If you decide to give me flowers, it’s better not to do it, I like food more.
Если решите подарить мне цветы, лучше не делайте этого, я больше люблю еду
Hello everyone. My name is Anastasia. Kosem is my nickname. English is not my native language, I use a translator. So, I love the Sonic movies, Dr. Robotnik from the first part. I also love the band Ghost and I am a big fan of Copia. I also love Turkish series, especially the Kösem empire and I love read books.
I don't like talking about politics because I'm not interested in it.
In my country, even adults can go to college.
I also don't disclose my age because it's not customary in my country.
I hope we can become friends! If anyone is interested in anything, you can always ask me questions) 🫶🫶🫶
Hi! How are things? If you're still taking requests, I'd love to ask for a fanfic where Terzo takes care of the reader as she undergoes surgery
P.S. I'm actually having surgery myself in June, which is why I'm making this request! 🥹👉👈
Hi! Medical/surgery stuff is never fun…but who better than a hot satanic pope turned devoted and reverent lover to be a comfort? 🥰 I’m wishing you all the best with everything 🖤
A Promise In Silver
When surgery leaves you frightened and vulnerable, Terzo promises that the first thing you’ll see when you wake is him. True to his word, he waits through every agonizing minute and cares for you with the same devotion he gives to his most sacred rituals. 💍🕯️🔮
A03
Coupling: Papa Emeritus III X GN! Reader
Word Count: 1,557
The smell of hospital antiseptic clings to everything.
Your gown. The thin blanket tucked over your legs. The stiff white sheets beneath you. Even the air feels sterile.
You are trying so very hard not to fidget as you sit on the edge of the pre-op bed in your oversized gown, fingers working the plastic hospital bracelet around your wrist until it presses red marks into your skin.
“It is not a rosary, Tesoro.”
The familiar voice draws your gaze upward.
Terzo stands in front of you in all black, his usual dramatic silhouette softened by unmistakable concern in his darkened eyes. A gloved hand curls around yours, gently stilling your nervous movements.
“You will rub your skin raw.”
You attempt a smile. “Sorry.”
“No.” His thumb gently strokes along your knuckles. “No apologies for fear.”
The words land with such a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. You had spent most of the morning insisting you were completely fine.
You were not fine.
The surgery was low risk. Straight forward. Something performed every day. Your doctors had said so repeatedly. Yet the thought of being put to sleep, of surrendering your body, trust and consciousness to complete strangers, leaves an ice cold knot of panic in your chest. Terzo can easily sense every spiraling thought before you can even voice them. He steps closer, standing between your knees, and tips your chin upward with surprising gentleness.
“Look at me.”
You do.
The painted skull on his face should look more severe beneath the overhead fluorescent lights, but all you can see is the man underneath it- worried, hopelessly devoted, and trying so very hard to be strong for you.
“You are going to close your eyes,” he murmurs, “and when you open them again, I will be there.”
His forehead rests gently against yours.
“The first thing you will see.”
Your eyes begin to sting. Tears threatening to spill over. You swallow the burning in your throat.
“What if something goes wrong?”
His hands come up and frame your face with a reverent gentleness.
“Then they will answer to me.”
The threat is delivered so smoothly that an involuntary watery laugh escapes your throat.
“There you are,” he whispers with a smile. “That is the sound I wish to hear.”
Terzo is completely quiet for a moment as his eyes search yours. Then, to your surprise, he slips one of his gloves free. The silver papal ring catches the fluorescent lights as he turns it thoughtfully upon his finger.
“Give me your hand.”
You obey without any hesitation. His expression softens as he carefully removes the ring and places it into the palm of your hand. The metal is cool against your skin, and your eyes widen in shock.
“Terzo–“
“Keep it.”
You stare down at the ring. His ring. The one that rarely, if ever, left his hand.
“I can’t.” You shake your head.
“You can.” He nods.
His fingers fold yours gently around it, closing your hand entirely over the silver.
“For protection.”
The corners of your mouth tremble.
“You’re giving me your ring?”
A faint smile touches his lips.
“I am lending it.”
His smile widens.
“If I gave it away permanently, Sister Imperator would undoubtedly rise from whatever meeting she is currently attending and strike me dead.”
A nervous laugh escapes you. Success. That was clearly his goal. His thumb brushes over the knuckles of your clenched fist.
“You will bring it back to me afterward.”
His gaze meets yours.
“But, while you are in there, a part of me goes with you.”
The lump in your throat becomes impossible to ignore now.
“Terzo-“
His expression turns unexpectedly earnest.
“I know it is only a ring,” his hand settles over your clenched fist, “but symbols hold power because we give them power.”
He lifts your knuckles and presses a soft kiss against them.
“So keep it close, amore.”
His voice drops to a whisper.
“And come back to me.”
A soft knock interrupts the moment.
The nurse steps inside with an apologetic expression. “We’re ready for you.”
The fear returns so quickly it steals your breath away. Your fingers tighten around Terzo’s hand. For the first time that morning his composure falters. Only slightly. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches and the way he draws in a measured breath before he leans down and kisses your forehead tenderly.
Then your nose.
Then both cheeks.
Then your lips, lingering there just long enough to steady and ground you.
“Listen to me, amore.”
His voice drops, low and firm, the serious tone he uses when he needs you to believe him.
“You are coming back to me.”
A tear finally spills over and slips down your cheek. He brushes it away with the pad of his thumb.
“No arguments. No dramatics. No attempts to haunt me from beyond.”
You can’t help but laugh through tears.
“I mean it,” he states matter-of-factly, eyes shining. “I have far too many plans for you.”
The nurse gives you a sweet sympathetic smile as she moves to wheel your bed toward the door. Your heart hammers in your chest. Terzo walks alongside you until he is no longer allowed. At the threshold of the operating room, he squeezes your hand one final time.
“I love you.” You whisper.
His lips brush your knuckles softly.
“More than any prayer I have ever spoken.” He breathes gently.
The doors begin to close. The last thing you see before they swing shut is Terzo standing tall in the bright hospital corridor, his hands clasping in front of him like a man pretending not to pray to his dark lord.
Eventually, the world begins to return to you in fragments. A steady beeping. The whisper of fabric. The faint scent of antiseptic mingled with something much warmer and familiar- leather, incense and the cologne that has now become synonymous with home.
Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. You pry them open with a soft groan.
The room is dimmer than before, the harsh fluorescents muted. Everything looks hazy, swirling at the edges. Then after a moment, your vision focuses.
There he is. Exactly as he promised.
Terzo is sat beside your bed in a stiff uncomfortable hospital chair that is definitely too small, even for him. His hair is slightly disheveled, his paint a little smudged below tired eyes, as if he has rubbed at them more than once while waiting.
You realize one of his gloves is gone. His bare hand is wrapped around yours. The moment your eyes meet his, relief washes over his face so powerfully it nearly undoes you on the spot.
“Buongiorno, sleepyhead.” He murmurs quietly.
Your lips feel numb and clumsy.
“You’re…pretty.”
A breathless laugh escapes him.
“Yes, yes, I have been informed.”
His thumb gently strokes the back of your hand, reverent and steady.
“You also informed the nurse that I am ‘very shiny’.”
You frown, trying to process whatever that could actually mean.
“Are you?”
He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.
“Only for you.”
The memory of fear flickers briefly, but is quickly drowned beneath the sheer warmth of his presence. You are groggy, sore, and still drifting at the very edge of consciousness…but he is here. Just as he said he would be.
“Did you stay?” You whisper.
Terzo’s expression completely softens.
“Every second.”
Your eyes burn unexpectedly. He immediately notices.
“Ah, none of that.” His fingers gently brush beneath your lashes, catching a tear before it can fall. “You were magnificent.”
“I feel weird.”
“That is the medication.” His lips curve. “And perhaps the realization that you have survived and are obligated to continue loving me.”
A sleepy laugh bubbles to the surface of your tongue.
“There you are,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles one by one. “I am so proud of you.”
The words settle into your chest, warm and healing. You swallow the lump in your throat.
