and empty of anything that he can pick up on. 

“And yet he says, it is not him. So I do the checking, and he is right-” He scoffs, “for once.” 

You nod, patiently, obediently. Waiting for him to make his point. He turns to look at you, really look at you, the white of his eye somehow more intense than it usually is, stark against the deep paint on his eyes.

“I do not miss paperwork. Sister.”

And there it is. He’s giving you an out. Copia doesn’t give second chances, and this is going to be his only offer at a first. You don’t speak, a million excuses coming to mind at once, each one as equally pathetic as the last. You know how you must look sitting there in front of him. Lying was never one of your strong suits, especially under pressure, especially when it’s to him. Yet it’s like you can’t speak, can’t even begin to think of how to get your mouth to move and formulate words. 

“Do understand, Sister, that we do not take this sort of thing lightly. If you were hoping to be fiddling or moving extra money in some way-” 

“Woahwoah-”

You interject without thinking, room spinning a little as your brain catches up to what he’s actually accusing you of. 

“Of course, I would have hoped that you would have told me if-” 

“It’s not that!” 

You hiss at him, suddenly a little offended that he thinks so lowly of you and your intentions. The room is still tilting as you try to save yourself from whatever the fuck is happening. You suddenly realise you’ve just handed yourself a shovel and started digging, Copia’s eyes narrow suspiciously, and fucking hell why does he look so good when he’s mad. 

“Then what is it.” He asks, patience clearly wearing thin, the coffee and nicotine only working to rile him up more. 

You decide if any deities are still listening they should most certainly just open the ground, swallow you whole and just have done already. At this point you honestly don’t know if it would be less embarrassing to just admit to some sort of fraud and risk being excommunicated permanently on grounds of financial criminality. Lucifer - your habit has started sticking to you and your throat feels like it’s closing up, panic setting in. You’re just about to throw the towel in, admit to being some sort of crook when you decide to look at Copia again. 

And it’s devastating. Under the paint, under the mask, under the guise of cold professionalism is worry. Genuine unease sitting in the all too familiar lines of his face. Your chest pulls as you look at him, his eyes threatening to become wet and glassy. You realise that he’s not pissed, but hurt at the idea of you admitting to this, at the notion that his assistant has been dishonest with him. It’s right about then you decide then you would rather suffer any amount of personal embarrassment over hurting him. Without speaking you reach into your bag and pull out the stack of papers you’d been hoping to get rid of. He looks away, immediately wounded at the implication. 

“Just read them.” You breathe out as you throw them onto the desk, eyes fixed on the floor. 

“Sister, You cannot expect me to believe-” 

Copia starts, then pauses once his eyes have scanned over the first few scraps of paper. He stops. He looks up at you. His eyes flick down again, then over the next piece of paper, and then the next. For the first time in six months you think you may have just rendered him speechless. You swear he must be able to hear your heart beating in your chest as you wait for his reply, only just realising that you’ve handed him a metaphorical loaded gun. Satanas, you really must have been stupid, handing over signed proof of your … feelings for him. Copia still hasn’t reacted, not really, choosing to sit further back in the chair and flick through the papers like some sort of sick flipbook.

“Ah.” 

He finally sighs out, dropping them onto the desk, one hand coming to comb through his hair.  

Unable to move your mouth you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Papa doesn’t speak either, reaching for his pack of smokes before lighting one and taking a long, drawn out drag. If you’re being honest his reaction to your confession isn’t exactly inspiring. You hurt a little at that, realising perhaps you had misread the ease between the two of you. Realising that there might have been a reason he’d never propositioned you on those long, late nights alone.

“Which one is it?” 

He finally asks, his voice again deepened by the smoke, his tone one you can’t quite place, sitting somewhere between annoyance and disappointment. 

“What?” 

Granted it comes out a little ruder than you were aiming for, but you’ve been thrown so many curveballs in the last five minutes you’re honestly just grateful to still be sitting upright on the chair. 

“Do not test my patience, Sister. You do not have to hide it now. So - which one is it?” 

Fucking hell Papa could be petulant when he tried. He takes another drag, moving his eyes away from you again, like he can’t bear to look at you. You immediately decide you hate that more than anything else. 

“Copia, I can assure you, I have no fucking idea what you are talking about.” 

You’re not sure if it’s because you used his name or the language, or his clear lack of sleep, but either way he bristles at that, eyes fiery turning to look right into yours. Shit, he really is something to look at when he is like this, the logical part of his brain lagging behind his emotion for once. He’s surprisingly menacing, the pupil in his white eye unable to dilate with the other, unbalancing his features. This is the Copia that secured his own place in the lineage. 

