Your Papa spends his evening reading about Roman cults – perhaps you can tempt him to offer you some of his attention instead.
pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x female!reader || rated: E
content: 3.6k words, (mostly soft) dom!copia, thigh riding, finger sucking, cockwarming, praise, p in v, riding, teasing, orgasm denial, unprotected, coming inside, suggestive use of a history book, 18+ only
Shoutout to @ghelullu for the historical expertise and to @foxybouquet for drawing reading glasses Copia for me that definitely helped inspire this fic!!
Masterlist – Ao3 link
The sheets feel soft against your skin as you stretch out on the bed like a lazy cat. You run your fingers over the fabric, a deep blue cotton that hugs your body as you roll from your belly onto your back. His side still carries his smell and the sigh that leaves you at this discovery is filled with a longing that has the sound vibrating in your throat.
Copia pays you no mind.
For an hour now he’s been sitting comfortably in an armchair, book in his lap and reading glasses perched on his strong nose. He is lost in the story, his eyes moving along the lines rapidly and with visible interest. The glass of red wine he’s been drinking tonight sits abandoned on a table by the side and the vinyl record hasn’t been flipped in quite some time; only the static noise of the record player fills the room.
You rise from the sheets and walk over to the music station on naked feet, slipping the record back into its sleeve to pick another. Copia has a vast collection and you take your time, glancing at him from the corner of your eye in hopes that your half-naked body, clad in just your sleeping shirt, will catch his attention. However, even as you place the needle on the record and soft 80s rock tunes fill the room his eyes stay on the pages of his book.
He looks handsome, you note. The glasses almost slip from his nose with how low he wears them, smudging the white paint where they sit tight by his nostrils. His hair is a bit messier now at the end of the day. A loose strand has fallen over his forehead and tickles his brow, the curve casting a small shadow on his skin under the light of his reading lamp. You fight the urge to brush it back and kiss the spot, lingering by the shelf to assess whether you can finally justify disturbing him.
Copia turns the page. You tiptoe over, hip pushing against the armrest by his side. He must notice you but he gives no indication of it as you trail your fingers over his shoulder, then down his arm. His black shirt stands open at the collar and you get a glimpse of his thick greying chest hair as well as the curve of his firm pectorals underneath the fabric. You want to kiss him there, too.
“Papa,” you try.
“Hm?”
He does not look up, even though the use of his title is enough information as to your intent. With your heart hammering you sink down and kneel beside him, resting your head on his thigh. The fabric of his pants feels rough against your soft cheek. Even so Copia continues to read, his eyes never straying from the page, ignoring your puppy-eyed face right next to the book. You can’t help but pout. Impatient fingers run down his calf, then up to his knee on the other side but your touch lures no reaction from him either.
You move to stand, let your fingers run down his forearm and grasp his wrist, lifting it out of the way so you can place yourself in his lap, once more the image of a needy cat vying for attention. Copia hardly reacts, only lifts the book out of the way while still fixated on the page. You shift until you’re sitting more comfortably, feeling his thighs flex underneath your weight until they press firmly against your ass. You feel his cock too, half-hard beneath the lacings of his pants.
“What are you reading?” you ask this time, nestling against him. Your head rests on his shoulder as you try to get a glimpse of his book.
“It is a book on the Mithraic Mysteries,” he explains, his voice steady and calm. “A very fascinating read. Not much of the Cult of Mithra survived, no written texts anyway.”
“Who is Mithra?” you inquire, only half-focussing on his words now that you finally feel him against you.
“An old Indo-European deity, worshipped by Roman soldiers. Some surviving depictions show him killing a bull, sacrificing the blood and seed to replenish the world and life itself.” His free hand moves to rest on your thigh, the black glove soft on your bare skin. “However, the cultists were persecuted by Christians and ultimately eliminated. Their places of worship, the mithraea, were destroyed.”
“That does sound interesting… and sad,” you conclude, taking in his scent with a deep inhale before you press a kiss to his neck. “Is it more interesting than me?”
“Oh, amore. Of course it is not.” His hand moves further up your leg until it rests on your ass, pushing your shirt up a little higher to squeeze the soft meat there. “Have I not given you enough attention, tonight, my baby?”
You shake your head, pressing your face against his neck as you hug him closer.
“Amore, if you want something you have to ask for it,” he says. “You know this.”
“I did not wish to disturb you. You were so engrossed in your read.”
“And yet here you are, no? Disturbing me.”
You break away to look at him, his face betraying nothing even though you swear you can see the hint of a teasing smile playing at his lips. Encouraged, you reach for his free hand and drag it into your lap, running your thumb over his wrist where his pulse starts to beat a little faster against your fingertip. You lift his hand to your lips, pressing kisses to the tender skin just where his glove ends.
Copia finally reacts, his fingers curling around your cheek and tilting your chin up. His eyebrows are pulled together, giving him a stern expression with the glasses still sitting so low on his nose. You giggle, the image of a teacher who glances at his students in irritation as they interrupt him popping into your head. Perhaps you will be rebuked now.
“Funny, hm?” he asks.
Before you can reply he pushes his index finger into your mouth, gently pressing down on your tongue until you obediently start to suck. The leather is smooth, making your mouth water, and you swirl your tongue around him languidly. Copia holds your gaze as he adds a second finger, his thumb resting on your chin where he wipes away the drool that dribbles from the corner of your mouth. After a moment of indulgence he withdraws them as well as his gaze and uses the wetted digits to turn the page without another word.
His attention is on the book again.
You release a sigh of discontent but he’s ignoring it just like he’s ignoring how you squirm in his lap. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs, your underwear soaked by now.
“Papa,” you whine. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“I need you.”
“You have me, demonietta, now that you wiggled your naughty little butt into my lap.” He glances at you from the corner of his eyes, no doubt taking in your desperate expression and unable to keep up his austerity for much longer. “Va bene. You have permission to use me as long as you do not disturb my reading. If you do, there will be consequences.”
“I won’t. I promise, Papa.”
He nods and his eyes land on the book again, his upper body angled in the direction of the lamp on his side table away from you. You reposition yourself until you can feel his thigh firm against your core, using his chest as leverage. Not a single one of his muscles moves to help you. Once you’re settled you have to readjust his free hand on your hip to make more room, smooth leather once more on your heated skin. As you slowly start to grind on his leg you feel his fingers tightening but he does not look, does not stir.
It feels incredible. The fabric of his jeans is rough against your inner thighs, the friction so needed that you can’t help but close your eyes and moan at the pressure against your clit. You repeat the same movement, slow drags of your hips to the rhythm of the music playing in the background. Hands planted firmly on his chest you feel his muscles against your palm and every time you push yourself back they flex underneath your fingertips.
