☞ 1.1k words, gn!reader, non-descript, religious undertones, blasphemy, oral sex as communion, allusions to erectile dysfunction, power imbalance, 18+
It feels forbidden to approach him in the chapel, when he’s veiled in his white ceremonial robes and the mitre, his appearance grand and all-powerful. Primo shimmers like a preternatural being, surrounded by long beams that hold up high vaulted ceilings, halos of light reflected by stained glass, clouds of incense and the echoing chants of the congregation lingering long after everyone left.
He is one with the fog when he preaches, his voice subdued, yet roaring from the depths of Hell itself.
You watch him for a while, in the center of it all, the crackling, static atmosphere of mass still clinging to you. His sermon is burnt into your memory. It’s rare that he’s convinced to preach these days but when he does the impression lasts for weeks, like a feverish dream, the vision barely real but lingering in powerful fragments. Sometimes you hear people whisper about it, some confused, some in awe and some frightened to their very bones. For you, it’s all that you can think about.
“Will you help me with my robes, little lamb?”
His voice is softer now, mellowing when he’s addressing you. Your palm strokes across the warm wood of the pew one last time before you stand. His back is still turned to you, his attention focused on the altar. Your heart thumps in your chest but you have no reason to be nervous. The big bad wolf has become tamed in your presence, though his fangs never quite retract.
“You were mesmerising,” you compliment. He turns to look over his shoulder, his unbearably sharp eye still glowing white in the aftermath, and you almost flinch. Almost.
“You are flattering an old man,” he says, turning fully now, and the weight of the moment falls off of him. His shoulders release their tension, his features soften, though the corpse paint never loses much of its edge. When he removes his mitre some of the magic comes off with it.
You reach out to touch the smooth fabric of his robes, enamoured with the contrast of the man you saw during mass and the controlled yet tired old man in front of you. “I’m not exaggerating. The Sibling next to me stifled a cry when you started speaking.”
“Are you saying that I… still got it, hm?” he teases, holding out his arms. “Sadly, this time no one ran out screaming.”
You smile when you lift the robes over his head. He’s wearing a simple black cassock underneath that hides his scraggy frame. But when you wrap your arms around his neck you can feel him, hard-edged and ungiving. Primo is not a soft man, you wouldn’t call him very considerate, but he can be gentle when he wants to be. Right now, you feel the tenderness in his touch as his long, bony hands roam your back, up and up until one long finger reaches your neck and tilts your chin up to meet him.
His kiss is insistent, slow but thorough. He’s hungering for you after spending so much of himself on the congregation. You respond eagerly, inhaling bitter black paint and the intense remnants of burnt resin. Underneath it all, there is the forbidden feeling again, as though he is not a mere man but something else, something you’re not allowed to touch. He belongs to Lucifer, he belongs to the fog, but you have to remind yourself, that in these moments, he belongs to you as well.
“Have you taken your communion, little lamb?” he asks as he breaks away.
“No, Papa. I only take it from you.”
His eyes narrow. You’re familiar with this as well. Primo doesn’t have to order, you sink to your knees on your own, using the now folded robes as a cushion. From below, he looks dangerous. Tall and in all-black, jagged and death-pale, the shadows on his angular face deep, hollowing him out. His long fingers remain on your cheek for a moment, his face calm and expectant. You’re the lamb before the slaughter, wondering why the butcher hasn’t drawn his knife yet.
And perhaps he won’t if you only please him enough.
Primo doesn’t react when you reach to open the buttons on his frock. He’s made it clear that you have to work for what you want, that you’re here to serve, that this is not just for you but for Him as well, the one who carries the light. Primo’s guidance is a gift from Him, as is his attention, and your reverence is the answer to how he keeps you by his side.
When you look for the thicker button on his pants, Primo stops you. His thumb moves to your chin, gloveless now, and you can feel a sharp nail pressing into the softness of your bottom lip, quickly drawing blood. Obediently, you open your mouth, stretching out your tongue just enough to taste metal. He moves inside, pressing down on the centre until spit gathers and you can’t swallow.
His eyes remain fixed on yours. You note that he never blinks in these moments, that his focus is dangerously sharp.
“Are you ready to receive Him?” he asks.
You nod and keep your eyes on his. They’re all you see amidst the rustling of fabric, the slow sigh that falls from his lips. A moment later he replaces his finger with the tip of his cock, leaving you no time to give into the urge to swallow. It’s warm, heavy, familiar, almost choking you already. You close your lips around him and take him as deep as you can, breathing against the discomfort. He’s not fully hard, he never is, but the fullness of him is too much even so.
It’s a precious moment to feel him so deeply, to glance up at him in the hazy light of the chapel when he’s in full control, to have him to yourself just after he gave his presence to so many others. He’s your light, he’s your path to the end of all things that you walk down willingly. And you know that he'll always be there amidst the chaos.
You pleasure him for a while, slowly and to no specific end. He doesn’t always come but you don’t mind either way. He lets you go on for a while, just watching, moving with you at times, staying completely still at others, encouraging you with his admiration. His hand holds your head and it feels safe, it feels painfully intimate.
The only sounds in the chapel are your shared breathing and the echo of wet flesh.
Even so, you can feel a change when he approaches the height of his pleasure, ragged breaths breaking through his still demeanour, his fingers tightening, the sharp little sting of pain, the pulsing in his cock and the occasional taste of salt when he does find his end. It doesn’t matter how he gives you this blessing. Here on your knees, you receive whatever he is willing to give.
Emmrich found her in a little corner of the archives long after the lamps had dimmed to their lowest amber glow. Not working, precisely. Her papers were not spread before her in the usual perilous little mountain. Her ink was capped. Her pen lay abandoned beside her elbow. Ollie had fallen asleep over an open book, one cheek pressed to the page, her pale curls spilling forward in a soft, unruly halo.
For several moments, he simply stood there.
The Necropolis was rarely silent. It breathed. Shifted. Whispered through stone and bone and old names remembered too faithfully to die. Yet here, in this pocket of warmth between towering shelves, there was only the small, steady sound of Olivia Ingellvar sleeping.
Emmrich's face softened completely. "Oh, Liebchen," he murmured. She did not stir.
He crossed to her with the care of a man approaching something sacred. First, he looked at the book beneath her face and winced faintly on its behalf, and then he looked at her, and all scholarly concern vanished.
There was a tiny crease on her cheek from the paper. Her mouth was parted slightly. One hand was tucked beneath her chin, the other rest palm up on the table as though she had been waiting to hold something. Emmrich slipped his fingers into that hand. At once, some hidden part of her knew him, and her fingers curled around his.
His heart, traitorous thing, gave its familiar painful twist.
"Come now," he whispered, bending to kiss her knuckles. "No more vanishing into footnotes tonight."
Ollie made a small, discontented sound. "M'not working."
"No, my darling. You are merely intimidating a monograph with your cheek."
Her eyes opened a fraction. Blue, sleepy, and unfocused. Then they found him, and her whole face changed, drowsy as she was. She smiled as if he brought the morning with him.
"Hi," she whispered.
Emmrich has survived wars. Committees, students, and Watchers with appalling penmanship. And yet her sleepy hello is enough to undo him.
"Hello, mein Herz."
Ollie blinked slowly. "Did you come looking for me?"
"I did."
"Because you missed me?"
"Because I missed you," he admitted, without hesitation. Then, more gently," And because it is late, and you promised me you would not make yourself small and invisible among the shelves when you were tired."
Her smile faltered, not from unhappiness, but from being known too well. "I didn't mean to."
"I know." His thumb stroked the back of her hand once, twice. Not a reprimand or lecture, only touch.
Ollie looked down at their hands, lashes heavy. "You always find me."
"Yes." There was no flourish in it. No performance. Only the truth.
She swallowed. "That makes me feel safe."
Emmrich closed his eyes for a breath, and when he opened them, his expression had gone terribly tender. "Then I shall continue doing so," he said.
Ollie's lower lip trembled, just a little, and she tried to hide it behind another smile, but he saw. Emmrich saw everything. The tiredness under her brightness, and the ache behind her bravery. The way she made herself useful so quickly as though love had to be earned in careful installments. He stepped closer, drawing her gently up from the chair. She came without protest, and when he gathered her into his arms, she folded against him at once.
Small. Warm. His.
His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers sinking carefully into her curls. The other settled at her waist. Protective. Devotional.
"You do not need to disappear to be unobtrusive," he murmured into her hair. "You are allowed to take up space in my life, Olivia. In my rooms. In my thoughts. In my arms. Especially there."
She tucked her face against his waistcoat. "That's a lot of places."
"An inexhaustive list."
That earned him a soft, breath laugh. He smiled. Then Ollie tipped her head back. "Can we go home?"
Home. Such a small word, but a devastating one.
Emmrich brushed the crease on her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Yes, Liebchen. We can go home."
"Will you read to me?" She leaned into his touch, eyes closing.
"Something improving?"
She scrunches her nose. "No."
"Hm. Something romantic?"
Her smile turned shy. "Maybe."
"Ah," his eyes warmed with amusement. "A scandalous request from my archivist."
"Your archivist is sleepy and wants kissing in the story."
"Then kissing she will have."
Ollie opened one eye. "In the book?"
Emmrich bent and touched his mouth to her forehead, lingering there. "Among other places."
A pink flush bloomed across her cheeks, and he looked almost unbearably pleased with himself. Emmrich gathered her shawl, tucking it around her shoulders, and collected her capped ink and abandoned pen. He also made sure to mark her place in the book with a slip of ribbon from his own pocket. Then he offered his arm with courtly gravity, as if he were escorting her to some grand opera than to the lift to the Upper Mortuary.
Ollie took it, and as they left the alcove, she learned into his side, trusting his steps when she was too tired to watch her own. Emmrich shortened his stride without thinking, and covered her hand with his own where it rested on his sleeve.
Halfway down the corridor, she murmured, "Emmrich?"
"Yes, my love?"
"I'm glad you missed me."