“Do not play stupid with me Sister, I will not tolerate it - not from you. This is the Emeritus name, is it not, Sister?” 

“It is, Papa.” 

“And here it sits with your own name, does it not, Sister?” 

“Yes, Papa.” 

“Then, I can only be assuming, Sister, that you have found yourself a considerably comfortable spot in one of my brothers’ harems.”

Your brain completely taps out. You go to open your mouth, in an attempt to say anything. 

“Ah-ah!” 

Copia stops you, taking a moment to calm himself, finishing the cigarette and shoving it into the ashtray. You’ve not seen him like this before, so unpredictable, so wiry. You’d almost have considered it exciting had he not just accused you of fucking one of his brothers. 

“That is … fine, Sister. I just feel I would like to know which brother that is all? It is selfish I know, I just … need to know.” 

Taking a second to process what he just said you lean back in your chair, counting on the ornate backing to catch your fall. You close your mouth, noting you don’t actually know how long it’s been open. It baffles you, faced with the realisation that the man that you have seen write speeches; balance spreadsheets, translate texts, compose music, and recite spells and incantations with ease, is a fucking idiot. Copia notices your lack of a response and shakes his head. 

“Ai - forgive an old man, Sorella. I pry too deeply. I just did not expect that you had-” 

“There is no one else.” You interrupt quietly, for his sake. “Just you.” 

It’s like you can see his brain working, cogs turning behind his eyes as it’s his turn to play catch up. He looks down to examine the papers again, jaw working in that way it always does when he’s thinking. He’s rubbing his fingers together, the room so quiet now you can hear the leather working against itself. Suddenly, you feel even further out of your depth, gooseflesh rising as he finally brings his gaze back up to you. It’s been a long six months, you’d dealt with worried Copia, pissed Copia, unbearably, sickeningly sweet Copia - but never this Copia. The one that’s looking at you like you’re a rabbit in his headlights. Like he can smell you already. 

“Up. Come. Now” 

He snaps his fingers suddenly moving his chair back a little as he taps the top of his desk. Copia does not ask twice. Surprised that your legs are even able to move, you stand slowly, hoping you’ll make it to the desk without embarrassing yourself even further. His eyes don’t leave you as you walk around to his side of the desk,so close you can practically feel the warmth radiating off of him. He opens his legs for you to stand between them, making a point of shifting his hips up as he does so. It’s at that minute you decide you absolutely cannot look at anything else but the knot in his loose tie, for the sake of your own self-preservation. 

“Do you know how we got this name, Sorella?” 

Hells his voice is so deep now you’re close it’s almost like a purr, the thrill of it settling right between your thighs. There’s a softness to it but it’s far from kind, far from being anything but mocking. He starts to adjust the sleeves to his black poet shirt and you mentally curse him, it’s like he knows down to the minute how many sleepless nights you’ve spent thinking about those godforsaken sleeves. 

“Now, now Sister. You are usually so talkative, no?” He teases, though again it’s not entirely kind.  

“It was a gift, Papa. From Him” and fuck it’s embarrassing how breathless you are already, thighs clenching just at being this near to him like this. 

He moves quicker than you can react. Before you can process it, he kicks one of your legs from under you, knocking it so you stand wider, legs open in between his own. 

“Errato.”

And just like that he’s standing in front of you, much taller than you remembered, much broader than he seems from where you sit at your desk across the room. You can’t help but shrink back, lean further back into the wood only to be devastated when he follows there too, eyes examining your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. He breathes you in and you can’t help but follow, eyes closing as you take in the smell of him, all incense and smoke and something that must just be him. 

And oh, perhaps those deities had been listening after all. His hands come to cradle your head, holding it as he fiddles with something at the back of neck. With a gentle pull your veil falls away somewhere onto the cluttered desk, exposing you to him. Papa’s eyes flick up to examine you fully now you’re without your veil, like he’s got to squeeze one more look at you in before he’s moving again. His hands wander to find your own, pinning them down the desk under his as he carries on his, frankly lewd, inspection of you. You can’t help but gasp out, surprised that the gloves are warm, and that he’s strong, and that he’s actually touching you. He lowers himself until his face is right next to yours and you can’t bear to look, it's too much, being this close to him. He doesn’t seem to mind, taking the chance to breathe you in again, nuzzling as close to your neck as he can get without actually touching you. 

“Gifts are given freely, Sorella. Without reason, without obligation.” 

He lets his lips brush against the shell of your ear. 

“Try again. How did we get this name?” 