“Was it bad?”
He shakes his head.
“The doctors are pleased. Everything went according to plan.”
You let out a breath you don’t realize you are even holding.
Terzo rises from his chair just enough to carefully lean over the hospital bed, mindful of every wire and bandage. His forehead rests against yours.
“You frightened me.” He admits in a whisper. Your fingers curl around his weakly.
“Sorry.”
His eyes flash with affectionate reproach.
“What did I say about apologies?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips.
“That they are not allowed.”
“Precisely.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth.
“You did the hardest part. Now you rest.”
Your eyelids are already drooping again.
“I love you,” you slur.
Terzo’s smile turns soft and impossibly tender.
“I know.” He brushes your hair away from your face. “You told the nurse, the doctor, and the gentleman delivering your ice chips.”
You gently snort out a slurred giggle as Terzo settles back into the chair without ever releasing your hand.
“Sleep, amore. I am here.”
The last thing you feel before drifting under once more is the steady stroke of his thumb across your skin.
And the last thing you hear is his voice, low and warm beside you.
Hi everyone. Chapter memes are postponed indefinitely because I'm in the hospital undergoing surgery. I'll try to make a few chapters after I'm discharged. Thank you for your understanding, I love you all 🩷
Hello beautiful friend! I have rewarded your friendship and willingness to indulge me with some amazingly smutty V shenanigans SEVERE EMOTIONAL DAMAGE. Oh. SORRY :')
I'm using these song lyric prompts to experiment where I can, as well as limit myself to shorter pieces of writing. Thanks @thevoidinyourstomach for giving this a quick lookover <3
Perpetua's dreams are haunted by you. ~700 words. No specific reader descriptions. No warnings other than hurt, extreme yearning, and disturbing dream visions. Dream you goes through some shit but no graphic descriptions.
Every night is the same. He closes his eyes and you appear to him. Even in his mind, he cannot conjure a version of you who looks at him the way he needs you to. Some nights he manages cautious but willing, your hesitance fading into morbid curiosity. Other nights, far too many, he sees the fear overtake you as you try to run from him. He knows you are right to.
Tonight, you try to stay calm. You tremble under his touch as he delicately traces a pointed claw along the curve of your spine. Standing bare before him, flickering candlelight dances over your skin fighting the shadow he casts over you as his imposing presence threatens to consume you. His hands move over you and, as he explores you, the flames grow taller and burn brighter until your eye's reflection looks like Hell itself. It singes his ceremonial robes and the metal on his gloves seems to disintegrate but your perfect form remains completely pure.
Selfishly he clings to you in the carnage. He tries to cradle you in his arms but his hands anchor to you, claiming you as if he has any right to. You shed a single tear, but he feels it roll down his own cheek. Despite the tremor in your hand, you reach out to catch it. Pity dampens the fear in your expression as your bodies entwine, giving in to the inevitable.
The harder he tries to pull you in, the less solid you feel in his grasp. You slip through his fingers like wisps of smoke as your body breaks apart around him. This version of you forgives him, accepts him whole even as he devours you from the inside out. The more he gives of himself, the more you disappear but he cannot stop. His hands search for you and his mouth seeks out your taste, but you only become more diluted.
Somehow, he finds your lips with his and he moans in relief when he finds them solid, textured and reciprocal. You are tangible again, and kissing him with as much desire as he has ever felt. Your body is flesh and bone again, reforming from vapour and essence, into something that can respond to his touch. Something that can unravel him. And as your fingers become entangled in his curls and your tongue slithers over his, finally showing at least a fraction of the desperate need he feels, his soul catches fire.
He tries to swallow the agony, refusing to give up the the very thing that has set it ablaze. Your kiss is the oxygen and it is killing him, the flames gorging on it as you envelop him. Just as his agony peaks, at the crest of the wave of pain and euphoria, the whole room takes a breath. A split second of nothing, the roar of the fire dimming to a crackle, followed by a gasp.
He's looking up at you now. Your mouth is forced open by a cry and your silhouette is surrounded by the hellfire's glow, tendrils of flame licking at your flesh. Your skin sears in his hands, connecting you to the pain and pleasure and abject horror that was once solely his. You lean into it, entrapped and seduced by it. Eager to melt and doomed to disappear into it. Your innocence scorched and charred, you are damned by his incessant need to have you until it turns to dust. Even as you are engulfed by it and he watches how it destroys you, Perpetua does not open his eyes.
In the daylight, you will both keep your distance. He will steal a glance and wonder, when he catches a glimpse of that same unease before you avert your eyes, if you know that he watches you die every night. He will worry that you know the solace he takes in it and it will only strengthen his vow to never corrupt you with his affection. But here, like this, he can have you. In this room, in the dark, you are forever his.
I don't know if you could tell, but I'm a sucker for any Situation involving the twins...
(to nobody's surprise 🤭)
GN Reader, no gender specific terms used!
NSFW under the cut!
You're laid on your shared bed; making out with one of them whilst the other has your legs hooked over his shoulders. The motions of both of their tongues are slow, deliberate, almost synchronised as you melt under their affections.
The spell of their tongues breaks for a moment as the brother above you pulls away. Grinning wolfishly down at you, his thumb gently presses against your lips, encouraging you to open your mouth.
His cock strains against soft material as he unzips the fly of his pants with a deft flick of his wrist. You whine as the pad of his thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing gently but firmly at the base of your tongue, preparing you for what's to come.
Not satisfied with the attention you're giving him, the brother between your legs flicks his tongue deftly against the most sensitive part of you, and you arch upwards. He laughs, wickedly, pressing a hot open mouthed kiss tantalisingly close to where you need him, and yet still too far away.
'Pay attention, now...' he croons, the warmth of his breath whispering over slick skin. You feel yourself throb, your need leaking onto the mattress. A strangled groan is followed by the trace of a tongue capturing the taste of you, unwilling to waste a single precious drop.
You hear the clink of a belt next to your ear, coupled with the soft shuffle of material, and you turn your head eagerly to be met with the most perfectly sinful sight.
'Open, love.'
Obediently, you open your mouth; almost subconsciously your thighs part further in anticipation. They both chuckle adoringly at your eagerness, leatherclad hands closing around your hips.
The sound abruptly cuts off above you as your tongue darts out, catching a bead of precum. He hisses through gritted teeth as you play teasingly with the platinum barbell threaded through the head of his cock, his desire leaking from him faster than you can keep up.
'Fu-uck- I think you deserve your reward now, don't you agree...?' the one above you grits, coating your lips with the taste of him. Already under your spell, the one beneath you merely grunts, pressing his nose to the apex of your thighs where your scent is the richest and inhaling deeply.
Almost like they've rehearsed it, they claim you together as one; possessing you, mind and body. You feel like you're floating, head blissfully empty as you devour and are devoured.
The world falls away, leaving you with nothing but sensations as you tangle one hand into hair streaked with grey, the other threading through an empty belt loop like a lifeline.
Nothing else matters to you except how full your mouth feels, endless waves of pleasure pulsing under your skin. Languid flicks of a sinful tongue encourage the heat pooling deliciously between your thighs.
As much as you want this to last forever, it is inevitable that someone will break first.
The first to succumb is the brother beneath you as he growls against you, the worship of his tongue becoming sloppier, more desperate. In a frenzy, his hand reaches between his legs, only managing a few strokes of his hand over his clothed cock before he's spilling into his pants with a strangled groan.
The vibrations, coupled with his lips sealing around you are enough to undo you as your pleasure crashes over you. Your release pours down his throat, and you feel every swallow as he drinks you down; a fine wine to be savoured.
Your back arches up off the bed as his tongue encourages you, your cries of ecstasy muffled by the cock of the brother above you. A firm hand on your chest guides you back down as he pulls back slightly, reminding you whom you had yet to serve.
Above you, slow rolls of hips become sloppy as the sensation of your throat closing around his length is enough to undo him; a long, low moan your only warning. A hand holds your head gently in place as he fills your mouth, pulses of his love spilling salty-sweet down your throat.