He looked down at her, expression quiet and luminous. "I miss you," he said. "Even when you are in the next room."
summary: the ministry’s bulletin board, ordinarily used for missing items or party announcements, contains a particularly interesting request this week – a lonely hearts ad.
content: 9k words, cardinal copia x gn!reader, slightly suggestive at times, first date/first kiss shenanigans, sad lonely awkward cardinal fluff, you know the drill
Masterlist – Ao3 link
You ignore the knot of people in front of the bulletin board.
As much as the whispers and giggles garner your attention, someone else attracts it even more. Cardinal Copia, red cassock, red biretta, arms filled with two boxes worth of files and papers, is trying to push the door to his office open with his hip under a swell of Italian curses. Certainly, his hip swing is impressive on most days, especially on stage, but today it seems more like a helpless, uncoordinated bumping that the door is fighting with every ounce of its wooden strength.
Evidently, he’s struggling.
“Good morning, Cardinal, do you need a hand?”
His eyebrows shoot up when he hears your voice and he stops dead in his tracks, slowly turning his head until he catches you standing right behind him. Despite your announcement, he visibly startles, nearly dropping the boxes in his arms.
“Oh, eh… yes, if you could open the door for me, Sibling?”
“Of course.”
With your hand on the knob, you watch as he hurries inside of his office, wheezing under the weight and dropping the boxes onto his desk with a dull thud that echoes loudly in his mostly bare working space. Apart from books upon books strewn across and around his desk as well as an old weathered couch, there hasn’t been any love put into decorating the space. You wait patiently for him to turn back around to you, a hint of red dusting his cheeks when he finally does.
“Thank you,” he squeezes out, trying very hard to swallow his heavy exhales. “I carried them here all the way from the archives. Long way, you know, even for my…” He holds up his arm, flexing it exaggeratedly. “My strong, powerful muscles.”
You giggle and he perks up in delight, eyes wide and shiny. “No problem, Cardinal, I can imagine they’re very heavy.”
You smile at him and he smiles back, so sweetly, and you’re momentarily at an equal loss for words. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, down the prominent bridge of his nose. He brushes it away with a leather-gloved hand and you can’t help but stare as he wipes it clean on the heavy fabric of his vestments, shaking out his fingers once he’s done. You can’t look away as they flex and release, flex and release. They’re surprisingly long and so… nimble.
Copia’s violent cough startles you awake and you’re not sure if it’s his own nerves that make him clear his throat, if his overexerted lungs are protesting or if he caught you staring. Either way, you feel your own cheeks getting hot now, the moment of hesitant silence slowly transitioning into a gooey sort of awkwardness.
“So, ugh… I better get back to my own duties,” you say. “Lots to do, spring cleaning and all that.”
He nods. “Yes, yes, you are busy, of course. Such a busy little bee. Bzz bzz. Hehe.”
You awkwardly giggle back, trying hard to think of a clever joke. Maybe something that has to do with stinging? But before you can settle on one, the time for a witty come-back has stretched thin and so you just awkwardly wave at him, mutter a “see you later” and close the door.
With your back pressed to the wood, you let out a deep exhale, the butterflies – or bees – in your stomach making it very hard to breathe at a normal pace. Once you’ve recollected your wits, you notice that the hallway is still as busy as before, maybe even busier.
Like lions gathering around an animal carcass after days of starvation, what feels like half the abbey has been flocking to the big rectangular corkboard. You cannot possibly imagine what would warrant such intense interest. The most exciting messages on any given day are unusual sex requests, the invitation to a weirdly themed party or a call for applications to a particularly intricate sex ritual to honour the Dark One.
You push through the crowd to check what’s causing the repeated giggling and excited whispers amongst your peers when you spot a pristine piece of paper on the board. It’s thick, stark-white, shaped like a heart at the top and with pieces to rip off at the bottom that contain a phone number. You squint, move in even closer until you can make out the text – hand-written and in cursive.
I (m, 50) am looking for a partner to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t have any preferences but it would be coolio if we had similar interests, so we can have some fun together.
I like: watching movies, playing video games, going on walks, rigatoni, juice, small animals
I don’t like: coconut flavour, being barefoot, swimming, touching wet dishes, bullies, dentist appointments
If you think we are a good match I would like to take you on a romantic date. Please call or text me. Bye bye!
You smile at the note but quickly find back down to earth when someone rams their elbow into your side. No one has taken one of the numbers yet, so you assume the excitement is more about the fact that there is a lonely hearts ad on the bulletin board at all than any actual interest in the person. You have to admit, it is a bit odd. Most younger clergy members just use dating apps these days or social media. But the lonely heart in question is fifty, so they may not be familiar with modern methods, and it’s oddly endearing that anyone would go through the trouble of creating such an ad. At the same time, it breaks your heart that someone in the abbey is so lonely that they risk the ridicule of half of the clergy members just to have a chance at finding love.
“Well, there are a bunch of people who it could be,” you overhear someone say. “Maybe one of the older Brothers, a bunch of them are single. Could also be that new bishop who just arrived, I heard he’s a cinephile and walks around the gardens quite often.”
You ignore the whispers of speculation, making your way back through the crowd to return to your duties. It’s almost dinner time by now and you need to get two more loads of laundry done before then. But even as you sort through piles of habits, cassocks and veils… you can’t stop thinking about the ad. You sincerely hope the person receives a few serious and not just prank calls. The note did sound endearing and you definitely see similarities. At the same time you’re far too busy nursing your hopeless crush on the Cardinal to actually entertain the thought of dating someone else.
You decide to check on the ad again tomorrow, see if anyone took a number, and if not, you could at least save it to your phone… just in case.
✦ ✧ ✦
Two birds land on his window sill, rubbing their beaks together in a kiss before happily chirping at each other. They’re in love, literal love birds, building a nest on the little protrusion in the wall right below his window. He’s been watching them occasionally, unreasonably envious, as they bring in twig after twig, ready to start their family. From the same window, Copia can make out the spring-filled gardens with their colourful patches of pink and red tulips, bumblebees hurrying from blossom to blossom, drunk on pollen and greedy for more. He can overlook the bright green meadow leading down to the pond, speckled with lush, budding trees. At this time of the day, after everyone finished their daily duties, the grass has almost completely disappeared under a plethora of picnic blankets.
Spring fever, he assumes, has to be the reason why everyone seems to be in love. Couples dozing in each other’s arms in the shade of the trees, feeding their lovers berries or grapes, taking a stroll down to the pond with their joined hands dangling between them, kissing without pause in the archways of the cool stone walkways leading outside. Just now he spots two Sisters rubbing sunscreen on each other’s bare shoulders, one of them kissing the other's head before they fall back onto their blanket, giggling happily at each other.
He feels so incredibly lonely.
This has been going on for weeks now and he’s tired of feeling so shamefully worthless of affection. Instead of the arms of his lover, he sinks into his tattered old desk chair and drowns his sorrows in boring paperwork. Not that that’s going well, but for lack of alternatives, he’d rather do budget calculations than sit in his quarters all alone. Every evening, the spring breeze carries the sound of happy laughter through his windows, usually while he’s playing video games all by himself, but he can’t keep them closed if he doesn’t want to sweat to death. Besides… that same gentle breeze is the only thing caressing his skin as he tries to fall asleep at night and if he closes his eyes, the wind almost feels like fingertips ghosting over his arms.
As he leaves his office that night, he receives another heavy but sadly much expected blow. Almost a week now and still no one has taken one of the numbers from his lonely hearts ad. Of course it doesn’t mean no one saved it to his phone, he tells himself, people are shy or they just don’t want to date an anonymous person. It has nothing to do with him, they don’t even know it’s him. And yet… if his dating streak continues so poorly, he’s not sure if he can stay sane for much longer. There are only so many tears you can cry in bed at night before it starts to take a toll on you.
His heart is especially heavy as he makes his way to his lonely quarters. One more day and then he’s taking it down, he decides. No use in waiting any longer now that surely everyone in the abbey has seen his request and the last thing he wants are pity calls.
✦ ✧ ✦
“So, are you going to call the Cardinal?”
You look up from your breakfast plate. Your friend Lily is sitting opposite of you, chewing on a blueberry muffin, and you narrow your eyes at her. “The Cardinal?”
“The number in the lonely hearts ad,” she says. “It’s still there, I checked earlier.”
“It’s the Cardinal?”
She nods, popping another piece of muffin into her mouth. “Duh.”
You feel your cheeks heating up and set your fork down to hide the sudden tremor in your fingers. “Which Cardinal?”
She gives a soft groan of annoyance. “Babe, there is only one of the Cardinals who would ever hang up such a goofy thing. Now, will you call him?”
Copia. She knows about your… slight infatuation with him. And despite being kind and not teasing you too much, it was just a matter of time until the occasion popped up. If he is looking for a serious partner… maybe it’s too late for you soon. The ad has been up for days and while you’ve been toying with the idea of calling, you just haven’t found the courage yet.
You continue eating, trying to act casual, but it takes you three attempts to pick up a stray piece of cucumber from your plate. “How do you even know it’s his number?”
Lily takes a deep breath, setting the muffin down to ready herself. “Sooo, Michael wanted to call the number to check who it is, right? Well, turns out his girlfriend already knew it’s the Cardinal’s number and his girlfriend is Sister Jill who knows it from Sister Mary who is roommates with Sibling Jessie who works with the treasury and their colleague Brother Paul works as the Cardinal’s assistant two times a week and that’s how he has the Cardinal’s number for emergencies.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Now, will you?”
Eyes on your empty plate, you bite your lip until you can taste blood. It’s Copia’s number, the number of your crush of about six months now, and he’s looking for a partner, unspecified. That’s… big news, intimidating news, news that calls to an action you’re not sure you’re prepared for.
Glancing at Lily, you catch her smirking at you and promptly give her a scowl. “I don’t know. What if he already got better options?”
She cocks her head to the side. “Better than you? I doubt it.”
“You’re biased because you’re my friend.”
A shrug. “You should try. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“He could be disappointed.”
“He’s more disappointed if no one calls,” she counters.