Fuck, it was one thing hearing whispers in the hallways about his talent, all hushed giggles and filthy conspiracy. It’s an entirely different thing to see it in practice, to be the object of his attention when it’s so all-consuming. Your thighs are already wet, you can feel it as they rub against each other. You can feel where the front of his waistcoat is pressed up against your chest as he crowds you into the desk, sure now that he can feel where your nipples are hard against him. His hands snake their way up your arms, before one comes to settle in the back of your hair. Your eyes open as he pulls on it, seeming to relish in the gasp you let out. 

“Say it.” 

He speaks again, nodding mockingly, eyes flicking over your face lingering on your lips as you part them to speak. 

“You earned it, Papa.” 

“Brava Ragazza, Sister. Well done.” 

And Oh - he’s giving you that look, the one that got you into this fucking mess in the first place. Like he’s proud of you, like he sees you. He disappears from view as his lips press against your hairline. 

“You’re always so smart, hm?” 

And you really can’t tell if he’s being genuine or mocking you but you couldn’t care less as his warm, wet lips traced across your forehead, the fingers of his other hand coming to cup your chin and keep you still. It’s barely a kiss, just the press of his lips against your skin but it is singularly the least chaste thing you have ever experienced.

“It is a Sacred name, Sister.” His lips are trailing down the sides of your face as he speaks, lips catching against your skin as he talks. 

“Given to my bloodline by Satan himself.”

Copia finds that spot that sits just behind your ear and chuckles as you shudder against him. You’d put good money on the probability of him mentally logging that away for later. 

“I have worked for this name, I have bled for this name-” 

He pulls away and you’re almost embarrassed that you whine and try to follow, so caught up in the heady way he’s been touching you, you think it might actually kill you if he stops. 

Cruelly, he pulls away completely then, leaving you giddy and off-balance as you look up at him helplessly. 

“I would kill for this name.” 

Papa finishes, his gloved thumb coming to pull at the full flesh of your bottom lip. His face hardens and you understand that he isn’t lying. It’s not a warning, not really, more a confession. Not that you would have ever doubted it anyway. Abruptly, he chooses to sit down again, legs spread open on the seat as he lays his arms down on the rests. You fight back a mewl at the loss of him, thighs twisted together to try and keep some semblance of self-control. His hands come together under his nose as he thinks, calculating his next move, thoughtfully, carefully. 

“This - is where you have overstepped, Sister. You are using a name you have not earned. We must all earn our place, earn our name, dolce.” 

Ah. It all clicks into place then. Here he is again, giving you another out. Giving you a chance. Here it was, that instant knowing, what was wanted, what was needed - just intuitively. You started to lower yourself down, neatly folding up the habit at your thighs as you did, knowing Copia was nothing if not a sucker for reverence. The greying hair at his temples fell forward a little as he bent his head, gaze following you down to his floor. You made sure to grab at his thighs for leverage as you did so, half for your own satisfaction and half acting on intuition. It paid off you realised, as he chokes out a moan and pushes his hips upwards. You log that away for later. 

“Let me earn it, Papa.” 

It’s merely a whisper, bowing your head as you speak, another show of reverence for him. You let your head rest in his lap, cheek pressed against his thigh, a sick imitation of the last time your head was resting there. His hands come to stroke at your hair, just as he had done before, and you take the chance to capture his hands in your own. Eager to please him, to elucidate. You start to kiss his palms, mouthing along his fingers with delicate presses of your lips, the action itself chaste and devout.

“Let me never stop earning it”

Oh, he likes that. The rumble in his chest gives him away, the way his fingers follow your lips revealing him. You run with it, eager as always to impress him. Flicking your eyes up towards him, looking through your lashes you wrap your lips around a single finger, welcoming it along the length of your tongue to rest near the back of your mouth before sucking it gently. It’s odd, the sensation of leather in your mouth, but it’s warm, rough and him, and you can’t help but moan through it. If the stress of tax returns hadn’t already ruined him enough you’re more than making up for it now, his chest is heaving, pulling at the fabric of his waistcoat as his eyes lock onto where your mouth is around him. His hips have pushed out and thighs opened around you, letting you shift closer to him. He nods his head, showing his consent, his approval of your actions. 

“Fammi vedere, Sorella.” He nods, voice even deeper than when it was laced with smoke. 

Your Italian is patchy at best, Copia likes to remind you of that daily, but you find yourself positively unable to care, the gist of what he’s saying suddenly very clear. You gently place his hands back up onto the rests for him, kissing the knuckles on each hand as you do so. Savouring the feel of him you move your own hands to his thighs again, digging in to feel the strong muscle underneath. So much wasted time spent staring, as he moved around his office gesticulating or bounced his legs around on stage in those obscenely tight trousers. 