You’re approaching your release fast after that – more confident movements, the perfect angle to ignite a fire deep inside your belly. The rolls of your hips become sloppy, your knee pushing forward into his crotch as you release a needy whimper, and then suddenly Copia’s fingers dig into your hips, effectively stopping you.
“Ah ah.” He tuts, his eyes snapping in your direction with a frown. “No, no, no, amore. Not like this. What did I fucking tell you, eh?”
A painful sob rips from your throat, your pussy throbbing desperately at the sudden lack of stimulation. “Papa?”
“Do you think I can read when you are dripping all over my leg? When you are moaning into my ear with the voice of a temptress?”
“I’m sorry, Papa. You just feel so good.”
His expression softens, his fingers unclenching. “Gentle now, hm? We are not in a hurry.”
You shake your head, your breathing still fast as you try to recover. “Will you help me, Papa?”
“Help? But you interrupted me,” he says with indignation. “What did I tell you happens when you interrupt me, amore?”
“There will be consequences.”
“Brava ragazza, listening so well to my words. If only you would heed them, hm?” He rubs his hand along your thigh, soothing, comforting. “Now unlace me, demonietta, so I can decide how to proceed with you.”
His cock strains against the fabric and you fiddle with the laces, your fingers still shaky from the almost-peak that he robbed you of. Once you finally loosen them, the pressure does the rest and you can free him easily even with your tremor. He’s achingly hard, dripping precome into your waiting hand. You want to lean down and taste him but you know he is in charge now and it thrills you to comply, to be good for him.
“Take off your underwear,” he orders. “Then you will keep me nice and warm for as long as it takes me to finish this chapter, hm? You want to please your Papa, do you not?”
“Always,” you say as you slip from his lap, driven by the anticipation of finally feeling him inside of you.
The fabric is drenched as you remove it from your core and throw it aside. Copia’s arms remain open, hips slotted forward to allow you some more room, and you hover above him for a moment. You take his cock into your hand and slide it back and forth between your folds, wetting his tip with your arousal. Copia moans lowly at the contact, the pages of the book fluttering as his body trembles underneath yours with suppressed desire.
“So wet and needy,” he chides. “You want your Papa so bad it makes you forget that he is a very busy man, amore. I only have so much time to do my reading.”
“Perhaps you should read to me in the future, Papa,” you suggest, slowly sinking down on him. The stretch knocks the air right out of your lungs, his girth a welcome intrusion after so much time you spent waiting. A groan slips from his throat once he is fully sheathed, betraying the way he is affected as well.
“Hm, no, dolcezza, if anything you should read to me,” he says through gritted teeth. “So your Papa can rest his weary eyes. I am not so young anymore.”
“You are in your best years, my Papa,” you correct and begin to rock your hips.
Copia’s hand shoots out to grab you, digging roughly into the softness with the strength it takes him to stop you. “Ah ah ah,” he chides with a shake of his head, the glasses now crooked on his nose. “You stay still while I finish this chapter or I will remove you, amore. You know the rules, eh?”
You whimper, clenching around him not just in frustration but in arousal at his tone. With one hand you adjust his reading glasses, the other one rests on the soft curve of his belly underneath his shirt, trying to keep still. Every breath is laborious, every second too long.
“Very good, amore,” Copia praises and then his eyes are back on his book.
His cock pulses inside of you or maybe you are pulsing around him, the need to move so overwhelming you can’t stop the occasional whimper from slipping out, nor can you control the way your hips buck ever so slightly on their own accord. You’re not sure how he can focus, if he focuses at all or tortures you for his own enjoyment. His eyes do move along the lines and you spend a good amount of time studying them, green and white, slightly enlarged by his glasses. No matter how well he plays his part as the stern Papa, the mischievous, loving glint in them never leaves.
You can’t fight the urge to fix his hair, finally combing the loose strand back and massaging his temple. Copia lets out an appreciative hum, pressing his head into your hand. You take the hint and move your fingers along his scalp, gentle pressure to remove the tension of a long day. His hair is soft as you trace the silver streaks that become more and more prominent the longer you two are together.
His hand leaves your hip then to flip the page. You can’t help but squirm, the movement sending a wave of pleasure through your body that makes you keen and clench around him. It’s too much, you are too aware of his cock buried so deep inside of you to keep still. All you want to do is lose yourself in him, to have his undivided attention.
Copia inhales sharply at your fidgeting, in irritation or arousal you cannot tell. His hand reaches for your jaw, tilting it so that your eyes meet his. Instead of anger you find compassion in his gaze, even though there is a hint of complacency as well. “My poor amore,” he says, his tone only partly mocking. “I am not quite done yet. But I think you will have to read the next page for me. My eyes are so tired.”
“But–”
“You are so good for me, dolcezza,” he interrupts, leaning in to nuzzle your nose. “If you do well now your Papa will reward you for your patience.”
Before you can close the gap for a kiss he leans back again and hands you the book, pointing to a line at the top of the page. You try to catch your bearings, especially when you feel his cock twitching inside of you as he shifts to remove his reading glasses. A whimper turns into a croak, your throat suddenly tight and dry.
“In the– the–” You struggle as he once again stirs underneath you, settling comfortably in the armchair with both hands on the armrests. He is enjoying your struggle, a barely concealed grin on his lips. You clear your throat, take a deep breath and relax your muscles. “In the ancient world, the term mysteries was used to refer to secret cults throughout the period from the seventh century BC to the fourth century AD.”
“Very good, amore,” Copia says, voice smooth and sensual. “The next line now, hm? You are doing so well.”
“A-all shared two basic features: the injunction to silence, intended to… intended to prohibit ritual details reaching the outside world, and the…” Suddenly his hips buck, both of his hands settling on your sides to keep you steady as he pushes up into you with one hard thrust. Your eyes flutter closed, the book slipping from your fingers as you hold onto his shoulders.
“Go on,” he orders. “Finish the line. I know you can do it, amore.”
You open your eyes, trying to find the page again and holding the book open with one hand. It takes you a moment to find the right line. You’re trembling and dizzy. “The-the injunction to silence, intended to prohibit ritual details reaching the outside world, and the promise of… the promise of salvation...”
“Mhm, salvation,” he agrees, another thrust that finally has the book falling shut between your bodies and sliding into the gap between his thighs and the armrest. “Everyone wants salvation, ragazza mia, everyone wants release. Do you?”
“Yes, please, Papa.”