As you slump back down, spent and utterly satisfied, you feel them both pull away altogether and whimper pitifully. They're quick to return, neither of them willing to leave you for long.
Cleaning you up gently, they paint worshipful kisses and feather-soft touches over your thrumming body, before taking their rightful places on either side of you.
Burrowing into the chest of one, you feel the other wrap his arms almost possessively around your waist, pressing a chaste kiss against your hairline as the other murmurs softly into your hair.
Just before sleep pulls you under, you smile. You are comfortable, snuggled against a soft chest covered in downy hair, your back pressed against a steady heartbeat, held between the men you adore.
They are, and always will be, your safe place; your home.
There’s beauty in destruction and there is beauty in pain. A droplet of blood in the fresh snow, bleeding out as the snow turns red and pink, what a pretty corpse. A dream come true. But every nightmare is a dream too, and oftentimes dreams do come true in the strangest ways.If there was one thing Coyle had missed the most, then it was the clear open sky. Standing outside and feeling the rain on his skin or the sun kissing his face after a day of hiding behind the clouds. How he longed for a tan on his pale skin, how he longed for the uncomfortable feeling of a slight sunburn after a day outside.The facility had been on fire for weeks before the big break happened, but no matter how many different drugs were pumped into the reagents or how many times Dr. Easterman tried to tell them how much he loved them - there were fires one could not put out, and this one exploded as if oil was poured into it.Scientists and guards joined, supplying the reagents with uppers to keep them strong during the escape. Getting out of the facility wasn’t too hard after all, most walls were made out of plywood, and the Berserkers ripped through these walls as if they were made out of warm butter.
Started writing that Post Murkoff Coyle fic. It'll be a 'I can fix him' fic but I haven't decides on which stuff I should use - 'you', an OC, just using 'she' like in PP?
Anyway there'll be more soon and Coyle will suffer a lot before he gets ANY comfort.
Another one that's on the list, Coyle being a girl dad.
tw: nothing just fluffy modern au, also I'm bringing Electric Love Coyle back for this one gang
I dunno why, but Coyle being a girl dad feels right to me compared to Coyle having a son. Probably because the more I think about it, if he were a dad, he would remind me of my dad lol.
Coyle would absolutely be an overprotective dad towards his own daughter. A helicopter dad at best. Coyle would be asking about her friends, like how old are they? Did they commit any crimes? Do they do drugs? Do they drink? None of her friends does because they're just going out to study.
Now, if he doesn't ask about that, rest assured, he will hop in his police car & stalk. He wants to make sure his baby girl is okay, which she is. Coyle doesn't trust people she doesn't know, & it gets even worse when she gets a partner.
Godspeed to the person who ends up dating his daughter, because they will be interrogated like they personally committed a war crime in front of him. You, his spouse, have to go tell him to relax because Coyle is scaring the poor kid.
Coyle grumbles as he leans to the side of the living room door frame, staring at the two teenagers. "I ain't too fond of a stranger makin' goo-goo eyes at my daughter."
You massage his shoulder to help him adjust his attitude. "Leland, relax. They're just talking. Leave them be." You kiss his cheek, but he ends up grumbling more.
"They better not end up fuckin' in my kitchen-"
"Oh my god, Le. They have textbooks out!"
However, despite his attitude towards anyone new who talks to his own daughter, he does really care about her.
You would absolutely see the switch-up of how he's talking to someone & him talking to his daughter. You can absolutely see the adoration in his eyes as he stares at his daughter, & you know what? She looks a lot like you compared to him. She acts a lot like you, too.
It would be much harder for Coyle to have a relationship with his daughter if she were just like him. As much as Coyle doesn't say it out loud, Coyle doesn't like himself & he doesn't want his daughter to end up like him. He doesn't want her to end up like you either. Not because you're bad. You're absolutely lovely in his eyes.
He wants his daughter to become her own person. He tries not to hold expectations but the one thing he asks is his daughter be a loving person.
After a ritual meant to enhance his power goes wrong, Papa III finds himself split in two—control and desire made flesh. Trapped together within the ritual chamber, Terzo is forced to confront the parts of himself he’s long kept buried… and discovers they may be impossible to resist. 🔮 📖🕯️
AO3
Coupling: Papa Emeritus III x Papa Emeritus III
Word Count: 4,781
NSFW UNDER THE CUT - This has themes of selfcest which is apparently considered dead dove…this is solely Terzo x Terzo but the warning still stands 🕊️
The chamber is much quieter than it should be.
Not exactly silent- but quiet in a way that feels off. Almost as though the sound has been pressed flat against the walls and just left there to suffocate. Lit incense smoke lingers low and heavy, clinging to stone in sweet resinous layers that should feel familiar…comforting even. Tonight it is settling differently. Too thick. Perhaps even watchful.
He remains after others have all gone. The last echoes of black mass hum and linger faintly in his bones- devotion turned reverence turned something hungrier- something he always carries along with him when the pews empty and the doors close. It clings to him as stubbornly as incense smoke, threaded through velvet and skin alike.
He has not fully undressed. His chasuble hangs open, hanging loosely but not removed, dark fabrics shifting gently in candlelight when he moves. His gloves are long gone- discarded carelessly on the altar he now stands before. The paint at the edges of his mouth is faintly smudged, worn just slightly enough to betray the hours behind him. Still papa. Still spectacle. Just less contained.
Much more honest.
A single candle flame bends near the edge of the ritual circle, as though disturbed by breath that isn’t even there. He watches it for a moment longer than necessary, and then steps forward.
Bare hands go first- always bare for this. Rings glint in the low candlelight as his fingers hover over the carved surface of the altar, not quite touching. The symbols etched are old. Older than him, and older than the ministry itself in any form he cares to acknowledge. They have answered before, and they will answer again.
“Just a little more,” he murmurs, voice low and indulgent. Not pleading- he has absolutely no desperation in him tonight. Merely curiosity.
Appetite.
Hunger.
His smiles curves dangerously, slow and knowing.
“Si può sempre migliorare.”
One can always improve hm?
The Latin that follows is softer and far less performative than what he typically gives the entirety of the congregation. It curls from his tongue like second nature. With familiarity rather than showmanship. It is not meant to impress, but rather to invite. Each word deliberate. Every syllable being placed with extreme care.
The air shifts. Subtly at first.
The candlelight dips. Not extinguished, but drawn inward towards his form in the middle of the circle. As if something unseen has leaned closer to listen in carefully. Shadows stretch just a fraction too far, pooling where they should not.
Nevertheless, he continues.
There is a rhythm to it now- a rhythm he knows quite well. He has walked this line more than once before. Flirted with something just beyond the veil. Letting it brush against his consciousness just enough to sharpen his performance. Always controlled. Contained.
Tonight, Terzo pushes further. Not recklessly. Intentionally.
“Vieni,” he breathes, much softer now, coaxing rather than commanding. “Fammi… migliore.”
Come. Make me better.
The temperature drops. Not cold in the typical sense- something much different. The warmth in the room retreats, leaving something much sharper behind. Something that pricks along his skin and settles beneath it. His breath catches just slightly, more from the sensation than actual surprise.
There.
That’s it.
Exactly what he’s looking for.
He tilts his head, half lidded eyes still locked on the symbols on the ground. He’s savoring it. The feeling of being observed. Touched, almost, but not physically. Not quite yet.
“Così,” he whispers.
Yes. Like that.
The pressure is building slowly.
It begins somewhere indistinctly that he cannot quite place- perhaps the chest, spine, the space between his ribs- and then it spreads. Not outwards. Inward. Folding in on itself. Folding in on him. He inhales sharply, fingers bracing and pushing into the concrete altar beneath him.
This is something new. Interesting.
His lips part as another phrase begins forming- something to try to guide, shape or direct it-
–but the words catch.
The pressure spikes.
Not a presence entering. Something…else.
It pulls.
Not forward. Not back. Not inward.
Apart.
His breath is stuttering into something sharper, a fractured exhale that echoes strangely throughout the chamber. The sound returns to his ears a fraction too late- a fraction too wrong.