You carry on massaging him, each time your hands getting closer and closer to the now, completely strained fastenings of his jeans. Completely beyond sense now you move on impulse, muscle memory, letting your legs slip open, pressing yourself against the cold tile floor as your face falls forward to lick at his seam. He’s hard, and hot, and it’s twisted that it’s taken you this long to be in this position. It’s degenerate really, finding some relief working yourself against the cool floor, the heat of him on your tongue. You can see his hands move to grip the arms out of the corner of your eye, a smirk pulling at your lips. 

You find the end of the ties with your tongue and manoeuvre it between your teeth, pulling it back as you flick your eyes up to his face again. Copia chuckles at your trick, looking at you like that again as you undo the strings to work him free. You burn with the need to impress him again, and bring your hands to pull him from his jeans. The first thing you notice is that he’s not wearing underwear, the warm pink of his flesh very apparent once you’ve worked the fastening open. The second is that Copia is fucking hung, thick and throbbing in your hand as his cock springs back against the greying hairs on his stomach. 

You’re pretty sure your eyes must bug out of your head at the sight of him, mouth watering in anticipation. You’d certainly heard things about Copia and his endowments, but well, Siblings were prone to exaggeration, especially when it came to the Papas. In this case they frankly hadn’t done enough. In the back of your mind you question how he’s still conscious with the lack of blood that now can’t currently be flowing to his head. You laugh lightly in spite of yourself, at your stupid internal monologue, at the situation, giddy with the size and smell of him. 

“Mi fai aspettare?” Copia asks, his voice thick and rough as it comes out. 

“My deepest apologies, Papa.” 

You immediately lick from the base, right above where his balls are still covered, to the tip - uncut and almost purple. His reaction is instant, making a noise like the air has been punched out of him, fingers gripping the arms even tighter. It’s maddening, having him throb beneath your tongue, and you carry on, just single licks against him, marvelling at the size of him as you go. Unable to help yourself, you take the tip of him into your mouth, positioning your head to take him down. 

Copia loses what little control he has, snapping his hands away from the rests and bringing them to wind in your hair, directing you down onto his cock. You moan in thanks, grateful for his guidance once again. He’s not being rough, you’re guessing he could do far worse, but he is being thorough, making sure your lips hit the bottom of him before pulling you back up. You find a rhythm in it, following his lead, not having to think about anything but keeping your lips sealed around him and your throat open. There it is again, that balance of what you both wanted, what you both needed, the unspoken instinct you seemed to share. 

Your scalp burns with it but it’s just so good, the way he’s started to fuck his hips up to meet you, using your mouth like you’d wanted him to for six fucking months. He manages to slip out a few times in his thoroughness, the wet of him slicking up your face and lips, and you wonder what you must look like. Your eyes are watering, your mouth flushed and wet and open for him, hair still tangled up between his gloved fingers. Not that he’s faring much better, head thrown back as he fucks your mouth, broken Italian and Latin and nonsense spilling from his mouth, undershirt shoved up around his waist, exposing his stomach. Copia notices you looking and his gaze hardens, teeth gritted as you take him particularly roughly.

“Puttana.” He grunts, and you have no problem translating that one. 

But there’s no malice in it, no spite, just that tone you recognise from when he’s impressed with you, his own warped reverence in return for yours. It only pushes you further, even more eager to please. As you take him down the next time you stay there, even as his own hand tries to pull you back up. You warm him with your mouth, keeping him as deep as you can while your lips meet the bottom of him and your nose is pressed up against the greying hairs at his base. You feel him push up against you, his legs lifting off the seat, getting as deep as he can while he cradles your head. He keeps you there for as long as you’re able, fucking your throat gently, before bringing you back up with a groan when you start to push at his thighs. He doesn’t let you sink back down, not immediately, just keeps your hair firm in his hand as he holds your head up - so he can look at you. Savour how your mouth is pink and slick and swollen with use. 

You whine at him, pathetically, asking him to let you go, mouth still open for him. He guides you down again, only this time he’s shoving his fastenings out of the way, guiding you down to suck at his balls. That rips a noise out of him, loud and unashamed as he presses your face harder into him, grinding against your tongue. You are nothing if not eager to please, laving your tongue over his balls, his thighs, even venturing further down toward his ass. Copia makes a frenzied noise at that, involuntarily lifting up in the seat to grant you better access to him. And it’s obscene, the way he tries to grind against your tongue, fucking himself on your face. He grabs your head again, only this time to stop you. 

“N-no-no …non posso. I won’t- I won’t last, Sister.” 

He breathes out between gasps, body sagging as he relaxes into the chair. Smirking, you raise an eyebrow, noting that one for later. Copia catches you smiling, managing to look over at just the right time, like he always does. The look in his eyes makes it apparent you’re going to regret that. 

“You have earned nothing yet, dolce. Up.” 