Copia grabs the book and sets it aside, feet braced against the floor and hips canted in a way that allows you to fully straddle him. You rest your hands on his chest and stare down at where your bodies join, the sliver of skin and dark body hair between his shirt and waistband glistening wetly with your arousal. Impatient now, you rip at the buttons of his shirt to tear it open, trying to find purchase on his bare skin, anything to feel more of him. His warmth radiates into your palms and then his hands curl around your buttocks as he lifts you just enough to shallowly fuck up into you. You moan, falling forward from the impact until your fronts are squished together.
“Papa,” you whine.
“Hmmmm, sei perfetta, amore mio,” he whispers, lips parted in concentration as he keeps up his pace. “I am proud of you, eh? So patient, waiting all night for your busy old Papa.”
You lean in, stealing his breath as you desperately press your mouth to his. The armchair creaks just as your lips connect and the wet sounds of your hips meeting over and over fill the room, drowning out the soft music. You follow his rhythm instead, pushing down and taking him ever deeper, controlling the angle with which he burrows into you.
“Fuck, Papa,” you whine, the orgasm you lost now building back up fast and violently.
One of Copia’s hands slides up to the back of your head, keeping it down for more wet kisses that smear his face paint all over your chin. His tongue enters your mouth, licking against yours desperately as though he suddenly can’t get enough of your taste. You comply eagerly, carding your hands through his chest hair, leaving trails of red as your nails scrape over his skin. Copia groans at the sensation, a deep sound that vibrates within you and has you clenching around his cock.
“That’s it, amore, ahhh–” He picks up his pace, chasing his own pleasure now just as much as yours. “So fucking good.”
“I’m s-so close,” you whisper.
“Let go for me,” he encourages, bringing his hands between your bodies in search of your clit. “Show your Papa how f-fucking good he makes you feel.”
He finds your sensitive spot, grazing the swollen nub with his gloved finger, and you fall apart in an instant. Your muscles tense, voice high-pitched as you moan and whimper at your release. When your mouth slips from his Copia grabs your chin and forces it back up, urging you to hold his gaze as he continues to fuck up into your clenched cunt. You struggle to hold yourself upright, your whole body turning into jelly as pleasure makes way for exhaustion. With one hand on his throat you trace the line of his Adam’s apple, feel him swallowing hard as he finally follows you and comes inside of you with a groan. His eyes turn glassy, losing their focus, and you finally allow yourself to sink against him, feeling his slightly sweaty chest.
For a long moment neither of you speaks, trying to breathe the air back into your lungs.
“It was okay, amore?” Copia finally asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not too much teasing?”
“It was amazing,” you say, your body still numb and tingly from the exertions. “Maybe we can wait a few minutes, though, before we get cleaned up.”
Copia hums and wraps his arms around you, keeping you pressed closely together. He begins to caress your back, fingers then sliding up to your neck where he massages the tight muscles for a moment but stops when it gets too exhausting to maintain. You sigh into his neck, face hidden underneath the curve of his jaw where you snugly fit against him. After a moment of reprieve you lean back up and look at him – ruined face, his paint smeared into grey streaks that run down his neck and reveal his skin. You press a kiss to the small scar on his jaw, then to the dip where it transitions into his plump lips, the corner of his mouth next.
“I’m sorry I interrupted your reading,” you mumble, breathing more kisses to his exposed face to give him the gentleness he always craves after being intimate like that. It’s a ritual by now, comfort and affection that make up for all the teasing.
“Ah, I was just waiting for you to come over,” he admits, returning the favour by pressing his lips to your cheek. “The book is interesting… but not that interesting, eh?”
“I will worship you, my Papa,” you whisper with a smile. “I call it the Cult of Copia.”
He chuckles, tightening his arms around you again to pull you flush against him. “Watch out, amore, I think I could get used to that.”
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡ The quotes I used in here are from this book, sorry for the blasphemous use of an actual academic book haha.
Copia returns from tour—with a different name, a different job, a different life—only to find that your friendship is changing too. He takes this as well as can be expected.
content: 6.8k words, gn!reader, friends with benefits to lovers, angst, hurt/little comfort, miscommunication, grief, anger, mental health exploration, negative self-talk, love confessions, smut (spit as lube (kind of), unspecified penetration, a small dom!copia moment but it’s mostly emotional sex)
Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+
Prelude
It’s the night before he leaves.
Your legs slung around him, mouths pressed together with teeth-deep desperation.
It’s been hours of this. You move on top of him like it’s your last night on earth, ragged breaths, grinding down again and again and he clings to you like it’s his only anchor to the world. It might well be, the thought of leaving has him biting deep marks into your neck, purpling your skin so you won’t forget who fucks you better than anyone else.
“Fuck, C–” you moan and then you come, clenching so tightly around him that he spills inside of you, unprepared for how it knocks the wind out of him. He doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t let you get up—he’s not ready to. He’ll wait and have you again and again until you’re both sore and bruised and disgusting and not even a shower makes you feel clean.
Months. It’ll be months before he gets to have this again.
“You’re my best friend,” you whisper. “You know that, right?”
“Yes,” he says and his heart aches the way it always aches when you say it.
“What will I do when you’re gone?”
Copia’s eyes widen a fraction, he feels himself getting soft, feels how your mixed come sticks to his lap and cools into messy stains. Don’t sleep with someone else, he thinks but doesn’t say. Don’t forget about me. Don’t stop wanting me.
“I will call,” is what he does say. “We can chat. We can send each other funny pictures.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
It’s ironic, how he can’t bridge over that word. Friends. What does it even mean? You’ve been friends for a long time, since before he became Papa, and yet he’s seen you naked more times than he can count. And he knows in a few hours he’ll hold you, not letting go all night because that’s what he does, that’s what you do, somehow, and have been doing for a while now. Fuck, hold each other, back to friends in the daylight.
It was easy to start sleeping with you, ever since you kissed him for the first time and insisted that it was not a weird thing between friends. He supposes that’s true, it’s not weird, but is it weird to make each other come all night only to get up and watch a movie like nothing happened?
“It’ll go by fast,” you say. “You’ll be back before we know it.”
He grimaces, can’t think about it, this tour ending and what they’ll do to him, who they’ll replace him with, whether he’ll return at all. His end is approaching, years of Papacy coming to a close, and he’s still not sure what will become of him. And you’re a safety net, the only thing that might be able to catch him when they let him fall.
“Sorry,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I know you don’t like to talk about it.”
“It’s okay, tesoro,” he says, hiding his face at your neck. “It will be fine as long as I have you.”
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
I
It doesn’t happen like that. He does call, you do chat, you send funny pictures, but then it slowly dies down. He’s getting exhausted, bone-tired. Tour gets you like that. He puts on his best show every night, absorbs the energies of the crowd and feels like he matters, feels like he belongs. Then he lies down and his body lets him know that he’s not young anymore, aches, groans, complains. The dread sets in, the premature grief about losing what he loves the most, and then he has to close his eyes to pretend that none of it is real.