The candlelight flickers violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadies.
The pressure peaks- and breaks.
Heavy silence follows. Immediate and absolute.
For a moment, Terzo doesn’t move. His hands remain planted firmly against the altar, fingers splayed, rings cold against the stone. His head is bowed, dark stray strands of hair falling forward obscuring his expression. The world in this moment feels distant…muted at the edges.
Something shifts in the atmosphere behind him. With a slow deliberate exhale, he regains control in the only way he knows how: by taking it.
His shoulders straighten, spine snapping into alignment, every inch of himself settling back into the posture he wears as naturally as his own vestments.
Composed. Untouchable. Papa.
“Interesting.” He murmurs to himself aloud, voice smooth once more despite the lingering echo of strain beneath it. It did not feel like possession. No weight settling into him. No foreign will pressing against his own. No. His brows furrow, ever so slightly.
It felt like-
A soft sound interrupts his thought. Not loud or abrupt. Simply…present. A breath. Behind him.
He stills.
Slowly- so slowly it borders on theatrical- he lifts his head. The movement is measured. Controlled. Betraying nothing of the sharp awareness now thrumming through his entire being. One hand leaves the altar, then the other, as he turns with a deliberate precision as though he expects nothing more than an afterimage. A trick of whatever it is that he has stirred.
He turns and stops.
There is someone standing with him in the circle. Close. Closer than anyone should be.
For a single, suspended moment, his mind refuses to resolve what he is seeing- not out of fear but sheer disbelief refined into something much sharper. He takes in all the details at once:
The posture.
The silhouette.
The fall of fabric, dark and familiar.
The face.
The eye.
Recognition doesn’t come in stages. It hits all once like a freight train. No confusion or panic.
Understanding.
His own gaze meets his. Not mirrored. Not reflected. Returned.
The other him is already watching. Already aware. Already- amused.
A slow smile curves across that identical mouth, much less restrained and far more indulgent. The other tilts his head, studying Terzo with an intimacy that no stranger could ever replicate.
When he finally speaks, the voice is all Terzo. Just looser. Lower. Unburdened by any restraint.
“Oh.” The other Terzo murmurs softly, eyes flicking over him with open, unapologetic interest.
A pause. A breath. Then-
“Well,” he says, almost pleased. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Terzo doesn’t step back. For most, it would instinctual to recoil, to demand that explanation, to panic. To try to break whatever strange illusion has taken shape in front of them.
But he is not like most.
He watches. Studies. Consumes.
The other him stands comfortably within the circle, as though he has always belonged there. Shoulders loose, weight shifted slightly to one leg, head tilted with open curiosity. There is no urgency in him. No confusion. Merely interest.
“Have I been hiding?” Terzo replies smoothly, though his voice carries something quieter beneath it now- sharpened by the way his gaze tracks every minute detail of the other.
The angle of his own smile just slightly different. The looseness of his posture, completely absent of the careful control he himself maintains. The absence of restraint.
The other Terzo hums low in his throat as if considering the question seriously.
“Mmm. Perhaps buried.” He corrects, while stepping closer. The movement is unhurried, deliberate…and too close. Terzo doesn’t retreat. He should. He doesn’t. Instead his chin lifts just slightly, defiance threading through the stillness he holds.
“And you believe yourself uncovered?” Terzo challenges the other.
A flash of teeth- his teeth- answers him.
“I believe,” the other says softly, “I am what you avoid.”
The words land heavier than they should. Terzo knows the other is not wrong. The air between them immediately tightens, something unseen pulling taut like a wire stretched to its limit.
They stand there facing each other- mirror and distortion- and neither looks away.
It happens without announcement. A shift. A flicker of intent. The other Terzo reaches first. Not abruptly- no, nothing about him is abrupt- but with a quiet certainty as though the outcome has already been decided and he is simply following through with it.
His hand lifts. Familiar. Yet foreign. Fingers brush Terzo’s wrist. The reaction is immediate. Sharp. Not painful, but something much brighter. Something that cuts straight through composure and settles deep, too deep, as though the sensation does not stop at the skin.
Terzo inhales sharply.
So does the other.
They both still. Eyes snap simultaneously to where they touch. For a moment neither moves. Then slowly, Terzo’s fingers turn just slightly enough to press back into the other’s wrist. Testing. Confirming. The sensation doubles. Not mirroring- but shared. A quiet startled sound escapes one of them. Neither can say who it is first. Both pull back a fraction, not far, but enough to break that point of contact. The connection snaps.
The silence is thicker than before. Hearts steadying. Breathing just slightly uneven.
“Incredible.” The other murmurs, much softer now.
Terzo says nothing, but his gaze changes. They do not leave the circle. Neither suggests it. It feels contained here. Held. Safe, in a way that makes no sense. Dangerous in a way that does.
“You feel it.” The other says, watching Terzo carefully now. Not teasing- not quite. More observing.
Terzo exhales slowly, forcing the last remnants of that reaction back under control.
“I feel,” he replies, measured, “that something has gone…unexpectedly.”
A soft laugh. Low and knowing.
“Oh, don’t do that,” the other chides gently, stepping closer again. “Don’t pretend you dislike it.”
Terzo’s eyes narrow, just slightly.
“I don’t indulge every curiosity,” he says.
“No.” The other agrees easily. “You suppress them.”
The words land close. Too close. Before Terzo can respond, the other leans in—enough that the space between them disappears entirely.
“You always have,” he continues, voice dropping. “Even when you didn’t want to.”
Terzo holds his ground.
But something in his posture shifts.
Not retreat. Something more fragile.
“And you,” he counters quietly, “lack the discipline to be anything more than impulse.”
Another smile. Slower now. Sharper.
“And yet,” the other murmurs, gaze flicking briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes, “you invited me.”
That lands, because he did.
It becomes harder to ignore after that.
The space between them widens—just a step, maybe two—but the effect is immediate.
Wrong.
Terzo feels it first as a dulling. Like something vital has been turned down just slightly too far.
The edge he carries, the sharpness, the awareness—it softens in a way that irritates instantly.
Across from him, the other shifts, expression flickering—just briefly. Unsettled.
“…You feel that,” Terzo says, before he can stop himself.
The other exhales through his nose, annoyed.
“Yes.”
A beat.
Neither moves.
Then, almost at the same time—They step closer again.
The sensation corrects itself instantly.
Sharpens.
Aligns.
The difference is unmistakable.
Silence stretches between them, but it is no longer uncertain. It is… understanding.
Something clicks into place. Not comfort. Not yet, but rather recognition of something necessary.
“You’ve divided us,” the other says quietly, more thoughtful now.
Terzo shakes his head once.
“No,” he replies.
His gaze lifts, steady, certain despite everything.
“I revealed us.”
That draws a different kind of look. Something deeper. Something that lingers.
The space between them is gone again.
Not gradually.
Not cautiously.
It closes in a way that feels less like a decision and more like gravity—inevitable, unarguable, already set in motion long before either of them acknowledged it.
They stand too close. Breath shared.
Awareness sharpened to something unbearable.
For a moment—just a moment—Terzo holds onto it. Control.
Posture straight, chin lifted, every inch of him still wrapped in the authority he wears so well. The version of himself that commands, that performs, that never needs.
Across from him, the other watches. And waits.
He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push.
That, more than anything, is what cracks it, because he knows. Of course they both know.
A slow exhale leaves Terzo, quieter than it should be.
“Say it,” the other murmurs softly.
Terzo’s jaw tightens.
“I have nothing to—”
“Say it,” he repeats, gentler this time, but firmer. Certain.
The words hang there, suspended between them, heavy with everything unspoken.
Terzo’s gaze flickers—just once—to his mouth.
That is all it takes.
The other Terzo smiles.
Not wide.
Not mocking.
Just… knowing.
“I know you feel it,” he says, voice low enough that it barely carries, meant only for him. “Every time you hold yourself back. Every time you decide restraint is somehow…dignity.”
A step closer.
If that’s even possible.