He’s demanding, shucking down his trousers a little more so he can widen his legs. You stand, hands pulling at your skirts, eager to pull your habit over your head before he stops you. 

“If you could keep it on, Sister, the habit, I mean. I- I quite like you in it.” 

You must beam at him, you can feel it, the warmth in your face and the swell of your smile, so big it almost hurts your cheeks. It’s the fact it’s your uniform, the uniform that identifies you as his, that special blue stripe singling you out as his own. He’s watched you everyday in this habit, liked you everyday in this habit. Nodding, you start to stand, hiking it up as you go but slow enough to tease. Papa’s eyes flick down to your legs, his normal pupil blown so wide it’s almost black as his licks at his lips, splotches of pink peeking through the paint. He’s fucking his hand as he watches, balls bouncing a little, glove tightening as he nears his tip. You flush as you think about how many times he’s touched you with those gloves, you wonder briefly how often he washes them. 

Suddenly, now you’re standing, underwear kicked down and flicked off your ankles, you feel a little shy. It’s odd, considering moments before you’d had his cock in the back of your throat, but somehow sitting into his lap without his request, without his permission would be just the wrong side of intimate. You’ve napped in his lap, just once, but sitting in it, taking him like this almost feels like too much. He notices, like he always does, his eyes and mind too fast for his own good. He softens a little.

“Please, Sorella.” 

And it’s deep, and demanding and yet his voice breaks a little along the way, and it’s just too Copia for your own good. Now unable to stop yourself you lurch forward, bracing your legs on either side of his own, relishing in the strong muscle of his thighs underneath you, holding you up. One of his arms comes around the back of your waist, balancing you out as he lines himself up against you. It was intoxicating being so close to him, where he was warm and soft and smelled of smoke and whatever expensive shampoo he used. Your arms find the rest on the chair and the back of his neck, fingers toying with the few strands of hair that curl into his nape. It’s nice being close to him like this, seeing the fine lines in his face, the mix of greens in his eye, the slight shadow on his face where he’s neglected to shave. It’s almost too much, the smell of him, the feel of him, the idea of him and you doing this. It’s then that he breeches you, just the first part of him and your stomach drops at the realisation that everything up to this point had been nothing. 

“You think you have earned this yet, Sister?”

Copia is talking, you’re sure of it, somewhere outside of the bubble of just feeling him. Somewhere where he sounds drowned out and far away. Satanas, he won’t stop pushing into you, splitting you like he was made to do it, each ridge and vein dragging you open with a slick sound, the heat oh him almost unbearable. 

“Think you can take my cock?” 

And fucking hell he’s a talker. As if it couldn’t get any more ruinous he was going to talk you through it as he ravaged what was left of you. All you can do is mewl back, legs open and hips pushed forward to take him. 

“Others have tried, Sister.” 

He slides home, his hips coming to sit neat against your ass as he bottoms out. If you thought that had been devastating enough, it was nothing compared to the drag of him as he pulled out again, lighting up your insides as he moved, nerve endings singing with it as he warms you up. He lets out his own sigh then, rumbling deep in his chest and oh - you realise you’d spend your life trying to earn him, if it meant hearing him do that everytime you sank down onto his cock. Copia seems to remember himself then, sucking air through his teeth before he starts talking again.

“Yes - they try their best. Wailing with their legs open for me.” 

It’s simply deviant how that makes you throb, the image of him fucking some Sibling in his quarters after spending the day cooped up in his office with you. He starts to build a rhythm, balls starting to slap up against you as he fucks up into you, his feet planted on the floor for leverage. You brave a look at him and whine when you see how he looks, his eyes fixed on where he’s fucking you, his mouth hanging open, slack as he watches. His hair is fucked, paint starting to bleed just a little with the exertion of it, sweat threatening to leak through. 

“Yes - I fucked them. I made them come-”

It’s like it’s intentional at this point, that he says that as he finds that spot inside you, the one that has your mewl turning into something far more embarrassing, something more guttural, more animalistic in nature. He chuckles, and it’s sinister as he re-adjusts himself to fuck up against that spot again. You suddenly don’t doubt him, or the matter of fact way he says it. You’re fairly confident that you’re not far off already, your cunt clenching around him as he speaks. He comes to grab at your ass, hands squeezing into the meat of it as he bounces you on his cock. 

“I send them back with their legs shaking and their holes full, Sister.” 

He growls right into your ear, back to his monologue, like it’s a threat, like it’s a promise. You start to clench around him, hips working without even thinking about it, letting his strong hands pull you down onto cock. Half for leverage and half for comfort, your hand at his nape starts to twist into his hair, savouring the feel of it between your fingers. 