He falls asleep and misses your calls. He starts a text but forgets to hit send until hours later and by then you’ve stopped replying, busy with your own work. He wants to tell you how scared he is but you’re thousands of kilometres away and he knows you’d just be fretting about him. You can’t help, not really. The calls you share he spends soaking up the familiar sound of your voice, hesitating to let his worries beat the smile from your lips when it’s the only thing that grounds him.
After a while, it feels like sleep-walking, like he’s a zombie, part of another dimension, struck numb by fear. He misses the signs, misses the way his mother has changed over the past few months, and he doesn’t realise how he forgot to live until she lies dead in front of him.
Now he’s some sort of imposter. Wearing her title, wearing a suit, a fancy brooch. New office, new staff, new responsibilities, and, worst of all, a new brother that he hasn’t even met. It’s been a whirlwind and he feels like Dorothy, whacked out of time, away from home, in a place he doesn’t recognise.
Only he can’t find the golden road that leads him on.
Where he once stood—in front of cameras, on stage, in his favourite outfits, face paint, intricate robes, flirting with the crowd—now stands a man he doesn’t know. A man who looks like him, vaguely, a man everyone seems to love, a man who stole everything Copia ever wanted.
Well, not quite everything.
But even safety nets can be torn apart.
You’ve reunited, somewhat, but it was nothing like he imagined months ago, when he was almost sure he’d finally confess to you his true feelings. No, instead Copia found you waiting for him when he got back and you hugged him so tight and there was such sympathy on your face. But that was it. Sympathy, hard to tell apart from pity, and he didn’t get a better glimpse at what might be waiting underneath. He thought his heart could leap out of his chest at the sight of you, the only good thing left in his life, but then he felt all the baggage he had arrived with and he couldn’t bring himself to demand more, only to crumble in your sight.
No kissing, not in front of others, not even an hour alone together, he barely remembers how your hand feels in his. He’d been dragged around, re-dressed, shown to his new office, and you’d silently removed yourself when you realised there was no space.
A month ago he watched his mother die.
A month, the official period of mourning.
Everyone is wearing black which is not too different from any usual day, only the spots of colour are missing. It’s bleak and he’s not sure what to do with himself. Grief is odd like that, life doesn’t feel much different until you find the blind spots, the ones that once felt alive.
He has no mother left to guide him, though Marika comes close, closer even than Sister, in many ways. But Copia never felt like he could rely on anyone, not when he was so easily discarded, when he had to claw his way up, was never made to feel like he was good enough to be wanted.
Not until he found you.
You sneak into his office, on occasion. But it’s rare that they let you enter between appointments. They started bothering him with his brother now. Social media marketing. Videos. New music. He blindly approves whatever they show him because he wants no part in any of it. And yet, when they step out of his office, the day his first music video airs, Copia turns on the computer screen, fighting the urge to throw up in anxiety when he sees the perfect embodiment of his role.
You step in after a while, interrupt his sulking, and he hits pause so fast he almost slides off the yellow couch they have him sitting on.
“Hi,” you say, hovering by the door, and then, a little bashfully, “Is this a bad time?”
“No, no,” he says, eager to see you. “Come in.”
You do, sitting on the couch beside him but a few feet apart. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the distance, but perhaps it’s just that it’s been so long.
“Have you seen him yet?” you ask and to hear you talking about his brother makes him want to crawl out of his skin. “His new video?”
“No,” he lies.
“We could watch it together,” you suggest, creeping a little closer, at last.
He hates it. He hates that you don’t look at him like you did before.
“I guess,” he says and grumbles as he hits the play button, acting like he hasn’t seen it before.
The video plays. He watches, arms crossed, his whole face tensed into a frown. Beside him, you smile, your eyes widen, and he wants to jump up and smash the screen. Only he doesn’t. He’s used to this bubbling anger, he’s carried it his whole life, drumming his fists against the unfairness of it all. The pain underneath has widened into a black abyss. If he let go of his rage he'd fall into the never-ending pit of his own regrets.
So he clings to it. Then it breaks out of him.
“I worked hard,” he says. “I worked hard. For years. Decades, eh? And he just– he just got it handed. Just so. He didn’t even show up here before. What did he do, huh? He didn’t work for it like I did. And now I have to sit here in this shit office watching this fucker do my job.”
“C–”
“I know, it is a promotion, bla bla bla.”
“Well, it is a promotion.”
He scoffs, shakes his head and tsks at the monitor in front of him. “I didn’t ask for it. I was going to stay Papa, I did a fucking good job.”
“You did, no one is doubting that.”
“He is only successful because I made it all happen first.”
You stop arguing and it’s good because he would go on for another hour. At this point, you are the only one willing to enter his office without immediately running out again. Maybe you don’t recognise him like this, maybe that’s why you sit far away from him these days. At any rate, his frown doesn’t impress the video he’s been hate-looping for the past hour, watching his twin brother on stage while he’s stuck in this yellow hell of a room.
“I think I should go,” you say, then, and he looks at you with a sudden regret.
“Tesoro–”
“I think you need time,” is what you say. “You need time to process all of this. And I’m here to help, whenever you need me, but I can’t give you back what they took. And I’m so fucking sorry for that.”
He wants to touch you, desperately, reach out and pull you into his arms. But he can tell you’re insecure and not sure how to approach him. Why did he let it out on you? He doesn’t know what to say so he nods and when you leave his office he hides his tears behind angry fists.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
II
The meeting drags on.
He blocked out that he’d have to work with you in his new position, and it doesn’t help that you’ve avoided his gaze for the past hour. It’s the first big staff meeting and your department has presented already, so he gets to endure the other reports while you sit opposite him, listening, apparently, to the detailed budgeting of the kitchens while he doesn’t give a shit.
He’s willing you to look at him but you squirm around on your chair, picking at the wood of the table. Copia knows he spooked you in his office, his outburst a sign of the ugly side of his feelings. It shocked him, too, to see you closing up against him. A wake up call, in a way, albeit too late.
Finally, you do glance over and he tries to smile, gives a small wave and you grimace, half-smile, half-insecurity. Your fingers lift as if to return the gesture but then you look away, embarrassed, and don’t turn back around for the rest of the morning.
Everyone trickles out of the room and you end up last, farthest away from the door. You try to squeeze past Copia who catches your elbow and you drop your pen, startled at the contact. He crouches, picking it up for you, and at the touch of your hands a shudder zings through him.
“Thank you, Frater,” you say, keeping your gaze lowered.
His heart shatters, his mouth contorting. “Don’t. Don’t call me that.”