“Yeah but–”
You stop yourself when you see Nora, Lily’s girlfriend, approaching the table. Her arms wrap around Lily from behind as she presses a loud, lingering kiss to her cheek, both of them giggling.
“You scared me,” Lily says, turning around for a proper kiss.
“Sorry, love, but I can’t leave breakfast without my sweet treat.”
You avert your gaze, involuntarily feeling like an intruder. They’ve been together for a few weeks now, sickeningly adorable. Lily had been pining after Nora for months, a little bit like you with the Cardinal, only that she eventually found the courage to ask her out. To see her bravery being rewarded like that makes you incredibly happy for both of them. But at the same time… you have rarely ever felt your loneliness so sharply, the heaviness of your unreciprocated crush such a weight on your shoulders.
You know that if you want this to be you and the Cardinal, then there’s only one real answer to her question: You have to reach out to him.
✦ ✧ ✦
He’s ready to toss this day into the trash bin already and he only just got up.
Last night, after tossing and turning for hours, Copia fell asleep only to promptly land in a hysterically embarrassing dream that made him jolt up whimpering like a kicked dog and hiding his face in the pillow. Bringing himself close to suffocation, he finally realised that he had not actually stumbled right in front of you, spilling juice all over his robes, scrambling to get up only to slip in the puddle by his feet, falling onto his butt with a high-pitched cry. You had been standing there motionless, watching the spectacle unfold until you turned around to leave.
This is the reaction he would expect, should he ever actually find the courage to ask you out. However, this is highly doubtful, because upon walking to his office half an hour later, he catches you with a group of friends. He often sees you with them – attractive young Siblings, evident chemistry between all of you, and every week he suspects a different one to be in love with you. He recognizes the two Sisters he saw from his window earlier this week. One of them presses a loving kiss to the other’s cheek and he wishes he could just walk up to you and do the same.
His heart hurts. No matter how much kindness you extend to him, you’re a beautiful young soul who could never be romantically interested in an aging loner. Copia is not disliked per se, he gets along with pretty much everyone, but he struggles to build meaningful connections. Between working his butt off to satisfy the clergy and spending time on his mostly solitary hobbies, it’s hard to meet people. He had to actively put himself out there but neither online dating nor any of the singles’ events Terzo sent him on brought any results – only what the young Siblings call getting “ghosted” or “benched”.
His ad is his last chance. And even that failed miserably.
As he ponders his options, your eyes suddenly meet his and he swears you’re smiling. Then you lift your hand in a cautious wave. For a second, he’s too scared to wave back because there are people around him, all of which could be your target. Your hand sinks after a moment as your smile slowly straightens and he suddenly knows that you do mean him. He lifts his hand far too excitedly in a reciprocative wave. Your smile returns, a shy one, but before he can even think about possibly approaching you, his knees suddenly give out.
No, they don’t give out, someone rams a trolly filled with supplies for Black Mass into him. Some of the tall candles roll off the top and clatter to the floor, breaking in half just like his dignity.
“Oops, sorry, Cardinal,” the Sibling says, scrambling to help him up. “It’s so hard to steer this thing.”
“It’s fine,” he chokes out, the pain in his knees anything but fine. “It happens.”
“I’m truly so sorry.”
He smiles, a hand on their shoulder now that he’s on his feet again. “It is okay, eh? No worries.”
When his eyes try to find you again, you’re not there anymore and he can’t decide if he’s relieved or sad. He prays to Satan that you didn’t see him fall but there is no way you missed it. His dream, if slightly watered-down, did come true after all and perhaps now you won’t want to–
“Cardinal, are you alright?”
Copia, still dizzy and skittish, spins around so hard he nearly stumbles again. He smooths out his now crumpled cassock, the dust he collected on the floor even more visible on today’s black vestments. In an attempt to retain his dignity, he straightens his spine and looks right into your beautiful eyes. You have a tendency to startle him like that and he wishes he could be more smooth about these encounters.
“Yes, yes, Sibling, thank you. It was… it was nothing, just a little stumble, eh?”
“Are you sure?” You inspect him from head to toe, your brow creased in concern. “It looked painful. Your knees…”
“Oh, my knees are fine!” he lies. “I kneel all the time, Sibling. You know this.” Your eyes widen and he continues to stammer. “I mean in prayer. I pray a lot. On my knees. I am a Cardinal, yes? It’s my job.”
You nod heavily. “Yes, of course.”
“So, ugh… I better just fuck off.” He presses his lips together to keep more silly words from coming out. “I mean I’ll go back to work. ”
As he tries to leave, your hand shoots up, squeezing the muscles in his forearm. He’s not as much startled as enthralled by your touch, so unexpected that he has no time to feel insecure but so welcome that it almost feels natural to have your fingers on his arm. He swears there is a hint of nervousness in your eyes now and despite knowing it’s silly, his heart wants to interpret it as bashfulness.
“Cardinal, please. I… ugh…”
You look beautiful from up close. Even if you weren’t stuttering he’d have a hard time listening to your words. It seems like you stopped breathing, your cheeks now a sweet shade of rosy, and you open your mouth to speak but no words come out. Eventually, you shake your head and run your fingers over the fabric of his sleeve. He thinks he’s about to pass out, his nerves rising until he can feel his heartbeat all the way up to his neck. Your hand is so gentle, so… affectionate.
“I’m sorry, Cardinal. I don’t mean to keep you. I was just thinking that I really like the black cassock. It suits you.”
A compliment. His mind is racing. This is not what you really wanted to say, he can tell, but he grins anyway. You like his cassock? Well, you should wait until you see him in a suit. Maybe on a date. He should ask, he realises. This is the moment he’s been waiting for for months now. But as he continues to stare at you his tongue becomes too heavy to form the words, and then your hand is suddenly gone and takes his courage right with it.
“Thank you, Sibling,” he says instead. “I also really like your ugh… your outfit.”
Only when the words leave his mouth does he realise it’s the same everyday habit you’re wearing all the time. Somehow, the silly compliment still manages to conjure a smile onto your face and so he stops berating himself because he made you smile. The sight stuns him, butterflies erupting in his already nervous stomach.
“I’ll see you later, Cardinal,” you say then, your eyes leaving his to glance down the hallway where your friends are waiting, beckoning for you to hurry.
Copia nods and he looks down at your hand in silent fascination, staring at your fingers that are dangling by your thigh without any use as if he could magically make them touch his arm again. “Yes, yes. See you,” he mumbles. “Bye bye.”
When he looks back up, you’re already hurrying off. Copia stays frozen, his gaze trailing after you as though his eyes are glued to your form. Even when you’re out of sight it takes him a while to start moving, to start breathing again.
Around him, the hallway slowly empties as everyone starts to tend to their respective duties. Copia can’t help but feel the nagging disappointment about not asking you out. A chance like this won’t suddenly appear again and even if you refused him it would still be less humiliating than the untouched ad at the bulletin board. He should take it off right now, he figures.
Only when he enters the hallway leading to his office, something looks off about the postings. He notices the change from the corner of his eye at first as he walks past the large corkboard. More party flyers have appeared, someone took down the “diamond butt plug set missing” request that had been hanging there since an orgy in the Siblings’ wing went wrong last month. Instead, Copia notices a large poster promoting condom usage that partly covers the request underneath. Which is how he recognises it.
His ad.
And one of the numbers is missing.
Copia nearly lets out a loud squeal as realisation dawns on him like the gentle spring sun rising over the hills every morning, bringing warmth and happiness after a cold, dark night. It seems like Cupid finally answered his prayers, like Aphrodite found sweet mercy for him.
Someone took his number. Someone wants to reach out to him.
For the rest of the day, he feels like he swallowed a swarm of bees, staring at his phone like it’s going to light up any second. Which it could. He could receive the message or call that changes his life any second now. Any second. Any… any second.
Nothing happens. Not in the next hour, not in the next two hours. All day, in fact, his phone stays quiet. His initial happiness deflates like a balloon. As he heads towards his quarters that evening, he observes how everyone piles into the dining hall, their happy laughter and cheerful spirits spoiling his usually solid appetite. He hates the sour feeling of envy in his stomach but he can’t help but suspect that everyone conspired against him.
Copia decides to skip dinner in order to cry into a big bowl of gelato. His nightmare might not have come true but his brain tortures him with pictures of your smiling face instead, with the phantom feeling of your warm hand lingering on his arm, and he can’t help but feel crushed anyway. He’d sell his soul to come home to you, to eat with you, sit with you, watch silly movies with you, fall asleep with you in his arms and wake up with your smile as the first thing he gets to see every day. It becomes increasingly clear to him that every day he misses out on being with you is a day tragically lost.
If only he was brave enough to change that.
✦ ✧ ✦
You’ve been pacing your bedroom for the better part of the evening now, back and forth and back and forth to the point where you’re seriously concerned about wearing down your carpet. The day passed uneventfully apart from your encounter with Copia in the hallway where you made a complete fool of yourself. You would have loved to skip all of the unnecessary fuss of texting back and forth but you barely spoke more than two words to him before you chickened out. Surely, if his interest in you was romantic, he could just ask you out instead of advertising himself on a public corkboard?
In any case, you’ve been typing out messages for over an hour now, deleting every single one of them only to throw your phone onto the bed multiple times before picking it back up to risk another attempt.
The reason you haven’t given up yet is that Lily knows you have his number now. Last night, when you thought everyone was asleep, you snuck out of your dorm feeling like James Bond with your torch and black clothing, tiptoeing down the empty corridors of the abbey. You didn’t want anyone spreading any premature rumors but a part of you was hesitant to take one of the numbers at all. Even if you called him, it wasn’t certain that he’d want to go on a date with you.
Still, you ripped off one of the thumb-sized pieces of paper and headed back – only to promptly run into Lily as she snuck out to meet Nora. You’re never going to forget her self-satisfied grin as she spotted you with the crumpled number between your fingers.