“And did they presume to have some ownership of me? Did they feel so brazen as to take my name - the name I fucking earned?” 

You can barely even think straight with how he’s fucking you. But you realise, somewhere in the haze, that you’d been so caught up in the idea of being his, the daydream of being so owned by him, that you’d neglected to realise your own claim over him. Taking his name, making it and himself your own by definition. 

“But you - you have the nerve, to sit every day in my fucking office, to flash me that sweet fucking smile, acting so eager, so useful, so innocent, like you aren’t making a perversion of my own name, hm?” 

And he is still hitting that spot, sparks flying to every nerve ending you have every time he hits it, his hips snapping up faster as he riles himself up. 

“You see fit to play and tease, like you don’t rush back to your room at night to play with this tight pussy at the idea of me using you like this.”

He knew, of course he knew he always fucking does, two steps ahead of everyone else. 

“It is my turn to take now, Sister.” 

Before you can help yourself you’re seizing up, muscles locking around him with nowhere to go as you bounce on him, the noise of it becoming downright indecent. The wet suck of you as you take him filling your ears. Copia senses that you’re straining, just missing that extra something you needed to tip over the edge. Your eyes actually start to tear up you’re so desperate to come around his cock, to let him take what he wants. He moves his hand to grab at your face, cheeks pushed together in his firm grip as he looks at you. It’s humiliating, his eyes flicking to your mouth once more as his face twists into a smile that’s almost threatening. He brings his other hand up to his own face, spitting and sucking on his own fingers, moaning at the feeling of it. Fuck his lips looked sinful stretched around his own fingers, swiping at the paint as the coated them. 

Papa nods at you, almost mockingly, letting you know he’s going to help you, he’s going to make it all okay. His fingers leave his mouth and he swipes them directly over your swollen clit, making you cry out and work his cock deeper into you. 

“And I will take it.” 

And his voice is fucked, broken and gravelly like he’d been awake for 3 days straight. You couldn’t have stopped it if you had tried, the way he was fucking you right where you needed it, the rough, wet leather against your clit, the idea of him taking rather than you giving it freely. You shut your eyes as you worked through it, wave after wave as you clench around him, throat raw as you groaned into the hand that was still holding your face. Fuck, you would work to earn it, work for it every day if he could make you come like this. It’s far too slick between you now, the way you’ve leaked onto him, coating the both of you in it. Copia is glowing with satisfaction, lips pulled into a smirk as he just watches.

“Acqua santa, hm?” 

He snickers, more to himself than to you. You can’t help but whimper at his pun, grinding down on him as if to coat him further, like it’s a gift for him. He grunts at the feel of it, head thrown back for a second as he revels in the feel of you, the tight, wet grip of you around him. He moves the hand that’s been holding your face to rest at your waist, his other still lazily rubbing at your cunt, helping you ride it out. He brings his now sticky fingers to his mouth, sucking them onto his tongue with a groan. You should be embarrassed, the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s taking you, but it feels right. Like you’re earning something. 

Copia is clearly giving you time to rest, reclining back in the seat, letting you balance your hands on his chest as you grind out the last of your orgasm for him. Rest isn’t exactly something you had in your plans for the foreseeable future, content to pay back the favour tenfold. He’s quiet now, a little out of breath with his effort, looking up at you as he savours the way your face looks, flushed and bright. You sit yourself up, ready to start bouncing for him again and he kicks his knees up, ready to angle himself to start fucking you again. 

“No no, Papa.” 

You smirk, choosing instead to push him further into the chair with your hands, stilling his movements as you start to fuck him. Speaking seems to be beyond him at this point, he just nods as you ride him, letting you fuck him into the seat of his pretentious office chair. You mentally curse yourself for not choosing to go to the gym more often, the burning in your legs threatening to become a problem. Just looking at Copia underneath you immediately throws that idea under the bus, his head thrown back as you work him. His mouth open with broken gasps leaving his lips with each bounce, eyes heavy-lidded now. The chair starts to scrape across the tiles with the force of it, the low squeak mixing with your own moans. 

It sends a dangerous thrill through you, knowing this was Papa, head of the fucking Ministry, signature powerhouse on the stage, knowing he could snap his fingers and have done with you whenever he felt like it. This is who they all wanted, the fans, the followers, the clergy, the Siblings. But it’s also Copia, your Copia, your boss who lets you steal his green olives and nice wine, and likes you in your uniform, and your chest just swells. Moving your hands to cover his own you move them to cup your neglected tits as you ride him, guiding him to your covered nipples. The kick his cock gives inside you is some indication that he likes that, though his frequent ‘subtle’ glances when you neglect to wear a bra to work had already proven that theory. 

“I mean it, Papa.” 