“You’re tired of it.”
Terzo inhales sharply.
“That is not—”
“—true?” the other finishes for him, tilting his head slightly. “You want me to lie to you?”
The question lands differently. Not a challenge.
An invitation.
Silence stretches—tight, thin, fragile.
And then—
Something in Terzo shifts. It’s subtle from the outside, but inside, it fractures clean.
The careful distance he maintains—the line between indulgence and control, between performance and truth—slips. Just enough.
His hand lifts. This time, there’s no hesitation.
Fingers catch in the front of the other’s vestments, pulling him in—not gently, not cautiously, but with a certainty that borders on frustration.
The reaction is immediate.
A sharp intake of breath—shared, again, indistinguishable in origin. When soft lips meet, everything they’ve been holding—every suppressed impulse, every restrained reaction, every indulgence denied—it crashes together all at once, overwhelming in its clarity. The other grabs Terzo under the jaw pulling him in closer, and slipping his tongue between waiting parted lips. The other hand is snaked around black raven tresses that tugs just enough to illicit soft groans from the normally stoic Papa. Terzo is closing any distance by pulling the other as close as possible, tongue and hands moving with an urgency that has been building since the ritual broke him open. The other takes hold of Terzo’s vestments and gently pushes him to the floor in the middle of the ritual circle.
Within a few moments they both momentarily pull away, while identical hands paw and peel clothing away messily tossing it away carelessly. The other crawls on top of Terzo, straddling his legs,
“Tonight, you are both priest and offering.” The other breathes, lips ghosting over those of Terzo. “Let me show you what devotion feels like.”
Terzo pulls the other by the back of the neck towards him, crashing their lips together in a frenzy. The space between them disappears again, but it’s no longer abrupt. It’s drawn out, savored, every inch of closeness felt twice over, every shift amplified until it borders on overwhelming. The other is slowly drawing soothing circles with bare fingertips along Terzo’s ribcage and down his sides, causing the beauty below him to shiver. Terzo is firmly gripping and kneading handfuls of ass on the other, while both are groaning into the mouth of each other. Hands move in tandem—not aimless, not frantic, but purposeful in a way that only comes from knowing exactly what will elicit a reaction, and exactly what will undo it. The other pulls away, moving to situate himself between Terzo’s legs.
“You are starving.” The other pants softly, fingers gently tracing the puckering hole displayed so prettily in front of him. With the other hand he gently cups Terzo’s face, thumb smudging the edge of his paints further. A finger slides inside, then two, gently hooking upwards in a come hither motion. This is his body. The other knows exactly where his own spot is. Terzo groans, back arching off the concrete ritual circle, while fingers perfectly inside of him.
“Look at you,” the other murmurs, voice velvet-soft and utterly merciless.
Terzo’s breath catches.
A pleased smile curves over an identical mouth.
“There you are.”
Their foreheads rest together for just a moment.
“You can keep the crown, amore,” he whispers. “We both know who truly has you.”
Terzo’s composure fractures.
The other smiles wider, eyes dark with certainty.
“I am the part of you that refuses to go hungry.”
The other continues to work his fingers flawlessly against the spot that is leaving Terzo a trembling mess. Sure, the other could milk the now submissive papa with bare fingers alone but the other Terzo knows exactly what the Papa wants. The other recognizes every weakness and every restraint Terzo has, refusing to let him hide behind his usual composure.
Slowly, the other withdraws his fingers, gripping plush ass which causes a needy whimper from Terzo and his hips to buck upwards in search of friction. The throbbing and leaking erection bobbing on his stomach only further gives him away. The other chuckles darkly, and slowly lines up his tip with Terzo’s entrance.
“You cannot shock me, amore. I am you. I know every thought in your pretty little head- and I know exactly how much you want this.”
“You think you know me so well but—“
The other makes momentary eye contact and slowly slides his length inside of Terzo.
“Cazzo,” Terzo moans, eyes rolling back into his head.
“Mm, now that is what honesty sounds like.”
The other starts to grind his hips, guiding Terzo on and off his length with the harsh grip he has on his ass. Terzo is reduced to a whining whimpering mess beneath him, while the other is holding deep eye contact with him. Terzo is leaking precum all over his belly. He could practically be milked this way alone, every snap of the others hips hits that spot better than anyone or anything else ever could.
Terzo yelps loudly when the other spits all over his angry cock and takes it into his free hand. The sensation is overwhelming.
“You are not escaping me. You are becoming me. You don’t get to hide from me anymore.”
The pleasure is building rapidly and neither can last much longer. The other Terzo’s thrusts are becoming more erratic, his hand and saliva are working the Papa at a punishing pace.
“You’ve been holding yourself back your entire life.” The other pants, “Let go, Terzo.”
Both simultaneously loudly cry out- Terzo explodes all over his own stomach and chest making himself a mess; The other feels Terzo’s hole tighten around him, pulling him inward, and he spills ropes of his own explosive release deep inside. It takes a moment for each to catch their breath before the other rolls off of Terzo to lay beside him on the cool concrete.
The chamber is quiet again, but it is not the same quiet.
The air feels… disturbed. Shifted. As though something has been pulled open and not fully closed again. The incense still lingers, but thinner now, threaded with something warmer—something lived-in.
The candles burn lower. Steadier.
Time has passed.
How much—neither of them could say.
They have not moved far. They cannot, not entirely.
Terzo exhales slowly, the sound uneven in a way that would be unthinkable beyond these walls. His head tips forward, resting briefly against the other’s shoulder—not from weakness, not quite, but from the simple fact that holding himself upright, composed, separate, feels like more effort than he is willing to give just yet.
Across from him—around him—the other remains close.
Not crowding. Not withdrawing. Present.
A hand lingers where it last settled, not gripping now, not demanding—just there, as though removing it would break something newly formed between them.
Their breathing begins to steady. Not perfectly. Not evenly, but closer. Synced. Of course.
Terzo lets out a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh, though it lacks humor.
“…Curious,” he murmurs again, softer this time, the word less controlled, more felt.
The other hums faintly in agreement.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” he asks, voice low, edged with something that might have been teasing earlier—but now sits deeper, heavier.
Terzo lifts his head slightly, enough to look at him. Really look. The differences are still there. Subtle.
But now—
Now they feel less like contrast and more like… familiarity brought too close. Like seeing something usually kept just out of reach and realizing it has always belonged to you.
His gaze sharpens. Something unspoken passes between them—quick, instinctive, understood without needing to be named.
Terzo stands up, straightens slowly. Not pulling away entirely—but enough to reclaim space, to test it.
The distance stretches—
And immediately, something in his expression tightens.
That dulling again. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Across from him, the other shifts as well, the ease in his posture faltering for the first time since his appearance.
There’s a moment.
A shared realization.
Then—
Almost instinctively—
They step back into each other’s space.
The tension eases.
Not gone. Never gone, but righted.
Terzo exhales through his nose, quieter now, more controlled—but not untouched.
“…That is inconvenient,” he says.
The other huffs a soft laugh, closer to breath than sound.
“Is it?” he counters. A tilt of his head. “Or is it honest?”
Terzo’s gaze flickers.
Annoyance sparks first—reflexive, familiar—but it doesn’t hold. Not fully.
Because the truth of it lingers, undeniable.
He looks away first. Not far. Just enough to gather himself. To attempt, once more, to reconstruct the version of himself that exists outside this room—the one that commands, that performs, that contains, but the edges don’t sit quite right anymore.
Something has shifted beneath them.
Something he cannot simply fold back into place.
“…This was not the intention,” he says finally.
The other steps closer again—slow, unthreatening, inevitable.
“No,” he agrees softly.
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“But you felt it.”
Terzo’s jaw tightens. He does not answer. He does not need to.
Silence stretches—but it is not empty.
It hums.
Alive with everything that has already happened… and everything that now lingers just beneath the surface, waiting.
The other watches him carefully.
Not pushing.
Not teasing.
Just… there.
“You will try to undo this,” he says after a moment.
Not accusatory. Certain.