Begging your creative juices to start flowing, you stare at the empty message box. Perhaps you should be funny. You wonder if he knows the Piña Colada song. It is about a lonely hearts ad after all and he’s a musician. You type and type, delete and retype until you end on a rough draft to show Lily when she gets home. But no, upon rethinking, the joke is too silly even for you and there’s probably a better way to phrase this–
“Hey, have you called him yet?”
You jump, your heart rate doubling in shock. Lily appears in the open doorway and her voice startles you so fiercely that you clutch your phone to your chest. To your utter horror, the swishing sound of a sent message reaches your ear as your palm connects with the touchscreen, and when you glance down, the bubble with your typed out message sits at the top of your chat history.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
“What?”
“I sent my stupid silly joke message to him.”
Lily picks your phone from your hands, reading the solitary message from the display. “Well, at least now you’ll know if he shares your weird sense of humour?”
You grasp her shoulder and release a deep, throaty groan. Her words don’t calm you in the slightest, if anything, they only make it worse.
✦ ✧ ✦
Driving Miss Daisy can’t distract him anymore.
Every two minutes Copia reaches for his phone to check for any missed texts or calls only to have the gapingly empty home screen staring back at him. He never figured out how to change the pre-set wallpaper. Perhaps he could try again when he has a cute couple picture of him and his future partner. The thought makes him smile. It’s one of many little things he would change – if they only called.
Despite putting it on vibrate, he doesn’t trust the device to inform him of any news. He even carried it to the toilet twice already, just in case something happens while he’s gone. His ice cream doesn’t satisfy him tonight, everything feels bland and devoid of flavour, but he refills his bowl anyway. One big spoon and a bit of spray cream… and as he walks back over to his bed, he realises that he should definitely check his phone again because this took way longer than two minutes.
Right as he pulls the device out his pocket, it vibrates violently in his hand. For a moment he is so shocked to see a message pop up that he throws it away. It lands on his bed, bouncing a few times, display still lit up with one new notification glaring at him from the centre of his screen.
He takes a deep breath. This is real. He got a message.
No, he can’t look at it, he’s going to lose his nerves. A few more deep inhales and slow exhales, then he can’t fight the suspension any longer.
Hey, stranger :)
You don’t like coconut, so you probably don’t like Piña Coladas, but maybe I’m still the love that you look for?
I would love to go on a date with you, if you are still looking for one.
It takes him a second, then another one. The ice cream melts in his bowl as it sits forgotten on the floor next to his bed. Suddenly it clicks and he chuckles, in relief as well as amusement, thinking that he knows that song, that he gets the reference. That means this person is funny. They made a joke. He smiles to himself. A funny person wants to go on a date with him.
He types back, deleting, typing again. After five minutes, he comes up with a reply.
Hello, stranger! 👋🏼
I do not like Piña Coladas 🍹 but I have many better things to offer if you want to go on a picnic 🧺 with me tomorrow? I will bring food 🥪 and drinks 🧃 of course. Hopefully we do not get caught in the rain 💦😀
He thinks about how he could sign the message but then his nerves start to kick in. If he tells the person who he is, they may reconsider their choice to go out with him and that’s the last thing he wants. Even if the date doesn’t go well, he wants to try his best, so he shoots another message after the first:
Oh. It will be a blind date, if that is okay with you?
The next minute is the longest of his life. An eternity passes. He thinks he might have stopped breathing with how tight his chest feels. That is, until his phone lights up and shows the same number again, wringing a deep sigh of relief from him.
That’s fine with me. Where do we meet?
The squeal he lets out vibrates in his chest and bounces off the walls.
He’s got a date. Finally.
✦ ✧ ✦
Copia hears his bad conscience somewhere in the back of his mind whispering that blocking the best spot in the gardens all day is selfish. Perhaps it is true, perhaps he feels a little selfish today. And yes, besides feeling selfish he also feels a little guilty. Is it fair to go on a date when he has such a horrible crush on someone else? No. No, it’s not fair. But he can’t let another chance at love run through his fingers like sand on the beach. He simply has to grasp this opportunity.
His red-checked blanket lays untouched underneath the tall chestnut tree, its big, hand-shaped leaves rustling in the soft breeze as he approaches. The head of a rat is stitched into all four corners of the fabric – a gift from Sister for his latest birthday – and it’s been sitting here since nine o’clock when he took the liberty of… reserving… the spot. He picked the north-side of the tree so that the shade falls exactly where he’s going to be sitting with his date in approximately fifteen minutes. If they prefer the sun, he can just pull the blanket over a little, but he’d never forgive himself if they got sunburn because of him.
Copia took the day off, his first day off all year in fact, risking his next employee of the month award to spend all morning in town, running errands. With the end of May and strawberry season starting, he visited every grocery store within walking distance to find the ripest, juiciest ones they offered. He was lucky enough to obtain a small basket filled with the most delicious-looking red fruits and some additional fresh ingredients for his sandwiches. While he was quick-witted enough to ask about his date’s allergies yesterday, he completely forgot to ask them about their favorite snacks and so he’s decided to just bring anything he could think of that wouldn’t melt in the sun.
The basket he packed feels heavy in his hand for that exact reason and when he sets it down on the blanket, he can feel the strain in his arm. The past hour was spent obsessing over his outfit until he decided to just go for the white suit combo. Yes, white fabric near grass and juicy red fruits is not the most brilliant idea, but he wants to look his best and that means going the extra mile, even if he has to wear the tiny, itchy underwear underneath.
His heartbeat is going a mile a minute now. He can’t unpack yet, he doesn’t want the food to be out for too long, and so he sits and waits, his hands sweaty under his black and white leather gloves. The fact that the gardens around him slowly become crowded as the afternoon rolls around does nothing for his nerves. He can feel the curious glances, can hear the hushed whispers, and as the hour nears, he starts sweating even more despite the shade. If the unanswered ad had been embarrassing, being stood up so publicly would be even worse.
And then the most horrifying thing ever happens.
Copia sees you walking along the path, wearing a weather-appropriate, slightly dressed-up outfit that makes his eyes involuntarily roam your whole form. But he can’t fully focus on your loveliness. At first, he’s panicking that you’re meeting your friends somewhere close by where you could see him with his date. He would be so embarrassed, so distracted, so uncomfortable. But you walk straight towards him and that’s even worse. If he has to tell you that he’s busy meeting someone else he might spontaneously combust, explode into tiny particles of humiliation. It would ruin everything, his date and his crush on you. What if his date shows up and sees you with him? What if–
Oh no, you don’t stop approaching, you don’t take a turn, you walk up straight to where he’s waiting – with a hint of hesitation, yes, but very directed steps. Copia jumps up immediately, his black hat nearly falling from his head.
“Oh, Sibling,” he stammers, lifting a trembling hand to adjust his fedora. “Hello, hi. Are you spending some time outside today as well?”
Your mouth opens and you wring your hands before hiding them behind your back. “Hello, Cardinal. I ugh… I’m supposed to meet someone here under the chestnut tree.”
Copia furrows his brow, slowly registering your words. “Meet someone. Under the chestnut tree.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Satan. It’s you?” He stops, stares, comprehends. He sounds incredulous, his voice a higher pitch than usual. “You’re my stranger?”
You nod, big eyes staring into his mismatched ones in silent expectation, hope and fear muddled together in the crease of your brow. He doesn’t know how to react, just rubs his thumb and index finger together as his mind races faster than speed limit.
“Is this… is this bad?” you finally ask, breaking the awkward silence.
“No!” Copia exclaims. “No, no, no. Please, please sit.”
You do, kneeling down on the blanket a little hesitantly. Copia joins you, still not fully trusting his senses. This feels like a hallucination. His disbelief has to be the only reason he hasn’t passed out yet. Is he really on a date with you right now?
After another moment of silence, Copia notices you eyeing the basket and snaps back into reality. His plans, his very detailed plans for how this date is supposed to go, flood his mind and he remembers the first step now. Swallowing his shock, he sits up a little straighter.
“Ah, eh… yes, I got you something.” He reaches behind the basket and procures three deep red roses he stole from Primo’s rose garden on the way here. Their intense smell hits his nose as he whips them past his face and hands them over. “These are for you. I hope you like roses. I know it is a bit cliché but also a classic, no?”
“I love them,” you assure him, holding them up to your nose with a smile. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”
He smiles. “Good, good. Yes. So… I thought about what we could do and–”
“Cardinal,” you interrupt then.
“Oh, no. No, call me Copia. Please.” He gives you a shaky smile. “We’re on a date, no?”
“Copia,” you try but feeling his name on your tongue doesn’t make you feel any better. Ever since getting here your bad conscience made it hard to fully settle into this date and with his visible distress upon discovering it’s you, you feel like now is the time to address it. “Before… before we do this, I have a confession to make…”
He hums and wriggles his eyebrows. “Oh, really? Well, I would love to see you in confession soon…”
You blush furiously. “Oh, no. No, that’s not what I meant.”
A flash of concern and you can practically see all of his insecurities mirrored in his eyes. You’re both tiptoeing around the same question, you assume, but it’s on you to take the plunge.
“What… what do you mean then?” he asks.
“About this date…” His lightheartedness completely disappears. You feel bad for ruining the mood but it’s too late now and you need to get it out, you owe him that much. “Copia… It wasn’t a blind date on my part. I… I knew it was you.”
“You knew it was me?” he asks and again his features change, eyes wide now. He really had no idea that people knew the ad was his and suddenly he feels like a fool.
“I’m so sorry, I should have been honest from the start.” You stare at his gloved hand but you’re too scared to take it. “I hope you can forgive me for keeping this from you.”
“You knew it was me and you still… you still wrote to me? You still came?”
You furrow your brow. “I didn’t tell you because then I would have had to admit that it’s me and I was scared that maybe you wouldn’t want to go anymore.”
“Me? Not… not…” He shakes his head so fast that his fedora once again threatens to fly off. “Oh, tesoro, I would have… I would have been on the moon with joy, as they say. Yes, yes, I would have.”
You don’t correct him. Instead, an insecure smile settles on your face. “You know you don’t have to say that, Copia, it’s okay if you were hoping for someone else… That’s the risk of going on a blind date, right?”