You move your own hands to cup his face, brushing his hair from where it’s falling into your eyes. The capacity to form words is still out of his reach he just watches, eyes flicking between your face, your nipples pinched between his fingers, and where you’re fucking him. 

“Let me never stop earning it”

You repeat your promise from before, almost hiccuping at the end of it as you manage to angle his cock at that one spot again, savouring the sticky, slick drag of your skin against his. 

“I would spend my life earning it, earning you.” 

Copia is objectively a wreck. All he can do is sit and take you on him, tweaking and twisting your nipples, tilting his own hips to make sure you can work his cock how he’s already learned you like. It’s laughably unrealistic really, his good he feels, like something out of one of those shitty vintage VHS pornos Copia keeps in his ‘locked’ drawer. You feel him throb inside you as he lets out a strained groan and you’re convinced that the only thing you’ve ever wanted was to make him feel good, however he would let you. You didn’t know it could be like this, just an endless feedback loop of pleasure, giving and taking and fucking like you can hear what he’s thinking, and he can hear you. Somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear Copia grunting, choking out a mindless, “You’re s’fuckin’ tight, fuck” as he tilts his hips up for you.

Sitting up tp to lean back, you open your legs to him, so he can see where he’s fucking you. You know how it must look, your cunt wet and swollen, taking his cock so deep you’re sure you can feel it in your throat. He grunts in approval, bringing his gloves to smack lightly at your clit as you bounce, biting at his lips when you stutter around him, shocked at the feel of it. Keen to stay even, to impress him with your efficiency, your efficacy, you bring your fingers to your mouth, spitting onto them as you keep your eyes locked on his. Copia knows what you’re going to do before you even move to do it, already whining so loud it’s almost pathetic. You can’t help but smile sweetly as you reach your slicked up fingers behind you, massaging and squeezing his balls as he buries himself into your cunt. 

“Sister, I need- Can I-”

You’re almost surprised he has the wherewithal to ask, his thrusts turned shallow and stuttered as he tries to keep himself from filling you too soon. It’s all you can do to gasp out a raspy ‘please’ before he’s grabbing your hips once more. It’s a done deal after that, a few broken, sloppy thrusts into you before he’s spilling himself inside, pulling you down onto him with a string of broken curses, using you to come. You’re not far behind, the throbbing of his cock, the feeling of him filling you up kicking off your own orgasm, softer and sweeter than the first. Copia fucks you through it, his capacity for thoroughness making sure you’ve milked him completely, making sure you’ve used him more than well enough. 

It takes you a second to come back to yourself, lost somewhere in that bubble of pleasure and Copia, not knowing where slick, sweat and spend started or began. Bordering on something tantric, something spiritual, you slowly move together as you each catch your breath, his hands coming to soothe at your thighs, strong fingers working the muscles there. It’s quiet, that familiar, comfortable silence you so often shared filling the office. He pulls himself out from you with a wince, tucking himself back into his pants, and lazily tugging the ties shut.

Copia pushes your legs open, gently admiring the way he leaks out of you. He takes his hand and moves to swipe at his come as it drips, his eyes filled with something that looks suspiciously like devotion. Licking his lips, he pushes it back into you with his fingers, his pupil dilating as he watches for your reaction, ever the eager learner. You smirk before reaching down to save your underwear. You go to stand, unsure of where this really leaves you, unsure of what to say - of how to say it.

“There was never anything to earn, tesoro.” 

Copia speaks before you have the chance to overthink, his clever eyes watching your mind tick over. He is giving you that look again, the one he seemingly saves up just for you. 

“Whatever you want - it has been yours for a while.” 

It’s simple, it’s direct, it’s all encompassing, it’s Copia. You feel like maybe you should kiss him but flush with the idea of it, cheeks heating up as he watches the thought pass through your mind. He smiles despite himself, averting his eyes for just a second. Although his paint is still mostly intact you’re sure he blushes underneath it, you can tell, intuitively.

Plenty of time for that later, you reason, remembering there was a desk full of receipts to file and sort before Saltarian decides to come chew Copia’s ear off about his tax returns. 

“Though Sister-” Papa starts as he neatens himself up, slicking his hair back into place, “maybe, for now, we will hide those, hm?” 

He nods towards the stack of crinkled papers. You understand what he’s doing, putting his own ass on the line to cover you. Risking his reputation for complete competence just for you. 

“Yes, Papa.” You nod earnestly in thanks, wanting him to understand that you appreciate the gravity of what he’s doing for you. 

“And maybe for now, though mine certainly suits you, use your own name, hm? At least let me take you to dinner first.”