Terzo’s eyes flick back to his.
“Yes,” he replies.
A beat.
Then, quieter,
“I should.”
Another pause. Longer this time. He doesn’t move or step away. He doesn’t break the space they’ve closed again.
The other’s expression shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. Knowing.
“And will you?” he asks.
The question hangs between them.
Heavy.
Important.
Dangerous.
Terzo holds his gaze.
For a moment, the answer almost forms—automatic, expected, safe. But it doesn’t come.
Because he already knows—
Undoing it would mean giving this up.
This clarity. This intensity. This completeness he hadn’t realized he was missing.
His voice, when it finally comes, is quieter than before. Less certain.
“…Not yet.”
That is enough. More than enough.
The other smiles—not sharp, not teasing, but slow and satisfied in a way that settles deep.
“Good,” he murmurs.
The word lands like a promise. Or a warning. It’s hard to tell which.
Terzo exhales slowly, tension coiling and settling all at once.
The chamber feels different now.
Not just altered—
Claimed.
What happened here did not end.
It lingers.
In the air.
In his body.
In the space between them that refuses to hold distance for long.
He glances once toward the edge of the circle. Toward the door beyond. Toward the world waiting outside. Then back. To him. To himself.
They feel it at the same time. A shift.
Terzo stills where he stands, the faintest tightening in his posture betraying it. Across from him—no, within reach of him—the other mirrors it, expression sharpening as something unfamiliar threads through the space between them.
The connection changes. Not weaker or fading.
But… pulling.
Like a current reversing.
Terzo exhales slowly, controlled, though his gaze has already locked onto the other’s.
“You feel that,” he says quietly.
It’s not a question.
The other tilts his head, listening to something neither of them can hear, but both understand.
“Yes,” he answers.
A pause.
Then, softer—
“We are not meant to remain like this.”
The words should sound like relief.
They don’t.
They settle somewhere deeper—heavier.
Terzo’s jaw shifts, tension flickering briefly before it’s mastered. “No,” he agrees, though the word comes slower than it should.
Because separation had been wrong.
But this—
This feels like something else entirely. Not loss.
Not quite.
The space between them narrows again, instinctively, as though both are resisting the pull even as it strengthens.
“Stay,” Terzo says before he can stop himself.
It slips out—low, immediate, more honest than anything he’s said since all of this began.
The other stills.
Not surprised.
Not mocking.
Just… aware.
“I am,” he replies.
A faint smile touches his mouth, softer now, stripped of its earlier edge.
“I always was.”
The pull sharpens. Not painful, but certainly undeniable. It draws them closer—not step by step this time, but all at once, like breath being taken in.
Terzo’s hand lifts, catching at him again—not with urgency now, but with something steadier. Grounding. Holding. As though he could anchor the other here through sheer will.
The other’s hand meets his without hesitation.
Familiar. Perfect.
The contact flares—brighter than before, deeper, no longer overwhelming but instead aligning. Every sensation slots into place with a precision that makes his breath catch.
Not doubled.
Not shared.
Becoming singular.
Terzo’s eyes flicker, something unreadable crossing his expression as the realization settles.
“You’re—”
“I’m not leaving,” the other murmurs, stepping closer—closer—until there is no space left to measure. “Not the way you think.”
The words are barely spoken before the shift takes hold.
It starts at the point of contact. Where their hands meet, the sensation deepens—not pressure, not heat, but something that defies both. A merging of awareness, of presence, of thought that folds inward instead of outward.
Terzo inhales sharply. Not in pain, but in recognition.
The edges blur.
Not visually—not entirely—but in the way distinction loses meaning. Where one ends or the other begins becomes harder to define with every passing second.
He does not pull away.
He could try.
He doesn’t.
This feels right in a way the separation never fully did.
The other’s expression softens, something almost fond flickering there as the distance between them dissolves completely.
“You don’t have to divide yourself to hold both,” he says quietly.
The words settle deep. Deeper than anything else has.
Terzo’s eyes close.
For a moment, there is only sensation—not overwhelming now, not chaotic, but complete. Every restrained impulse, every measured response, every indulgence, every ounce of control—it all folds together, aligning instead of conflicting.
Not fighting.
Not competing.
Existing.
Together.
The last trace of separation slips. There is no dramatic break. No flash. No sound.
Just—
Stillness.
The chamber goes quiet. Truly quiet, this time.
Terzo stands alone within the circle. Exactly where he had been. Exactly as before. Not at all the same.
His breath is steady. Measured. Controlled.
Beneath it, something else lingers—something sharper, fuller, no longer dulled by suppression or fractured by restraint.
His fingers flex slightly at his sides, as though testing the boundaries of himself.
There are no boundaries. Not like before.
Awareness settles in layers.
He can feel it—every instinct he used to temper, every indulgence he used to ration, every thought he used to refine before allowing it to surface.
They are all still there.
But now—
They do not need to be buried to be controlled.
A slow smile curves across his mouth.
Familiar and not.
“…fascinating,” he murmurs, though the word carries something richer now, threaded with quiet satisfaction.
His gaze drifts to the altar, then to the edge of the circle, then back again—as though seeing it all with a clarity he has never realized he lacked.
He understands now. Not just what he is, but why he is.
The control was never the strength.
The restraint was never the power.
It was the balance.
And now—
He has it.
Fully.
Completely.
Intentionally.
Terzo straightens, shoulders settling into place with effortless precision. The last remnants of disarray—physical or otherwise—fade as he reclaims himself.
Not as he was.
As something… refined. Whole.
He turns toward the door.
Pauses. Just briefly.
A flicker of something crosses his expression—amusement, perhaps, or anticipation. He chuckles deeply.
“Well…apparently I really did have to go fuck myself.”
Summary: Copia's paranoia over his position as Papa had become too much and ultimately split you apart. You hate what happened, and you try to hate him. But then he returns from tour, and you hear about Sister Imperator's death.
Copia (Frater technically, timeline-wise) x Reader (no specific terms used, but vaginal fingering vaguely implied). ~3.5k words. Mature MDNI 18+. Sex with an ex, grief, hurt/comfort, sad crying this is definitely a mistake sex.
Challenged myself to do something different with this and a little scared to post, but hope someone enjoys it <3
You had resisted the urge to run to him a hundred times by now. After spending months in agonising limbo, both of you refusing to let the relationship die with dignity, you wouldn't allow yourself to fall back into his misery. While leaving him alone in his paranoia felt cruel, eventually you had to admit your proximity would not change his trajectory. You could not help, and you would not stay to watch. You had no fight left, and neither did he. Not for you, anyway. Saying it out loud had almost brought some sick sense of relief. Copia's vacant stare and fast acceptance had stayed with you - a useful reminder whenever you felt a pull back to him.
You don't think about any of that now.
You concentrate on keeping your balance as you hurtle down the halls towards his room, unsuccessfully trying to wipe away tears to clear your vision as the words ring in your ears. They are almost drowned out by your own frantic heartbeat burning its way up your throat but, as your lungs scream for respite, they cut through again and spur you on.
You reach his door and slump down on to it with a thud that should make knocking unnecessary. You wipe your face, your cheeks raw and stinging, as you try to catch your breath. While the exertion of your journey fades, an anxiety replaces it which continues to make your heart pound. As soon as you are able, you raise your fist to the door. You knock loudly and steadily, to make clear there is only one way to make the noise stop.
The lock clicks and the door creaks open.
He squints out of the doorway, running a hand through his messy hair as he registers who is standing in front of him. He looks like he has spent days in bed, but the dark, sunken bags visible below the faded and cracked paint around his eyes make it clear he hasn't been sleeping. He steps back, as if winded by your presence. He turns and walks over to the couch but does not sit as you follow him inside.
"You heard about…" He trails off, not able to say it out loud. There is a rasp in his voice from lack of use. When you don't respond, he turns to face you but can't look you in the eye.
"Copia, I'm so sorry." It comes out broken. Hoarse and desperate, and a shot straight to Copia's heart.