He yanks your hand out of your lap, wrapping it up in both of his gloved ones. “Tesoro, can I be very honest with you?”
You nod. “Of course you can. Always.”
“I was hoping it was you.”
Your breath catches and steals your next words. The same incredulity that hit him earlier now settles in your chest and you can’t find it in you to question him.
Copia immediately fills the silence. “I never… I never thought…” You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, a nervous swallow, before he wets his lips. “Tesoro, you were always very good to me. I always saw your kindness, you understand this, yes? Don’t get me wrong, I just… I never thought you were interested in me like this. In such a silly old man.”
You have to giggle through your nerves. “I love that you’re a silly old man.”
He smiles shyly. “You are very sweet, tesoro.”
“I’ve actually had this crush for a few months now,” you admit, encouraged by his positive reaction. “And I want you to know that when I saw your ad I thought about calling even before I knew it was you.”
His smile grows impossibly bigger at that. “Did you?”
A nod. Copia squeezes your hand, then brings it to his face for a kiss. You feel his wet lips on your skin and they’re so soft, so gentle. When he sets your hand back down you see a trace of black lipstick on its back and instantly feel warm and fuzzy inside.
“Should we start then?” he asks. “I brought a lot of things, let me show you.”
The basket opens to reveal a plethora of food and drink options. Copia sets down a foil-wrapped plate with sandwiches that look a little wonky so you assume he made them himself, then some juice boxes, apple and orange, a box of fresh, delicious-looking strawberries, two bottles of water, reusable plastic cups and plates. At last, he hands you one of many different muffins he must have stolen from the kitchens.
“For my dolcezza,” he says with a smile.
More heat spreads in your cheeks as you take the little treat from him with a thanks. You’re both visibly losing your nervousness now, your postures less cramped, stretching out your limbs on the blanket with your bodies angled towards each other.
“Maybe we should… talk a bit about us?” Copia proposes. “To get to know each other, sì? I would like to learn about you.”
“Oh, yes, that sounds good. Do you want to start?”
He thinks on a good starter question, the pressure clouding his thoughts for a moment but then his silence grows thick and he has to say something. “So, ugh… do you like Star Wars?”
This is not one of the questions on his list of conversation starters. For some reason, every single meaningful thought suddenly leaves him. Luckily, this simple, safe question seems to put you at ease and you relax even more.
“I do,” you say. “I watched all the movies.”
“Oh, good! And what is your favorite?”
You pluck a piece from your muffin, popping it into your mouth. “Hmm… The Empire Strikes Back, I think.”
“Hehehe, sì, sì, I am your daddy.” His eyes widen. “Not that I’m… I don’t mean… you know, the scene with Luke… ugh. So, anyway, yes, that is my favorite as well.”
You giggle and he lights up, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. You reach for one of the sandwiches then. Copia helps, holding the plate up for you.
“So, these are all inspired by Italian foods. I have ugh… caprese. Mozzarella and tomato?”
You reach for the one he showed you. “That sounds great, thank you.”
Copia can’t help but stare as he awaits your reaction. You hum in delight and immediately take another bite of the soft bread. Satisfied, Copia allows himself to grab one as well now. Conversation slows down as you eat but you continue to talk about your interests between bites, finding more and more similarities as the minutes pass.
Your little spot is beautiful, cool enough to sit comfortably but warm enough to feel the reviving effects of spring. The leaves above you rustle every now and then, birds and bees flying past, the odd ant crawling over your blanket in search of some crumbs. Neither one of you is bothered as you sip on your juice boxes in tandem and intuitively increase your proximity.
With your bodies gravitating towards each other like that, you end up sitting very close after a while. Copia reclines against the tree trunk, pulling his hat down to grant him more shade, a little bit like a cowboy leaning against the walls of a saloon. His white suit is an odd contrast to his relaxed pose, not the most comfortable outfit to lounge in. Without thinking too much about it, he pulls you close to him and angles you so you can rest your head in his lap.
You’re only tense for a short moment. Copia gets rid of his gloves and you can feel his bare fingers running over your scalp. The steady pattern he draws calms you and you sigh, closing your eyes for a few minutes as a warm feeling of safety spreads out in you.
Copia can’t help but stare. Despite the initial hiccup, you’re so comfortable around each other that he feels like he’s known you forever. This is a dream come true for him, all his fantasies, his wishes, his longings, they all seem to come together in the lovely face dozing in his lap. You’re the most stunning sight he ever had the pleasure to behold. Every line, every hair, every mole, blemish or scar combines into the most beautifully painted canvas – and to him, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.
“Do you want a strawberry, tesorino?” he asks then.
You open your sparkly eyes and they reflect a speck of sunlight breaking through the canopy. Blinking a few times, you shift in his lap to avoid being blinded. He tenses as your cheek narrowly misses his groin, but then you nod and he distracts himself by reaching for the box of strawberries.
With careful fingers, he grabs one of the shiny heart-shaped fruits, making sure to touch the stem to avoid any stains, and then guides it to your mouth. He can’t help but stare as he sees your lips part for him, the tip of your tongue peeking out to welcome the sweetness. You sink your teeth into the red flesh, so eager, and spatters of juice stain your lips. They appear even more saturated as you lick them clean, wetting them with your tongue, and he so desperately wants to kiss you.
“They’re so sweet already,” you say, taking the rest of the fruit from his hand.
“Yes, I agree.”
You giggle. “Copia, you haven’t even tried one yet.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean the strawberries.”
You huff out a flustered breath, fighting the still evident smile on your face, and hold the half-eaten strawberry up to his mouth. “Try.”
He lets you feed him with burning cheeks, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As his teeth meet the flesh, a few droplets of juice fall astray but he doesn’t even care if they ruin his suit anymore. He can’t stop looking at you, thinking about your soft hand so close to his mouth. He wants to kiss it again, desperately, and so he traps it with his when you try to pull away. With his lips pressed to your palm, he closes his eyes, kissing all the way down to your wrist where he lingers.
You gasp softly, lips parting as Copia continues to drag his lips over the delicate skin. Your reaction brings a smirk to his face, another moment that he’s going to think about for days to come.
“I tried, dolcezza,” he says. “And I think you’re still sweeter.”
You blush so prettily at that. Flustering you is easier than he expected and he takes notes of every little thing that draws a reaction from you. You spend another hour like this, eating fruit, drinking juice, chatting about all sorts of things while you exchange soft touches and words of your blossoming affection. At some point, the gentle breeze that carries on throughout the afternoon becomes stronger, and more and more people head back inside to escape a possible weather change.
Neither one of you wants to leave but as you start to shiver more violently, Copia’s worry about you catching a cold wins over his desire to prolong your date. He proposes to head inside as well, running his hands over the goosebumps on your bare arms to warm you up.
When you reluctantly agree, he starts to pile your dishes and the leftover food into the basket. You move to help but he stops you with a tut. “I will pack this up, eh? Don’t worry about it.”
“I could help you, you know.”
“Ah, no no. I invited you, yes? It is my pleasure.”
It only takes him a few minutes to pack everything up. You grab your flowers in the meantime and he watches from the corner of his eye as you sniff them with a growing smile on your face, swaying slightly from left to right. As Copia shakes out the blanket, folding it messily in the middle, you hesitate by the edge of your little picnic spot.
“So, do you want to walk back together?” you ask.
Copia smiles, glad that you don’t want to leave him quite yet. “I would like that a lot, tesoro. Should I carry the roses for you?”
You hand them over and he places them on the lid of the basket before he carefully picks it up. When he’s by your side again, you stop him with a hand on his forearm, the same gentle squeeze you gave him the last time. Only this time you don’t leave. Instead you lean in and press a soft kiss to his reddened cheek, your lips lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary. Copia opens his mouth but he can’t think of anything to say. Instead he uses his unoccupied hand to fish for yours.
Hand in hand, palm against palm, you walk past the leftover groups of Siblings that make use of the last few moments of sun. Neither of you spares anyone else even a glance. Whenever your eyes aren’t focused on the path ahead, they meet each other, giddy, love-sick smiles gracing your lips.
As you finally pass the first archway and enter the cool stone corridors of the abbey, Copia suddenly stops. Your arms slowly extend as you take a few more steps but before your hand can slip from his, he pulls you back. Maybe he used a little bit too much force or maybe he just caught you by surprise, but you practically stumble into his arms. A gasp falls from your lips. You make no attempt at breaking away and so Copia gently guides you against the frame of the archway, setting down the basket in the process so he can place his other hand on your hip.
Big eyes look up into his. He leans in slowly. The rim of his hat catches the stone and it finally slips from his head, dropping somewhere. Copia doesn’t care because he can already feel your sweet strawberry breath on his lips and nothing could stop him from getting a taste. Your hands impatiently grab at his lapels, then, pulling him even closer, and he gasps at the force of your need. With your eyes falling closed, lips slightly parted and your chin tilted up, Copia feels like he’s in a dream.
“Please,” you whisper.
He has to fight a moan, the word resonating somewhere deep inside his belly. Still, he draws out the moment for as long as he can, stalling as the tension crackles in the tiny space that separates you. He starts by nuzzling your nose while he pushes his hand upwards until he can grasp your jaw. As he angles your head just right, he feels your lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He fights off a giggle as they continue to tickle his skin and you shift slightly against him, growing impatient.
“Co–”
His mouth swallows your next syllable. You hum against him as his lips capture yours with gentle adoration. The grip on your waist tightens at the same time as his thumb presses into your cheek. Want, need, trickles into your belly and Copia feels the same way, moving his mouth against yours with slightly more pressure. The kiss is still slow, still tame, but it’s unmistakable how much stowed up desire for the other you both hold inside.
For a while you continue like this, your body trapped between Copia and the cool stone and the world around you a mere shadow. You open your mouth for air and that’s when you can feel his tongue cautiously pushing against yours. The sensation makes you feel even more fuzzy, the need for oxygen forgotten as you tangle your tongue with his. The taste is sweet, residues of fruit and juice, and underneath it all you feel Copia. Copia.