Yep, Dewy and Aeth are mates. They're just made for each other ❤️

Mushy May Day 31: Looking at/Taking Pictures

The fridge in the den kitchen tells a lot of stories.

Thank you so so so much to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together again this year, and to @ghuleh-recs for making us the dividers. Love you guys, cannot thank you enough. I had so much fun doing this again <3

Arguably, the kitchen is the central point in the entire ghoul den. It seems like someone's always there, cooking or cleaning or making a snack, coming in from the gardens or slipping out to have a smoke.

So naturally, it makes sense that the fridge is the pack corkboard. Magnets from just every stop the band's ever made cover the stainless steel, holding up shopping lists, reminders on bright colored sticky notes, a calendar, but most frequently, photos. Polaroids and glossy film and printed out on paper, the kitchen fridge is an amalgamation of the big moments and the little ones.

There's one right next to the freezer handle, a little blurry, out of focus. It shows the inside of the band tourbus, a soft purple blanket covering two sleeping forms. It's dark, but if you look close enough, you can make out Dew's spindly fingers, arm wrapped tight around Aeon's waist as he big spoons them. Rain had taken it, the first night they had shared a bunk, early into Aeon's first tour. It makes the little quint blush every time they see it, but the way their tail wags betrays any semblance of embarrassment.

There's one in the center of the fridge, a polaroid film, the flash bright and a little over exposed, two ghouls with their backs to the camera. Aurora is easily recognizable, her hot pink hair covering the bottom quarter of the image. Dew's in the background, sitting in Mountain's lap, a little out of focus as he throws up an As Above gesture. Rain's the star of the show though, his blue black waves pulled back into two French braids, decorated with clips and baubles and ribbons. Dew's hair is in a similar state. There's a caption written in Aether's blocky handwriting below it that reads "Playing Barbies."

A glossy 4 by 6 print is stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a palm tree, from Cirrus's disposable camera. It's summertime at the Abbey, taken from the edge of the dock. Mist's perched on Alpha's shoulders, successfully shoving Dew from Swiss's shoulders in a game of chicken fight. She'd taken it at the perfect moment of realization, Dew's eyes wide in panic just as he tips backwards. They had all laughed when she had gotten the print developed, even as Dew grumbled. He couldn't hide the fond look on his face when it had been pinned up, though.

On the side of the fridge is a picture of Omega and Terzo, the big ghoul sprawled out in an armchair during one of the pack's frequent movie nights, Terzo practically in his lap, smudging paint against the side of Omega's neck. They both had passed out within the first half hour of a particularly loud action movie, much to the snickers of the pack.

There are several from the road, new scenery and places and tourist stops, a polaroid of Aurora proudly holding up a soft drink that's almost the size of her torso captioned "Baby's First Big Gulp." One of Aeon sticking their face through a cut out that makes them look like a video game character in some mall. Swiss giving Dew bunny ears while the fire ghoul takes a picture with Rain and Mountain. Cumulus floating on a blow up raft smuggled into a hotel pool. All three of the ghoulettes squeezed onto a greenroom couch in a way that cannot possibly be comfortable but they had sworn up and down that it was.

There are close to two dozen pictures with a similar set up, the entire band and crew all lined up on stage after the last show of a tour. The lineup changes and shifts, familiar faces running through several photographs, looking bone-deep exhausted but with grins on their faces, satisfied with a job well-done.

Aether approaches the fridge, a photo in hand, searching for an empty magnet. He finds one, chuckling as he grabs one shaped like a bat but in a hot pink plastic, pinning the picture front and center. It shows Aeon and Aurora, both ghouls grinning, wearing cheap plastic party hats, the elastic hooked under their chins. There's a cake on the table in front of them, a sparkler candle lit in the middle. There's words frosted on it, in red frosting in Mountain's loopy handwriting that proudly display "Happy First Summoning Day."

He sighs, smiling at the picture of his newest packmates, before his eyes drift up to a picture pinned to the top corner of the fridge. Aether always looks to it when he's in here, feels a warmth settle in his heart as he takes in the picture. He's memorized it, it will be seared into the back of his eyelids for the rest of his time Up Top and long after that.

It's him and Dew, standing at the front of the chapel, grasping each other's forearms as Copia wraps a multi colored cord around their wrists, the fondest smiles on each of their faces. The cord was a four stranded braid of ribbon, he remembers, purple and black and blue and orange. He remembers the warmth of Dew's hand on his arm, the glint of the gold jewelry in his ears, hair soft and falling over his shoulders, every inch the ghoul he had fallen in love with the moment he had arrived Up Top.

Aether smiles, running a finger along the edge of the photograph reverently, reaching up for the bunch of bananas on the top of the fridge, breaking one off and going to rejoin the pack with his snack.