Your eyes lift, his hand still holding yours over the pen, and then you glance around to make sure you’re alone. Some of the tension leaves you but it’s not the same as it was before, the ease gone, the familiarity.
Copia sighs, bracing himself for the speech he’d practiced in his head all night. “I’m sorry for how I talked to you in the office. It was not– not fair to you.”
A sigh falls from your lips, heavy, like you’ve been carrying it for days. “Copia, I’m sorry I just left. It’s– it’s difficult for me. Everything is different now.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says.
“But it is. Suddenly, you’re my boss and superior and–”
“But I was before, as Papa.”
“That was different, I didn’t report to you. I didn’t sit through these meetings with you.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. We can… we can pretend, in front of the others, that we don’t– that we’re not–”
He stops his stammering. That you’re not what? He hasn’t touched you in months, hasn’t kissed you, hugged you, barely talked to you for more than ten minutes at a time. His lungs stutter with their next breath, the pain, the fear of losing you, the way you can hardly look at him anymore.
You take pity on him, then, or he thinks that must be why you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He deflates, swallowing against the rising panic, grabbing you tightly, tighter than he usually would. He’s afraid you’ll run through his fingers like sand and you wince but that’s it, no moving to extract yourself. It calms him until he can allow himself to loosen his hold.
“I do want to be there for you,” you whisper, your hand wiping over his back, that stupid thick fabric of his blazer hiding the sensation. “I just don’t know how. You were– you were so angry. It scared me.”
“But– but we’re still friends?” he asks, and it is pitiful, even to himself, how he’s basically begging you not to abandon him.
“Of course. Of course we are, C.”
It is okay, he thinks. That’s all he could have hoped for. Friends. Perhaps a step back, for now, until everything goes back to normal. That stupid hope he clings to, that this new life is going to stop feeling foreign to him, that he won’t feel like a stranger to himself anymore.
He knows himself when he’s in your arms. The man he used to be not quite so far away. And he can live with the rejection, he can live with it, as long as he has you. He’ll love you like he did all this time, nothing changed. Nothing changed. Only everything.
“I have to go,” you whisper, then. “I told a friend I’m having lunch with them.”
“Ah, yes.” He lets go, the knife lodged into his heart. “Yes, yes, go eat lunch, tesoro.”
You hesitate, a fraction of a second in which you hold his gaze the way you used to before you hooked up. That spark of longing, the tension before a kiss, anticipation. But it’s fleeting. You disappear through the door, hurrying away, and it feels like you’re fleeing.
Meeting a friend. A friend, like he is your friend? A friend you kiss and fuck and hold all night?
He feels ashamed of the accusation, buries it. He was gone for a while. You have needs. It’s well within your rights. He never had any claim over you, no. He’s a friend.
A friend. Yes, a friend. That’s all he is. Nothing more.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
III
He finds you in a hallway that leads to the Sibling dorms. Finds you, as if he didn’t purposely stalk the areas he knows you frequent, pretending to go to the bathroom. It’s been days since he last saw you and it’s been eating at him, that awkward conversation, the implications of it, the image of you fucking someone else.
Everything is calming down now. As much as it can, at least, the mourning over, half-dead flower arrangements carried out to compost, standard operations back in order. It feels like an insult to him. The only things that are not back to normal are the things he wants the most.
You jump when you see him and of course you do, he’s never leaving his office these days.
“Hi,” he says to absorb the shock. “Hello.”
“Hello,” you say, removing the earbuds you’d rounded the corner with. “Uh, were you looking for me?”
He’s tapping his toes, bobbing back and forth. “Ah, yes, yes. I wanted to see you.”
Another Sibling takes the corner, startling at the sight. They move past towards the dorms, glancing back over their shoulder until they’re stumbling up the stairs. He forgot how many people exist. So many people. Was he ever aware of it before?
“So ah, who is– who is the friend?” he asks.
“What friend?”
“The friend you are hanging out with,” he says, trying not to sound bitter. Who did you replace me with? he truly wants to ask. Neither is a good entry question but he doesn’t care.
You furrow your brow and he almost reaches out to smooth it, an old habit. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t visit anymore,” he says, his voice breaking. And you haven’t. Not since he lashed out.
Understanding dawns on your face but he sees the hint of shame as well. He’s known you for too long to miss when you’re uncomfortable. “The’ve sent me away a few times now, telling me you’re not in a mood to receive people,” you explain. “You’re– you’re letting it out on them, you know?”
He does know. He knows. And if he’s being truthful it’s not just his brother that irks him, it’s everything. The hushed whispers about their sparkling new Papa, Psaltarian praising the guy in every meeting, the posts he approves that celebrate his successes.
All he can give as a reply is a short, “Oh.”
It hangs in the air for a moment. You sigh, not annoyed but unsure. Your body language hasn’t changed, at least.
“There’s no one else, no one outside of the usual people,” you say, then you tug at his sleeve, pulling him aside with a frown. “If you– Copia, if you think– I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”
“Ah.” He nods, biting his inner lip until it hurts. “Well, then.” Then I guess you just don’t want me anymore.
“You’re grieving, you’ve gone through so many changes,” you say, like that explains it. “I just didn’t want to add to all that by forcing my way in and demanding your time when you don’t feel like hanging out.”
He wants to scream. Demanding his time? Like you’ve ever demanded anything. Everything was freely given. He’d have given you more, if he hadn’t been such a coward. If you’d only asked.
“I– I miss you,” he says instead. “I need you. I can’t– I don’t know what to do.”
Your eyes are sad when he finally meets them. Your hand is still wrapped around his elbow, slides down to fumble with his glove. His heart skips.
“It just doesn’t feel like there’s space in your life,” you say.
“There is always space for you, you know this.”
“I don’t think there is, C. They just drag you around and I don’t even know when I’m allowed to see you anymore. And when I– when I do get to see you it’s like you’re stuck in your own world.”
He knows you’re right. He’s been wallowing in it, the self-loathing, the grief of it all. Why would you visit him, when all he does is mope and rage and shut you out? When you try to be there for him all he feels is anger and regret, fear that he’d lose you if he showed you the hideous truth of him. But he can’t admit that to himself. His office is like a trap that brings out all these ugly emotions, this job like poison. He’s never let you see him like this before—proud and angry and resentful. He’s a mess.
“I get it,” you whisper before he can reply. “Fuck, I get it, C. Grief is hard, you lost so fucking much. I know. But every time I try to talk about it you blame it on your brother and get so dismissive and angry, like you don’t want me there.”
“I know,” he says and the words tumble out. “I know I am angry– But not at you– Never at you.”
“It’s just– I don’t know that I recognise you anymore.”