You only break away when you’re both struggling to keep up the pace. He’s a mess, his lipstick gone, black smears covering his chin and cheeks where his eye make-up rubbed off. You lift your hand to wipe some of your mingled spit off of his chin and the blissful expression on his face makes you smile. You love to see his face ruined like this, you decide. And Copia, seeing the lipstick-smears all over your kiss-swollen mouth, unknowingly thinks the same.
“We should do this again sometime,” you say. “The date but also… this. Actually, I think we should do it again right now.”
Copia chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “How about we never stop doing it?”
You nod your approval, wrapping your arms around him to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s soft, if a little bit sweaty, messy from the loss of his hat. “I would like that a lot, Copia.”
“I mean it, tesoro,” he whispers with a hint of insecurity. “I don’t want to stop spending time with you. Ever. We already wasted enough of it.”
A big smile breaks out on your face. Copia can’t help but return it, squeezing you a little tighter to his body, and you giggle happily as he kisses your nose.
“You’re right,” you finally say. “Let’s not waste another moment.”
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this silly little story – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡
hello, beloved :) big fan of you, big fan of your writing!! would you ever consider writing some soft cock terzo action? i would love to see your take on it ♡✨
Perhaps this isn't the graphic scene we once might have imagined, but I thought perhaps Terzo, so often used, should be given grace tonight. <3
Terzo did not like being surprised by his own body.
He had made a career, a religion, out of command. A glance, gesture, a lazy curl of his mouth, and rooms shifted around him as though he were the axis upon which the world turned. Even age, for the most part, had been something he wore well. Silver threaded through his black hair, and he had laugh lines that were proof of a life thoroughly indulged. His hands were still elegant enough to make the faithful tremble during worship, liturgical or otherwise.
However, there were nights when sixty announced itself without courtesy.
His breath came slower, knees complained. His body, traitorous and beloved and unfortunately mortal, did not always rise to meet desire with that old, theatrical certainty. Though he would have rather swallowed incense ash than admit it aloud, shame still found him...in the quiet after kisses, or when his beloved's fingers rested against his chest and he could not quite become the man he imagined she deserved.
She noticed, of course. She always noticed.
"Terzo," she murmured, her voice soft enough that it did not wound.
He gave her a smile meant to charm. "Ah, cara mia. Forgive me. The old devil is...perhaps not as impressive tonight, eh?"
Her expression changed, and he braced for that familiar look on a hundred past lovers' faces, but what reflected back at him was not pity. Never pity. It was something fiercer, something tender enough to frighten him.
"Don't do that," she said.
His brows lifted. "Do what?"
"Talk about yourself like you are disappointing me."
He had no ready answer. She touched his face first, because she knew him. She knew pride live there in the lifted chin, the expressive mouth, and the eyes that had learned to seduce entire cathedrals before ever asking to be held. Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, then his lower lip.
"I want you," she said simply. "Not a performance. Not proof. You."
Terzo inhaled, slow and uneven. When she kissed him, it was not with urgency, but patience. She let him feel the shape of being adored without demand. Her hands moved over him with no expectation except his pleasure. Over his shoulders, around his ribs, the softened line of his stomach - all the places time had changed and therefore made more precious. Every touched seemed to say...
Here too.
Here, especially.
He closed his eyes. At first, he tried to joke. "You are very determined for a woman seducing a tired old pope."
"I am worshiping," she corrected, kissing a line along his jaw. "There is a difference."
A quiet sound left him then, almost a laugh, but infinitely more vulnerable. His hand found her hair, not guiding, only holding on. She took her time with him, and let pleasure be unhurried. Let it gather in places he had forgotten were allowed to matter. The warmth of her mouth at his throat. The press of her palm over his heart. The slow, devastating devotion of being touched with no goal but to make him feel good.
And gradually, the embarrassment loosened. His body softened into hers in every sense, no longer something to judge or measure, but something to inhabit. Something still capable of sweetness. Still capable of shivering beneath her hands.
"See?" She whispered against his skin. "You are so lovely like this."
Terzo's eyes opened. They were dark, damp at the edges, and stripped of every mask but wonder. "You are cruel," he said hoarsely.
She smiled. "For telling the truth?"
"For making me believe it."
She kissed him once more. And when he finally surrendered, it was not with the grand arrogance of Papa Emeritus III. None of the old tricks. It was as a man of sixty, beloved beyond performance. Held in the warm dark by someone who wanted him exactly as he was.
Emmrich cut two slices of hazelnut torte, kindly gifted by Myrna, with almost ceremonial care, lifting each peace with steady concentration and placing them on the little dessert plates he had Manfred fetch from the kitchen. Olivia accepted hers with a strained smile she tried to hide, stomach too full of nerves to feel properly anticipatory for dessert. She took one bite because he was watching, and because his birthday cake, in the memory of his mother, deserved to be tasted.
“Oh,” she whispered, letting the taste linger on her tongue before swallowing.
His expression changed. “Good?”
“Very good.”
He smiled, lifting his plate toward him to take in the aroma. “Not too much cream?”
She smiled back. “I would never complain about too much cream.”
“No, you would likely declare it structurally essential.”
“It is!” She insists, managing a laugh despite her exhaustion and the pounding in her head.
Emmrich took a bite and stilled. Not dramatically, but enough. Olivia watches him closely, noting the jump in his brow, and the twitch in his mustache. “Close?” She asked.
His gaze lowered to the plate. “Not exact,” he said softly. “But close enough to be kind.” Her heart squeezed, and she fought back the urge to reach for him. They ate in quiet for several minutes, the fire crackling in the grate. Gradually, the cake disappeared. Tea warmed her hands. And the folio, waited.
Finally, Emmrich set down his fork and lifted his eyes. Her heart began to pound, and she sucks in a small breath. “May I?” He asked. She nodded.
Then, because her courage needed somewhere to stand, she said, “It took me longer because I wanted to get it right. Not perfect, but right.”
“You need not look so worried, my dear,” he said, concern crossing his features. He reached for the folio. “Are you positive you are feeling well?”
She wondered what he saw. If there were leaves in her hair, shadows under her eyes. If she looked weaker, or wounded. “I’m fine.”
Emmrich’s brow furrowed, and that was never a good sign, but he untied the ribbon. The sound was very small, but it felt like the whole room paused to listen. Olivia held her breath as he opened the folio.
Where, beneath a protective sheet, waited the faces of Rupert and Elannora Volkarin.
For a moment, Emmrich did not move. At all. His hand rested on the edge of the folio, one long finger resting at the lifted corner of the protective sheet. The fire popped, its dancing shadow trembling over the paper. The room held its breath around him. Olivia sat very still on the chaise, her untouched tea cooling in her hands as if reflecting the icy grip around her heart.
She had imagined this moment in several ways. In one, he looked confused. In another, pained. Otherwise, terribly polite, which she felt would have killed her more efficiently than any malign spirit. She had not imagined a silence this deep. Emmrich’s eyes moved over the drawing slowly. Rupert first. Then Elannora. Rupert’s hands. Elannora’s eyes. Emmrich’s mouth, which she’s focused on so often lately, parted slightly, as if some answer had risen and failed to become sound.
His face did not crumple. It did not harden. It became younger in a way Olivia had no defense against. All the years of scholarship and grave gold and practiced composure falling quiet before something older than them.
A boy, perhaps, looking through the man’s eyes. Olivia’s own eyes burned.
“I know it can’t be exact,” she whispered almost frantically, because the silence had become unbearable. “I know I never met them. And I know it might not be –.”
“Stop.”
The word was soft. Emmrich closed his eyes, his hand lifting from the folio to press against his mouth. Not dramatically, and not to hide tears, exactly, though when his eyes opened again, they were bright in a way that made her chest ache. It was as if he had to keep every part of himself in place by touch alone.
“Olivia,” he said. Her name broke halfway through.
She rose, panic flooding her veins. “Is it wrong?”
“No.” He looked down again. “No.”
One tear slipped down his cheek, and Olivia froze. Emmrich Volkarin. Beautiful, severe, immaculate Emmrich, did not seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on the portrait, and the tear moved unchecked along the line of his face until it reached his jaw.
“Her smile,” he whispers, voice barely there. “My mother’s smile.”
Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth, and she was crying too. Emmrich reached toward the page, then stopped just before allowing himself to touch it, as if frightened his hand might disturb what time had returned.
“And his hands,” he said. “Father’s hands. I had forgotten the length of them. I remembered they were strong, but not…” His breath shook. “Not that.”
Olivia did not speak. She couldn’t. The headache, the night, the terror of a hundred invisible fingers, the hours spent over the page until the world narrowed to charcoal and memory…
It all fell away beneath the impossible tenderness of his recognition. He knew them. Not perfectly. But he knew them.
Emmrich bowed his head. For one awful, beautiful second, Olivia thought he might fold over the drawing entirely. Instead, he set both hands flat on either side of the folio, careful not to touch the portrait itself, and breathed as if he were relearning the practice. Manfred, who had been standing near the hearth with his birthday card clutched to his ribs, slowly sat down on the rug. He made no sound. Even he understood.
Olivia moved closer, but stopped before reaching him. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up sharply. “No.”
“I mean –.”
“No, my love.” His voice was rough. “Do not apologize for this.”
Tears continued to spill down her cheeks, immediate and helpless. “I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know if it would hurt.”
“It does,” he whispered. Her expression collapsed. Emmrich reached for her hand, and she gave it instantly, his fingers closing around hers with familiar warmth.
“It hurts,” he said. “Because it matters.” She nodded, unable to stop her tears.
He looked back at the drawing. Thought.
“How?” The question was quiet. Not accusation, not yet, but it landed between them with the full weight of what he had already begun to understand. Olivia’s fingers tightened in his.
“Olivia,” he said, softer. “How did you do this?”
She looked at their joined hands. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. There was no version of this where she could lie to him. Not after giving him his parents. Not on his birthday. Not when he had just called her my love in a voice broken open by grief.
“I went to the gardens last night,” she began, hushed. His thumb stilled. She did not look up. “I thought night would be quieter.”
“Olivia.”