He simply nods in gratitude. You watch as he wills himself to look at you. He manages for no more than a second before he hangs his head again. It's long enough to see the pain in his bloodshot eyes. His lips curl into a grateful half-smile for a moment but, as they start to quiver, he walks to face out of the window. Small slivers of the fading sunset highlight his haggard face through the closed blinds as the silence between you grows heavier.
"I think I am the one who should be apologising."
"No. That's not why I'm here."
He nods again, a tear rolling down his nose and falling to the floor. You step towards him and he flinches.
"Do you want me to go?"
"No," he answers quickly. "But I don't deserve… You don't have to be here."
Every bone in your body wants to go to him. To hold him, comfort him. But now, standing in front of him, you can only wince. He's right. Given the way he had treated you, you don't owe him a fucking thing. Not compassion, or decency, or a shoulder to cry on. You had spent months reminding yourself that you never wanted to see him again. After the hell he put you through, you thought he deserved to be alone. You had told him as much and he agreed. You knew leaving had been the right decision, but now you would give anything to take those words back.
Copia waits for you to leave. You look at the door, then to him, but move towards neither. Confusion filters through his expression, questioning why you would bother to come. You don't have an answer. Not wanting to risk giving the wrong one, you stay silent.
The tension begins to agitate Copia; he drags a hand over his pallid face before hiccuping in a breath. He turns, forcing himself finally to look you in the eye.
"I am sorry," he sighs. As you open your mouth to attempt to find a reply, he raises a hand to stop you. "I need you to know that. If we never talk again, I need to know that you know that. I know you tried… tried to get through to me but, I…"
Before you can think, you are stood in front of him and taking his hands in yours. He stares down at them and swallows the lump in his throat.
"I took you for granted," he continues, well aware this might be the last chance he gets to tell you. "Took it out on you and pushed you away. So concerned with… what I thought was going to happen to me. All you did was try to love me and I spat it back in your face, I—"
"Copia, shhh, it's okay."
"No!" He breaks away from you, and his sudden anger makes you flinch. "It's not okay! I was so obsessed with holding on to everything I had. And now I'm… nothing. I have nothing. You're gone. And… Sister. My mo—"
He breaks into heaving sobs and you instinctively wrap your arms around him. He clings to you, struggling to hold his own weight as grief wracks his body. You pull him in tighter and tighter, hard enough to make your own arms ache to stop him falling to the ground.
As you try to keep further tears at bay, it strikes you that he had been partly correct. All those times he tried to explain to you that they were plotting behind his back, hiding something, and you had told him he was crazy. Guilt gnaws at your insides, but should you tell him he was right? What good would that do? Being right doesn't mean anything now. It's too late. It's too late for a lot of things.
It takes a moment for you to realise Copia is mumbling into your chest. As you lift his head, putting both of your hands on the side of his face, he continues to stutter out self-loathing apologies. You shush and soothe him as best you can until he runs out of air, and he leans his forehead against yours.
Your hands fall to rest on his shoulders and his find a comfortable place at your waist. Your breathing syncs and your bodies soften into each other, searching for solace. You close your eyes and fail to fight the warmth of him against you. His nose rubbing against yours snaps you out of the daze, but not enough to pull away. A tear falls on to your lip and you lick away the salt. It's impossible for Copia not to stare at it.
You're painfully aware of his hands moving softly over your form. It feels wrong, sick, but something in you needs it. Your faces inch closer. You scream inside your head to step back, to pull his hands off you, but nothing happens. Your body betrays you.
His upper lip grazes yours and you try to suppress the shiver it sends up your spine. It should repulse you, and it does a little, but you cannot convince yourself you haven't missed this. Him. In a last ditch attempt to resist, you replay the dying days of your relationship and all the lonely nights afterwards in your head. The nights you cried over how much you hated him and the nights you begged yourself to stop loving him. The nights you would have ran to him if he wasn't an ocean away and the nights you felt an ocean wasn't far enough.
You both hesitate before the inevitable, teasing over the line in the hopes the other will be the first to break. You whisper his name. His lips ghost over yours, uncertainty still restraining him, and you gasp at the feather-light sensation. A plea escapes you; for what, you're unsure, but Copia answers it by finally closing the gap.
You should stop. You don't want him like this anymore, you can't. Through soft kisses you attempt to muster a defence but as you try to tell him that this is a mistake, your mouth still reciprocates his advance. You try to hold on to the nausea groaning in the pit of your stomach but it doesn't stop you welcoming his embrace. In defiance of all reason, part of you feels safe in his arms no matter how loud the voice in your head screams at you to leave.
"I miss you," he manages to say in between increasingly needy kisses.
"We can't," you stutter out with no real intent, allowing Copia's mouth to explore down your neck. "We're over, and it can't…"
"I know."
Your hand grips his hair but does nothing to impede him. "I miss you too."
Copia moans in relief as your mouths crash together. The sound ripples through you, smothering out the last embers of resistance. The bitter taste of surrender becomes easier to ignore with every passing second, with each swipe of his tongue, but it never completely subsides. Now resigned to follow through your moment of weakness, you swallow down your resentment, kissing him harder and pulling him closer.
You let Copia take you. As he begins peeling off your clothes, your hands move to discard his. You stumble across the room towards his bed and fall into it as you had so many times before. You know that if it had not been for Copia heading out for the last leg of the tour, this is a habit you would have struggled to ever break. He touches you exactly how he knows you need, like you had never been apart. Like he hadn't broken your heart.
His fingers graze over your thighs and your legs part on command. Hovering over you, he hesitates, hungry kisses becoming chaste and gentle. His decision to suddenly savour you spikes something akin to rage inside you, and when he stops to look down at you, he's met with wide, uncertain eyes. He slowly exhales, reaching out to wipe a tear from your cheek, but you immediately reject the affectionate gesture by pulling him in to a biting, angry kiss.
The sensation of your fingertips searching for skin makes Copia shudder, but the soft caresses are soon replaced by the sting of your nails, scraping down his back as your bodies remember how to fit together. He mutters bittersweet nothings in your ear that you try to ignore, as memories - good and bad - clash in your head. Conflicting emotions come over you in waves but, when his fingers start to stretch you open, they all start to muddle together. And soon enough, his warmth and earnest touch dilutes any venom you think you need to feel.
Copia chokes back sobs as you moan in rhythm with his fingers, burying his face in your neck.
"Need you," he rasps, and another part of you cracks.
You cling to him as if you might fall through the bed, as you writhe together with renewed demand for each other. Each time your mind wanders back to the loneliness you had felt these past months, you refocus on his body. How he feels right here, pressed against you, like he wants to climb inside you. He similarly tries to drown himself in you, trying to push down the grief to make space for you.
He pushes your knee into the mattress and positions himself between your legs. With a strained groan, he slides forward as your body lets him in. A flush washes over you, starting from deep in your abdomen and escaping your lips as a guttural moan. It's a rush of pleasure quickly cut short by Copia's sudden stillness. Your eyes sting as he looks down upon you, face contorted by sorrow-tinged relief. He forces himself to take it all in, to wallow in it. It's unbearable.You reach up to him, fingertips finding damp stubble, and you both almost crumble under the weight of it all. He grazes over your trembling lip and tries to stutter out an apology. You wish you could offer forgiveness but more so you wish he would have tried sooner. Before it was too late. Before the love had been burned out of you. You can give him your body. A night's comfort and a sharing of the pain for a brief moment. But forgiveness feels too dangerous.
And so you plead instead. As he tries to bring your eyes to meet his, you tell him not to. You tell him to move. You tell him to fuck you. With a solemn nod, he obliges. He accepts the terms, taking the moment for what it is. However much he can have of you, for however long, is more than he deserves. He quickly throws away his intentions to be gentle, or tender, in the hope it may feel less selfish but it barely moves the needle. Tonight will be one more thing to add to the list of things to be ashamed of. You don't know if you feel bad about that or not.