The words sting. You might as well have slapped him, in that moment, and the worst is he knows he deserves it. He’s thought it before, after all, only he didn’t know that having it confirmed would hurt so bad. And why would you lie? He doesn’t even recognise himself. Not like this. Not without you.
“We can change that,” he says, desperate now. “You could come over? We could watch a movie. And talk.” And kiss, and fuck, and hold each other, and sleep in each other’s arms. “Like good old times, yes?”
“I would love to but I am on cleaning duty tonight. Every night, this week, actually,” you say, glancing at your watch. “There’s been so much to do now that everyone’s preparing for… for Papa.”
“I can clear your evening,” he offers, latching on to the only thing that doesn’t upset him. “One good thing about this new job, eh? I will assign the work to someone else.”
You hesitate for a moment, considering. He’s willing you to say yes, to nod, to smile, to hug him again, but you just shake your head. “I can’t accept that. I don’t want you to play favourites. It’s messy enough as is. People are already talking.”
“It’s not–” He stops because you’re right, that is what he’s doing, only he doesn’t see why that would be a bad thing. Why should he not use his position to help you? With a smile, he shrugs, tries to lighten the mood. “But you are my favourite, tesoro.”
“C–”
“I know, I know,” he says, glancing away to hide the tears that spring to his eyes.
Your fingers squeeze his arm but he almost doesn’t feel it. “Another time, okay? Next week?”
He nods, his heart sinking to his stomach where it beats shallowly against the pain. “Okie dokie.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine. It’s all peachy.” He nods, lips pressed tight. “Some other time, then, yes?”
“C– Maybe we can–”
He can’t stand it any longer. Every rejection is another punch that threatens to finally knock him down. He leaves you standing there, feels the loss as your hand glides off his arm and falls away. He should be back in the office, anyway, sneak in before they come looking for him. If he’s lucky they leave him alone for the rest of the day and he can numb himself with old movies, leave this reality behind and pretend that none of it hurts anymore.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
IV
The stone breaks the surface of the water with a splash. Orange ripples vibrate through the tension, a current forming underneath, waves of reflected colours slowly evening out until the water is quiet once more.
He throws another stone.
Copia watches the pond-lilies swaying under the impact, finally alone outside as everyone swarms back in for dinner. He doesn’t like going out these days, the pressure of being perceived. Demoted Papa, incapable leader, it’s written on everyone’s faces no matter how many times they claim it’s a promotion. He’s not truly in charge, the reigns are still in his mother ghostly hands, lead by all the people she implanted over the years, a structure decades in the making.
He’s a pawn, nothing more. Was he ever more?
He doesn’t hear the steps until he startles from a hand, gingerly placed on his shoulder. When he looks up, the sun catches in your eyes so beautifully that he forgets to take his next breath. “Tesoro?”
You sit beside him, staring at the last few ripples in the pond. “You ran off the other day.”
“You didn’t want me there.”
“That’s not true.”
He looks at you, only to find your eyes on him. It may be the first time he notes that you don’t look well and he wonders if it’s true. If they’re overworking everyone to prepare for the era of his brother. He never would have asked this of them.
A part of him softens. Perhaps you don’t look well because you miss him.
“I was looking for you in the office,” you go on, taking one of the stones he gathered and throwing it as well. The impact is softer, the throw not carrying the same anger.
“I’m not needed there,” he says and throws one himself. Then, quieter, “No one needs me.”
“I need you.”
All he can do is scoff. You frown but don’t fight him. For a moment everything is quiet and he can hear the soft breeze stroking through the trees. He thinks you might leave, that all is said between you now, but then you release a breath that rattles in your throat.
You’re nervous, he realises.
“I swapped my shift,” you say. “That’s why I’m here. I thought we could hang out tonight.”
Copia repeats the words over in his mind. “Hang out tonight?”
“Yeah, like–” You smile, mimicking him. “Like good old times.”
He sits, stone-stiff, his heart weighing down his chest, and instead of a reply he leans in to capture your lips. You startle and he tries to pull away but you won’t let him. Your teeth catch on his bottom lip and he groans, presses in firmly to swallow the hesitation. He hasn’t kissed you in months and suddenly every inch of him is trying to fill the hollow you have left. His tongue brushes past your lips, parting you, and at the loss of control you reach to grab for him, a finger hooking into his collar, dishevelling him as you scrabble for hold.
Copia feels your nails biting into his neck and his cock throbs in his pants. With your taste in his mouth all he wants is to let go, push you back and take you right here until the rest of the world blurs into nothingness. But then you push at him, the brooch jangling under your hand.
“Not here,” you whisper.
“But–”
“I still have to help out with cleanup after dinner but I can come over after that, bring some snacks,” you offer. “Then we can talk, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Copia–”
“Shh.” He trembles, rests his forehead against yours, swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat. “Let me hope, tesoro. Don’t take this from me as well.”
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
IV+I
He traverses barely lit hallways. It’s way past dinner, Siblings huddling in quiet corners, whispering when he passes, nervous, jittering, dropping his keys more than once. He misses his tricycle, how he used it to make people laugh, startle couples out of their kisses with a mischievous tinkle of its bell, racing others down the hall with his cassock catching in the wheels.
Now he can’t look at it without crying.
Copia’s not sure how long you’ll be busy. He tried to gauge, thought about waiting behind the kitchens, but he couldn’t stand being ogled by everyone who passed. He hid in his office, staring at the yellow wallpaper, thinking he was losing his mind like the woman in the book. Still better than sitting at home like a pathetic little puppy, waiting for you to come, waiting for the inevitable pain when you tell him that you only love him as a friend.
The lock clicks only once but his racing heart muffles the sound and he doesn’t notice. He can feel his pulse in his ears, drumming the beat of his fear, his fingers shaking in sync.
Your shoes are waiting by the door.
Copia’s breath hitches, suffocating him. Of course, you still have the key to his rooms.
He closes his eyes for a precious second, lets the wave of panic subside. He can do this. He can tell you what he feels, he can show you. And if not, he’ll accept his fate, he’ll be your friend. He’ll–
The noise from his bedroom startles him out of his stupor. The springs in his bed squeak as you sit down on it. A sound he’s heard so many times that it feels achingly familiar. Copia wills himself to go on but when he sees you he freezes, blood curdling, a hammer falling down.
From underneath the bed, his black Papal robes stick out halfway. The blue robes hang off the side of the mattress in a crumpled heap and in your hands, cradled like a child, you hold the black shirt with the frills you always so loved on him.
At his steps you look up, half-started, half-scared, shame marring your features.
“You hid them,” you whisper.
“You dragged them out.”