“I know.”
His voice grew tight. “How long?”
She swallowed, silent, and he already knew. The silence was answer enough. “How long?” He repeated.
“All night,” she whispered, and Emmrich went utterly still. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know this would happen. I didn’t know I’d be there all night. I opened the door too wide, and then there was…Emmrich, there was so much. Too much.” Her voice catches. “I must have passed out.”
The words were small, but in the room they were enormous. His face changed as she spoke. Grief, wonder, love, and fear collided so visibly that she almost stepped back from the force of it.
“You lost consciousness in the Memorial Gardens,” he said. Whatever tenderness in him now had teeth.
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her. And in that stare, she saw a man who watched a building collapse on his parents, and a terrifying mistake collapse on her. “You could have been harmed. You may be harmed.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“You could have been overwhelmed beyond your ability to return.”
“I know.”
“You could have –.” His voice stopped. Caught. He let go, his hand rising to his mouth.
Died. He did not say it. He didn’t have to. Olivia’s tears fell harder. “I know.”
Emmrich’s jaw trembled, then tightened beneath his hand. He stood, turning away, pressing both hands hard against the mantle. The motion was not rejection, but containment. She recognized it, even now. He was trying to put his fear somewhere it would not fall on her like punishment.
The folio remained open on the table. His parents looked out from the page. And Olivia stood very still.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice breaking.
Emmrich breathed in, and out. Then again. When he turned back, his eyes were wet and fierce. “My love,” he said, voice low. “I am so angry with you.”
She flinched. He saw and crossed the room at once, stopping before her, but not touching until she allowed it. “And I am so moved I can hardly stand,” he said. “And I am terrified. And grateful. And furious. If I attempt to sort these feelings elegantly, I may require another fifty-six years.”
A broken laugh escaped through her tears. He did not smile.
“You were reckless.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Dangerously reckless.”
“Yes.”
He drew in a breath. “Olivia, do not say yes as though agreement repairs it.”
She looked down. “It doesn’t.”
“No.”
“I thought if I told you, you’d stop me.”
“I would have.”
“I know.”
“And that is precisely why you should have told me.”
Her mouth trembled. “I wanted to give you something no one else could.”
His expression broke. Not fully, but enough. “Oh, Olivia.”
She looked back up at him. “I wanted you to see them.”
He reached for her then, unable not to, and gathered her against him carefully, but fiercely enough that she felt the fear in his arms. She sobbed once into his waistcoat. “I wanted you to have them back.”
His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading into her curls. “You impossible, generous, maddening girl.”
“I thought it would be beautiful,” she cried.
“It is.”
“And I thought maybe beautiful would be worth frightening.”
“No,” he said at once, voice rough against her hair. “Not if the frightened thing is you.”
She cried harder. He held her through it, though his own breathing was not steady. For a long while, the only sounds in the room were the fire and Olivia’s tears. When she finally quieted, Emmrich drew back just enough to look at her. His thumb moved beneath her eye, catching tears as he had done before. He studied her pallor, and the circles under her eyes.
“You will be examined,” he said.”
She nodded quickly. “All right.”
“By Myrna. By me. No argument. And you will rest. Not draw. Not revise. Not add just one tiny shadow to my father’s collar.”
Her eyes widened. His narrowed. “Do not look so surprised. I know artists.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Olivia.”
“I was thinking about it,” she relents with a watery, guilty smile. He looked as if he might scold her again, but instead his gaze drifted to the drawing. The anger did not leave him. Neither did the fear. But the portrait pulled at him like gravity. He returned to the table slowly and sat before it.
“May I?” He asked.
She exhaled. “It’s yours.”
The words made him close his eyes briefly. Then he touched the edge of the paper with reverent fingertips. “My mother,” he whispered.
Olivia stood by the chair, a hand over her mouth.
“Elannora,” he said, as if introducing the name back to the face. “Look at you.” A small, aching smile touched his mouth. “And Father.” He let out a breath that might have been laughter if it had not been so near tears. “You look as if you disapprove of the chair construction.”
Olivia laughed softly, still crying. “He did,” she said before she realized. Emmrich looked up at her, and she flushed. “I mean…there was an impression. Not words exactly, but…he seemed very opinionated about stability.”
Another tear slid down Emmrich’s cheek. “Yes,” he said. “That was him.” He looked back at the portrait.
“She loved him,” Olivia whispered.
“I know.”
“She teased him.”
“Yes.”
“And she loved you.” Her voice trembled. “There was so much of that. She loved you.”
Emmrich bowed his head. His shoulders shook once. Only once, but Olivia saw. She reached for him, then hesitated, remembering his anger, his fear, and the enormity of what she had done. He caught her hand without looking and pulled it to his lips. The kiss to her knuckles was not restrained, it lingered. Grateful, devastated, and a little desperate.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her hand. She cried again. “I’m still angry,” he added.
“I know.”
“Do not think tears and artistic brilliance absolve you.”
“I don’t.”
“They help,” he said, voice thick.
She laughed through a sob. “Do they?”
“Immensely. Infuriatingly.”
Shuffling movement and the click of bone on bone made them remember Manfred on the carpet, and he slowly raised his slate. It read: NO NIGHT GARDEN.
Olivia looked at it and winced. “Agreed.”
Manfred underlined it. Then added: GOOD DRAW.
Emmrich laughed then, helplessly, wetly, and the sound eased something in the room. Olivia sat beside him at last, close enough that their shoulders touched. He did not object and leaned into it by the smallest degree, taking her hand once more. The hazelnut torte waited half-eaten. The tea cooled. And in the open folio before them, Rupert and Elannora Volkarin had faces again. Not as they had been perfectly, and not as any portrait from life might have held them. But as love, memory, and one reckless young necromancer had dragged them gently from the dark.
Emmrich sat very still, and looked at his parents for a long, long time. Finally, he said, “This is the greatest gift I have ever received.”
Olivia’s breath caught. He turned to her, eyes bright and severe. “And you are never to do anything like it again.”
She nodded.
“Say it,” he said.
“I will never do anything like it again.”
“Once more.”
“I will never open my mental door that wide in the Memorial Gardens at night and, pass out alone in the grass while trying to draw your parents for your birthday.”
His mouth twitched despite himself. “An admirably specific vow.”
“I thought specificity would comfort you.”
“It does. Marginally.”
She smiled, exhausted and tearful and unbearably dear. He touched her cheek. “My impossible love,” he murmured.
Her eyes softened. “Happy Birthday, Emmrich.”
He looked once more at the portrait, then at her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”
Emmrich cut two slices of hazelnut torte, kindly gifted by Myrna, with almost ceremonial care, lifting each peace with steady concentration and placing them on the little dessert plates he had Manfred fetch from the kitchen. Olivia accepted hers with a strained smile she tried to hide, stomach too full of nerves to feel properly anticipatory for dessert. She took one bite because he was watching, and because his birthday cake, in the memory of his mother, deserved to be tasted.
“Oh,” she whispered, letting the taste linger on her tongue before swallowing.
His expression changed. “Good?”
“Very good.”
He smiled, lifting his plate toward him to take in the aroma. “Not too much cream?”
She smiled back. “I would never complain about too much cream.”
“No, you would likely declare it structurally essential.”
“It is!” She insists, managing a laugh despite her exhaustion and the pounding in her head.
Emmrich took a bite and stilled. Not dramatically, but enough. Olivia watches him closely, noting the jump in his brow, and the twitch in his mustache. “Close?” She asked.
His gaze lowered to the plate. “Not exact,” he said softly. “But close enough to be kind.” Her heart squeezed, and she fought back the urge to reach for him. They ate in quiet for several minutes, the fire crackling in the grate. Gradually, the cake disappeared. Tea warmed her hands. And the folio, waited.
Finally, Emmrich set down his fork and lifted his eyes. Her heart began to pound, and she sucks in a small breath. “May I?” He asked. She nodded.
Then, because her courage needed somewhere to stand, she said, “It took me longer because I wanted to get it right. Not perfect, but right.”
“You need not look so worried, my dear,” he said, concern crossing his features. He reached for the folio. “Are you positive you are feeling well?”
She wondered what he saw. If there were leaves in her hair, shadows under her eyes. If she looked weaker, or wounded. “I’m fine.”
Emmrich’s brow furrowed, and that was never a good sign, but he untied the ribbon. The sound was very small, but it felt like the whole room paused to listen. Olivia held her breath as he opened the folio.
Where, beneath a protective sheet, waited the faces of Rupert and Elannora Volkarin.
For a moment, Emmrich did not move. At all. His hand rested on the edge of the folio, one long finger resting at the lifted corner of the protective sheet. The fire popped, its dancing shadow trembling over the paper. The room held its breath around him. Olivia sat very still on the chaise, her untouched tea cooling in her hands as if reflecting the icy grip around her heart.
She had imagined this moment in several ways. In one, he looked confused. In another, pained. Otherwise, terribly polite, which she felt would have killed her more efficiently than any malign spirit. She had not imagined a silence this deep. Emmrich’s eyes moved over the drawing slowly. Rupert first. Then Elannora. Rupert’s hands. Elannora’s eyes. Emmrich’s mouth, which she’s focused on so often lately, parted slightly, as if some answer had risen and failed to become sound.
His face did not crumple. It did not harden. It became younger in a way Olivia had no defense against. All the years of scholarship and grave gold and practiced composure falling quiet before something older than them.
A boy, perhaps, looking through the man’s eyes. Olivia’s own eyes burned.
“I know it can’t be exact,” she whispered almost frantically, because the silence had become unbearable. “I know I never met them. And I know it might not be –.”
“Stop.”
The word was soft. Emmrich closed his eyes, his hand lifting from the folio to press against his mouth. Not dramatically, and not to hide tears, exactly, though when his eyes opened again, they were bright in a way that made her chest ache. It was as if he had to keep every part of himself in place by touch alone.
“Olivia,” he said. Her name broke halfway through.
She rose, panic flooding her veins. “Is it wrong?”
“No.” He looked down again. “No.”