With each snap of his hips and each stifled grunt, you think about it less and less. You screw your eyes shut so hard it makes your face hurt, blocking out more and more memories that try to peek through. You try to think of the man before, the man you first met, as he nips and kisses across your collar bone. The man that made you feel loved and important and safe. Made you feel like nothing in the world could come between you. The man who would never push you away, or make you doubt his devotion. You miss him. You should probably block that out too.
Your hands slip into his on the pillow his head rests on after flipping him onto his back. You rock and grind and bear down on him, praying that the friction will scrub away your thoughts and leave you numb. But it's no use. Too much has happened for you to detach from it all. You think of the days towards the end, when he would look through you. His thousand yard stare made you miss the rage; the silence was crushing. Suffocating. Eventually, it ground out any flicker of hope that remained. Maybe numbness is worse.
You quicken the pace, moving your hips as fast as your muscles will allow. You grit your teeth but as you feel your warmth and wetness spread, your jaw loosens and gives way to wanton moans. You cry out as you let every emotion in and let them take hold. You curl your fingers in his chest hair as you lean in to kiss his neck, basking in his familiar scent. His body, remembering yours. His voice, breathless and broken.
"I love you."
It had been so long since you had last silenced him with a kiss. You had always loved taking him by surprise, knocking him out of his thoughts and rambling anxiety, and the way his lips would quirk up into a smile before catching up to yours. But what was once soothing is now searing, your mouths greedy and out of practice, and becoming more demanding.
Copia's thrusts begin to knock the kiss out of rhythm. It's broken by pitiful sobs and desperate whimpers but never for long, despite your frenetic motion. Even as you feel yourself on the precipice, your mouth magnetises to his and your tongue seeks out his taste. Your smothered hums increase in pitch and Copia's reflexes kick in. Two delicate fingers snake their way to exactly where they always did, exactly how you need. You feel the control you have over your limbs slipping and find yourself on your back, pliant beneath him as your body begins to falter.
As you start to let go, you can't keep your eyes closed. You can't not look into his, even though it almost breaks you again. You had seen the best and worst parts of him, but he had never bared his soul to you like this. You see his vulnerability and his fear, his regret and dread. You know in that moment, your thoughts are aligned. Already missing each other, wondering if this will ever happen again. Worried that it will and that it won't.
Your whole body stutters, the coiled spring snapping free allowing for one pure moment of blissful release. Your final cry, however, sounds more like anguish than relief. You mourn the loss of it, whatever it is, before its even begun to fade. Copia's own climax follows quickly and, judging by the way he collapses on to your chest and sobbing into your sweat-slicked skin, he finds a similarly sudden, dissatisfying clarity.
Something inside you is satiated but ultimately it feels hollow. Somehow incomplete. Tainted, as all of your memories are, by disappointment. Trust in your love for one another is irrevocably fractured, colouring your memories with an ominous hue. Your heart aches for him but you know now, with startling certainty, nothing will undo the damage. The good memories will always be undermined by the bad, and any potential happiness would be held back by fear.
You hold him and stroke softly through his hair for a few minutes until he can compose himself enough to move. As he rolls on to his back, you immediately fight the urge to pull him back to you. You lie next to him, still tempted by a fragile, delusional hope.
His hand finds yours once again, snapping you out of your thoughts. You feel a gentle squeeze and you have to will yourself not to slide back into intimacy. The circling of his thumb over your knuckles is the only indication time hasn't stood still. As long as you stay like this, maybe it can. You could stay in this moment and then there is no decision to be made. There would be no need to think, or grieve, or do anything but lie here with him. Both of you would give anything for that to be an option.
The mattress squeaks as he turns to you, bursting the bubble completely. But he doesn't speak. He doesn't have to ask to convey the question. That same delusional hope radiates from him.
The air in the room feels impossibly heavy, thick with anticipation as Copia braces himself for the inevitable. His sadness takes up so much space it's practically tangible. That was something you had become too accustomed to; his unhappiness hanging over you both and sapping the life out of you. You feel a pang of guilt for even drawing the comparison between then and now. His grief deserves compassion. Unfortunately, you don't have much left to give. He had taken his share and then some and now, when he truly deserves it, the well is dry.
You had understood the paranoia about potentially losing his position, and had made excuses when the stress made him lash out. He didn't mean it. You were just the only person close enough to take it. You were understanding and empathetic but each harsh word gradually chipped away your resolve. By the time you noticed, it was too late. A resentment set in and the only thing you could do then was snap back. You should have left then. Maybe then it could have been salvageable somewhere down the line, but you weren't brave enough.
Before you change your mind, you shuffle off the bed that once felt like home to begin collecting your clothes. You dress with your back to him, hearing no movement. He doesn't try to stop you and you are thankful for that. You almost share your gratitude. You almost apologise for the recklessness of coming to be with him. The thought of saying sorry to him triggers an immediate, bubbling anger in your gut, followed even faster by guilt.
You hear the bed shift as Copia rolls on to his back again, letting out a defeated sigh. Before you can waver, you stand. Again, you walk away from him and leave him with his pain.
You hope you haven't made things worse. You hope this is closure. You tell yourself, as his door clicks shut behind you, that you won't be back here again. This was just one last mistake. You tell yourself over and over, hoping one day you'll know you mean it.
tags - sfw, minor character violence, sadism, slightly suggestive (?), profane language.
if ur interested please send in requests !! my asks are open 𑣲
⊹ ︶︶︶ ୨୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹
stealth is a learned skill, and unfortunately you happened to be a freshly turned “reagent”, or so they call it, for the murkoff corporation.
seconds felt like hours within the confinement of the police station, and you had been lucky enough to have avoided leland throughout the entirety of the trial so far.
you had only heard of the cop from fellow reagents alongside you in the sleep room. not only did they refer to him with names such as “that damned cop”, but they also informed you of his inhumane, and inherently perverted nature.
your group scattered around the perimeter, likely to look for useful items and evidence, but you stayed in the basement to fuel the second generator, which your teammates had ultimately missed before returning to the snitch.
the glass beneath your feet cracked faintly as you hurried over to the canister of fuel, and in a moment of pressure, you mindlessly picked up the pace towards the direction of the canister without being conscious of the sound trap before you.
CRACK!
his footsteps drew near, attention piqued by the sudden noise. you already began to hear him mumble nonsense as he made his way towards you.
“noisy little malefactor, ain’tcha?” he groaned, footsteps growing louder as he approached your location.
you make a desperate attempt to quickly flee the room before he found his way inside, but it’s to no avail after attempting to twist the knob of the door behind you.
his cattle prod crackled with electricity, lighting up the area beside him. you began to take in all his features before realizing the two of you had locked eyes.
you quickly looked away before attempting to vault over a large wooden frame that laid beside you. he grinned, grabbing you by the hem of your shirt before shoving his cattle prod directly into your esop, sending intense volts of electricity through your body.
”my, you’re even prettier up close” he chuckles, “face as sweet as my first wifes, you even scream like ‘er.” he lifted his sunglasses, shoving his cattle prod further into your chest whilst you shrieked in terror. he lets out another draw of his cigarette before putting it out on the exposed skin of your neck.
you wince, legs flailing around as if you were somehow capable of kicking him away in a desperate attempt to escape.
“like music to my ears, sweetness. gonna teach you to obey sooner or later.”
despite the immoral act displayed before you, there’s a sense of tension between the two of you. the immense pain slowly shifts into this euphoric sense of pleasure, a feeling one could label as indescribable.
such pleasure began to take a toll on you, and its just around now you began to notice the pain in your cramping muscles, and just how weak your chest began to feel. you barely felt your legs give out under you until the pain of the floor hit you.
suddenly, your eyelids began to feel heavy, and it became too much of a chore to keep them open much longer. and yet, he continued to fry your esop with a smile on his face as you fell incapacitated before him.
“why, I’d say you’ve been rehabilitated.”
⊹ ︶︶︶ ୨୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹
(thank you @akirennui and @trrafficone for ur help revising and proofreading this ❤︎)
this is my first work here on tumblr :) if you like pls pls pls send requests and check my pinned !!!!!
Без названия @kosem-sultan167 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