“I’m sor–”
His anger bubbles up, half-dormant, now breaking free. “Put it on,” he snaps.
“Copia–”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you–“
“Put it on–” He presses his lips together. “Put it back or put it on. You can choose. We’ve played this game before, tesoro. We can pretend this never happened or–”
Your eyes, wide and unsure, move from him to the garment. He’s losing his fear, seeing you like this, the way you’re already shifting uncomfortably, aroused from the tone of his voice alone. He’s not spoken like that since he lost the Papacy.
“We can pretend it never happened,” he continues, “or you wear your shame until I’ve fucked it out of you.”
Your lips part but you stifle the sound that threatens to spill, he can see it stuck in your throat. When you move to stand he encroaches, a black, leather-clad hand reaching out to hold the shirt for you. For a moment you merely stare at him, his narrowed eyes, the hint of hope that’s hidden behind them. Don’t back out, he tells himself, and tells you, with a raise of his brow. I want you, I need you. Let me have you. Let me show you what this does to me. Let me show you that I’m still the man you want.
Your fingers lift to nervously fumble with the buttons of your shirt, and he holds back the sigh of relief that shudders through him. You undress, your whole upper body bared to him, a sight so blurry in his memories, now painted over in flesh and blood.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper and he knows you’re not talking about the clothes now. You wrap the black fabric around your shoulders but don’t close it and he stares down at the expanse of bare skin in between. “I was so scared to change what we had. But then it changed anyway and I didn't know what to do.”
A shock, regret and fear and pain and hope building like electric waves, thundering through him until he reaches for you. He wants you so much that it consumes everything else within seconds. He’s never wanted anything more.
“I was scared, too,” he admits, breaking the act, allowing his eyes to well up.
You reach out, a gentle hand cradling his cheek. He desperately pushes against it, as if he could hide in the soft touch you offer. It feels like rediscovering an old habit, an old comfort, but he can’t fall into it yet.
“The pants, too,” he says, more firmly. “I’ll have you in the shirt only.”
You obey, shuffling off the rest of your clothing. He’s seen you naked so many times and yet it never loses its novelty. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. All the months of longing lead to this one moment and somehow he doesn’t feel prepared. So much uncertainty lingers in your eyes, so many unspoken feelings, and he thinks he shouldn’t solve this in bed, should talk and listen and mend, but then his stomach caves and he pulls you close and presses his lips to yours.
His hands move down your body, denting your ass, as if he could feel it through the leather if he only pressed in hard enough. Your lips part for him, the taste of you clouding his self-control and in a fury of need he reaches for your thighs until he can drop you back onto the bed. It creaks, protests against your shared weight. He can’t help but crawl on top of you, fully clothed, the suit so unbearably stiff. The brooch dangles over your bare chest when he glances between your bodies. Goosebumps form where the cool metal touches your skin.
“I missed you,” you whisper against his lips.
He groans, his hips bucking into yours. Pinned as you are, he finally dares to ask the question. “Then why did you leave me? Why did you give up?”
You freeze before moving your hands from his back to his face. “I didn’t mean to.”
He can’t bear to hold your gaze, not when he’s feeling so vulnerable. Instead he sits up, tears the brooch off and wriggles until the blazer falls off. He fights the urge to throw the jewels, forces himself to set them aside gently. When his eyes find yours again he has to blink away immediately.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“With- with pity.”
“It’s not pity,” you say. ”C–“
He doesn’t listen. Instead he bears down on you again, folding you so your legs are on either side of him and he can drill his hips into yours. When you feel him, pressing in hard against you, your words catch in your throat.
“I don’t want your pity,” he says. “All I want– All I ever wanted–”
He can’t bring himself to say the words. Copia groans, grinds against you again and again, just to feel your body reacting, the only thing he can understand with plain certainty. Your eyes close against the sensation and he forces your attention back on him with a kiss that steals his own breath. You reciprocate eagerly, teeth and tongue, and he struggles to hold himself up. The shirt has fallen from your shoulders, revealing a sheen of sweat on your skin.
“Fuck–” you start, breaking away for air. “Fuck– Please–”
“Now you want me?” he mocks, lips bruised and aching.
“I always wanted you.”
“You didn’t,” he argues but you don’t fight back, the desperation in your eyes is real and he has to relent, suddenly afraid that he’s hurting you.
“Tesoro–”
“Fuck me, Copia, please,” you whine. “Don’t stop.”
He wants so much more. He wants to hear you say it, that you love him, that he’s not just your friend, that you forgive him for pushing you away, that he’s enough, even now, that he’ll feel whole again, that it won’t hurt like this forever. But he’s lost his momentum, his anger. Instead, he fiddles with his belt, with the button of his pants, pushes them off just enough.
He spits into his hand, probes with his fingers, then lines himself up.
“Not Copia,” he says. “It’s Papa.”
“Papa.”
He nods, pushes forward until his tip slides in. “Again.”
“Papa.”
It’s slow, torturous, the way he fills you one syllable at a time. “Again, tesoro.”
“Papa. Papa.”
Tears well up in his eyes as you repeat the title over and over. He fucks you to forget about them, driving his hips forward despite his pants being in the way. It doesn’t matter if he messes them up, nothing matters but the feeling of being inside of you, your hands clawing at his shirt, your thighs squeezing around him and the stuttering of his heart as his love for you beats a fast, steady rhythm.
But there is this nagging thought as well, the fear that he hasn’t been able to erase from his mind. He rolls his hips, watches your eyes close in pleasure, the title tumbling from your lips like so many nights before. Papa. Papa. Papa. Papa.
“You liked me better too,” he chokes, “when I was Papa.”
He glances away so you don’t see his eyes but a tear slides down his cheek and falls to your nose.
“Look at me,” you whisper. “Please.”
He tries, bites his lip to stop it from trembling. Your fingers are soft when they tilt his chin and he can’t help but allow it. His vulnerability is mirrored in your eyes, all the layers shed, and he can tell he’s been a fool. It has never been pity that he’s seen in your eyes. You do love him.
“Papa, Cardinal, Cardi, C, Frater– It doesn’t matter,” you whisper. “You’re my Copia. I don’t care which title you hold.”
More tears fall from his eyes and to distract you he begins to fuck you again, slow this time but deep, his muscles strung tight every time he meets you. He allows himself to cry, to feel the pain, the relief, and bends down to kiss you, salt on his lips, pouring all of himself into every touch. You moan, beg, cross your legs behind his back to pull him in even deeper. It’s different this time, he can tell.
He’s not your fucking friend.
“Copia,” you whisper against his lips and he knows he can’t last much longer, not when the name falls from your lips so tenderly.
He curses, pushes his hand between your bodies to work you there as well, but you push it aside, merely angling your hips a little differently, keeping him tightly pressed to your body. You whimper, a hand buried in his hair, tight grip, pulling in the way that makes him lose his mind.
“‘m c-close,” you breathe. “Are you going to come with me?”
Tears dry on his cheek, the skin pulling, burning. He finds the last of his strength to grind down, thighs shaking, muscles clenched so tight that they hurt, fighting with himself until you fall apart beneath him. He holds you as close as he can, breaking from the inside, his hips stuttering as he finally lets go. Fresh tears wet his face. They dribble down on you, carrying the sweet release from more than just pleasure. You tremble but your arms close over his shoulders, soft hands caressing the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt, playing with his hair.
“I love you,” you whisper. “I’ve loved you for so long. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” he says. “I love you, tesoro.”
He falls weakly on top of you, the tensions of months falling away. It’s okay, he thinks, everything is okay now. You smile and he does the same, trying not to break out in tears and laughter at the same time. He feels like he’s opened himself up, raw and exposed—to the world, to you—in a way that he hasn’t allowed himself before.
“You love me,” he says, watching as one of his tears slides from your nose to your lips. “How do you love me, tesoro? Tell me I’m not your friend.”
“You are my friend,” you say, “but you’re also so much more than that. I should have told you before you left. There is no one else for me.”
He huffs a manic laugh, nods, but the relief drives away any remaining anger, any insecurities. The fight has left him. Now, the aftermath that leads to healing. Copia moves you both into a comfortable position, your face a mere breath away from his.
“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you as much as I should have been,” you mumble, wiping steadily at the tears coating his face. He almost wants to cry more, just to feel the soft comfort of your touch, to hear the soothing timbre of your voice.
“It’s okay, tesoro,” he says, an echo from a night so long ago that finally rings true. “It will be fine as long as I have you.”
thank you for reading <3 likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!
i just know he fucking smells good, like rich or just good, y'all ever walk past a guy in public and he just smells great and you just gotta stop and appreciate it? that's perpetua
Hello, could I have something about terzo and his daughter is starting to talk and he tries everything for her to call him daddy what wouls his reaction be when she does
Thank you
Alright, I may have overcooked it a little but I was carried away with dad Terzo’s thoughts and I loved this prompt very much and-
Terzo had taken up the strange habit of rocking the little one at odd hours and, whenever he held her in his arms, if he wasn’t speaking to her in such a low voice that it looked like he were only miming the words with his lips, he would simply stare at her and stroke her without saying anything for a very long time.
They say a woman becomes a mother from the moment of conception, but a man only becomes a father once the child is born. Terzo had been so calm during the pregnancy that everyone wondered if he had really understood what was happening, and then, nine months of sleepless nights later, he found himself with that scruffy little creature in his arms.
Terzo had embraced the little girl and had truly felt she was his. And finally, everything felt like it was in the right place.
“She’s yours too. Mostly yours,” her mother had said tiredly; and there, so worn out and exhausted on the hospital bed, she had never seemed more beautiful to Terzo. It didn’t look to him like he had struggled as much as her, though.
“She’s beautiful.” He had rocked her a little, feeling increasingly at ease with the baby the longer he held her. Then he glanced briefly at the mother and gave a faint smile, “I must have thought about you too much at that moment.”
Sometimes, people who saw him so silent during the day wondered if he might be a little jealous that the mother spent most of her time with the baby, or they asked him why he never spoke a word to his own daughter; they had no idea that he told her everything he had never told anyone, when no one else could hear.
She was a calm child, she rarely cried. At night she listened to him as if she were genuinely interested in what he said, though Terzo hoped she wouldn’t remember many of the things he told her. Sometimes he even talked to her while she was sleeping. Yet she was so quiet and attentive, with that steady, bright gaze that made her look like a little cat.
“Your mother says we have the same eyes,” he once confided to her. It must have been five in the morning, but the two of them were already awake, keeping each other company while the mother could finally enjoy some rest. A kind of balance that gave them all a certain stability.
The baby had two green eyes, not yet touched by the devil, calm and steady, focused on everything happening around her.
“I don’t know how she can say that, I’m old and tired. Your eyes are so full of life, so clear… Maybe one day you’ll see me the way she sees me, and you’ll tell me if your mother was right.”
Sometimes, many times, he wished she would answer him. He knew it was too early for that, but the child had already proven precocious, and she had already said the word “mom” a few weeks earlier. She hadn’t yet called him, though, as if that nighttime silence were more comforting for her, and she didn’t need to call him when he was the only person there with her. Another thing they had in common.
He would sit beside her beautiful cradle, fit for a little princess, decorated with ravens and black lace, and just watch her. And when she cried, he carried her in his arms from room to room and told her about a thousand journeys and all the love in the world from his life as a star. But those were warm, stinging memories that no longer hurt him. Each thought was a fragment of those memories that surfaced without shame when he looked at that little girl.
In those moments, he also remembered why that bundle of soft flesh and green eyes was in his arms at all. This child would know his voice, and he would sing only for her, and that was enough.
“I’ve been an asshole, I only thought about myself. I thought I could change the world according to my mind, and that the world would thank me for it. I never really believed something like you could happen, something that would put finally order in my world. You really were a beautiful surprise.” Suddenly Terzo’s tone grew more distant, more hollow. “But never think that you weren’t wanted or loved. You are, so much, and you’ll figure that out yourself… And please, if you love me even a little, don’t repeat the swear words I say or your mother will fucking kill me.”
And at that point, he didn’t know if it was his imagination or just a natural reaction, but he thought he saw the baby smiling in amusement.
One night like any other, after a long day, Terzo was holding the little one, expecting nothing special. Once again the baby looked at him with those big curious eyes, and without him prompting her, she opened her mouth and suddenly… there it was:
“Da-da.”
Terzo froze. There was this tiny shock, like a warm jolt straight to the chest.
“What?” he asked, lifting her a little against his chest. “What did you say?”
He was sure he had heard it, but the desire to hear it again, properly this time, was too strong.
He repeated “dada”, “daddy”, “dad” softly, hoping the baby would say it again. But she kept looking at him with her big eyes, smiling a little, as if teasing him or to be simply happy with him.
He looked around, as if searching for witnesses to what had just happened, but it was only the two of them and a sleeping mother in the other room. “That’s alright, Paganini non ripete*.”
He pulled the baby closer, kissed her forehead, and held her up with pure joy.
“That’s alright,” he repeated, a slow, stunned smile spreading across his face, “That’s our little night secret.”
**
Note:
*Paganini do not repeat. This is a way of saying that comes from the musician, who based his performances on improvisation and didn’t play the same music twice.
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