One tear slipped down his cheek, and Olivia froze. Emmrich Volkarin. Beautiful, severe, immaculate Emmrich, did not seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on the portrait, and the tear moved unchecked along the line of his face until it reached his jaw.
“Her smile,” he whispers, voice barely there. “My mother’s smile.”
Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth, and she was crying too. Emmrich reached toward the page, then stopped just before allowing himself to touch it, as if frightened his hand might disturb what time had returned.
“And his hands,” he said. “Father’s hands. I had forgotten the length of them. I remembered they were strong, but not…” His breath shook. “Not that.”
Olivia did not speak. She couldn’t. The headache, the night, the terror of a hundred invisible fingers, the hours spent over the page until the world narrowed to charcoal and memory…
It all fell away beneath the impossible tenderness of his recognition. He knew them. Not perfectly. But he knew them.
Emmrich bowed his head. For one awful, beautiful second, Olivia thought he might fold over the drawing entirely. Instead, he set both hands flat on either side of the folio, careful not to touch the portrait itself, and breathed as if he were relearning the practice. Manfred, who had been standing near the hearth with his birthday card clutched to his ribs, slowly sat down on the rug. He made no sound. Even he understood.
Olivia moved closer, but stopped before reaching him. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up sharply. “No.”
“I mean –.”
“No, my love.” His voice was rough. “Do not apologize for this.”
Tears continued to spill down her cheeks, immediate and helpless. “I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know if it would hurt.”
“It does,” he whispered. Her expression collapsed. Emmrich reached for her hand, and she gave it instantly, his fingers closing around hers with familiar warmth.
“It hurts,” he said. “Because it matters.” She nodded, unable to stop her tears.
He looked back at the drawing. Thought.
“How?” The question was quiet. Not accusation, not yet, but it landed between them with the full weight of what he had already begun to understand. Olivia’s fingers tightened in his.
“Olivia,” he said, softer. “How did you do this?”
She looked at their joined hands. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. There was no version of this where she could lie to him. Not after giving him his parents. Not on his birthday. Not when he had just called her my love in a voice broken open by grief.
“I went to the gardens last night,” she began, hushed. His thumb stilled. She did not look up. “I thought night would be quieter.”
“Olivia.”
“I know.”
His voice grew tight. “How long?”
She swallowed, silent, and he already knew. The silence was answer enough. “How long?” He repeated.
“All night,” she whispered, and Emmrich went utterly still. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know this would happen. I didn’t know I’d be there all night. I opened the door too wide, and then there was…Emmrich, there was so much. Too much.” Her voice catches. “I must have passed out.”
The words were small, but in the room they were enormous. His face changed as she spoke. Grief, wonder, love, and fear collided so visibly that she almost stepped back from the force of it.
“You lost consciousness in the Memorial Gardens,” he said. Whatever tenderness in him now had teeth.
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her. And in that stare, she saw a man who watched a building collapse on his parents, and a terrifying mistake collapse on her. “You could have been harmed. You may be harmed.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“You could have been overwhelmed beyond your ability to return.”
“I know.”
“You could have –.” His voice stopped. Caught. He let go, his hand rising to his mouth.
Died. He did not say it. He didn’t have to. Olivia’s tears fell harder. “I know.”
Emmrich’s jaw trembled, then tightened beneath his hand. He stood, turning away, pressing both hands hard against the mantle. The motion was not rejection, but containment. She recognized it, even now. He was trying to put his fear somewhere it would not fall on her like punishment.
The folio remained open on the table. His parents looked out from the page. And Olivia stood very still.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice breaking.
Emmrich breathed in, and out. Then again. When he turned back, his eyes were wet and fierce. “My love,” he said, voice low. “I am so angry with you.”
She flinched. He saw and crossed the room at once, stopping before her, but not touching until she allowed it. “And I am so moved I can hardly stand,” he said. “And I am terrified. And grateful. And furious. If I attempt to sort these feelings elegantly, I may require another fifty-six years.”
A broken laugh escaped through her tears. He did not smile.
“You were reckless.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Dangerously reckless.”
“Yes.”
He drew in a breath. “Olivia, do not say yes as though agreement repairs it.”
She looked down. “It doesn’t.”
“No.”
“I thought if I told you, you’d stop me.”
“I would have.”
“I know.”
“And that is precisely why you should have told me.”
Her mouth trembled. “I wanted to give you something no one else could.”
His expression broke. Not fully, but enough. “Oh, Olivia.”
She looked back up at him. “I wanted you to see them.”
He reached for her then, unable not to, and gathered her against him carefully, but fiercely enough that she felt the fear in his arms. She sobbed once into his waistcoat. “I wanted you to have them back.”
His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading into her curls. “You impossible, generous, maddening girl.”
“I thought it would be beautiful,” she cried.
“It is.”
“And I thought maybe beautiful would be worth frightening.”
“No,” he said at once, voice rough against her hair. “Not if the frightened thing is you.”
She cried harder. He held her through it, though his own breathing was not steady. For a long while, the only sounds in the room were the fire and Olivia’s tears. When she finally quieted, Emmrich drew back just enough to look at her. His thumb moved beneath her eye, catching tears as he had done before. He studied her pallor, and the circles under her eyes.
“You will be examined,” he said.”
She nodded quickly. “All right.”
“By Myrna. By me. No argument. And you will rest. Not draw. Not revise. Not add just one tiny shadow to my father’s collar.”
Her eyes widened. His narrowed. “Do not look so surprised. I know artists.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Olivia.”
“I was thinking about it,” she relents with a watery, guilty smile. He looked as if he might scold her again, but instead his gaze drifted to the drawing. The anger did not leave him. Neither did the fear. But the portrait pulled at him like gravity. He returned to the table slowly and sat before it.
“May I?” He asked.
She exhaled. “It’s yours.”
The words made him close his eyes briefly. Then he touched the edge of the paper with reverent fingertips. “My mother,” he whispered.
Olivia stood by the chair, a hand over her mouth.
“Elannora,” he said, as if introducing the name back to the face. “Look at you.” A small, aching smile touched his mouth. “And Father.” He let out a breath that might have been laughter if it had not been so near tears. “You look as if you disapprove of the chair construction.”
Olivia laughed softly, still crying. “He did,” she said before she realized. Emmrich looked up at her, and she flushed. “I mean…there was an impression. Not words exactly, but…he seemed very opinionated about stability.”
Another tear slid down Emmrich’s cheek. “Yes,” he said. “That was him.” He looked back at the portrait.
“She loved him,” Olivia whispered.
“I know.”
“She teased him.”
“Yes.”
“And she loved you.” Her voice trembled. “There was so much of that. She loved you.”
Emmrich bowed his head. His shoulders shook once. Only once, but Olivia saw. She reached for him, then hesitated, remembering his anger, his fear, and the enormity of what she had done. He caught her hand without looking and pulled it to his lips. The kiss to her knuckles was not restrained, it lingered. Grateful, devastated, and a little desperate.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her hand. She cried again. “I’m still angry,” he added.
“I know.”
“Do not think tears and artistic brilliance absolve you.”
“I don’t.”
“They help,” he said, voice thick.
She laughed through a sob. “Do they?”
“Immensely. Infuriatingly.”
Shuffling movement and the click of bone on bone made them remember Manfred on the carpet, and he slowly raised his slate. It read: NO NIGHT GARDEN.
Olivia looked at it and winced. “Agreed.”
Manfred underlined it. Then added: GOOD DRAW.
Emmrich laughed then, helplessly, wetly, and the sound eased something in the room. Olivia sat beside him at last, close enough that their shoulders touched. He did not object and leaned into it by the smallest degree, taking her hand once more. The hazelnut torte waited half-eaten. The tea cooled. And in the open folio before them, Rupert and Elannora Volkarin had faces again. Not as they had been perfectly, and not as any portrait from life might have held them. But as love, memory, and one reckless young necromancer had dragged them gently from the dark.
Emmrich sat very still, and looked at his parents for a long, long time. Finally, he said, “This is the greatest gift I have ever received.”
Olivia’s breath caught. He turned to her, eyes bright and severe. “And you are never to do anything like it again.”
She nodded.
“Say it,” he said.
“I will never do anything like it again.”
“Once more.”
“I will never open my mental door that wide in the Memorial Gardens at night and, pass out alone in the grass while trying to draw your parents for your birthday.”
His mouth twitched despite himself. “An admirably specific vow.”
“I thought specificity would comfort you.”
“It does. Marginally.”
She smiled, exhausted and tearful and unbearably dear. He touched her cheek. “My impossible love,” he murmured.
Her eyes softened. “Happy Birthday, Emmrich.”
He looked once more at the portrait, then at her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”
Ohh this is a hard choice, but may I request a manondo snippet please :))
thank you, douglas, my love <33 i am not talking about them enough at the moment!!! but rest assured that not a day goes by that i don't think about them :')
have a little Secondo x Manon (OFC) snippet, it starts soft but it gets a little deeper towards the end 🕊️♡
She’s in his lap, inspecting his features, tracing the ridge of his nose, the hard edges of his bones, the soft lines just underneath, his eyebrows, the tender tissue under his eyes, the curve of his jaw. It’s too soft for a massage, her fingers dancing, half tickle half caress.
“What are you doing, hm?” he asks, amusement flickering across his face.
“Nothing.” She leans forward for a short kiss, then continues unperturbed. “Just let me look at you.”
He does let her, observes the concentration in her eyes, like she’s analysing him, the eyes of a scientist or perhaps an artist, trying to figure out their subject. Secondo thinks he’s inscrutable, mostly, but with Manon he feels oddly exposed. Her clever eyes, like she might actually figure him out, reach into forgotten depths he’s not willing to disclose.
She has the patience of a saint but he grows uneasier with every passing second. When she trails his lips, he snaps after her thumb, bites down gently. She laughs and he smiles as he presses her palm to his lips. He kisses along the ball of her hand, then down to her wrist where he lingers, breathing in the remnants of her perfume.
Manon all but melts under his touch.
“And what did you see?” he asks when he ends his trap.
“A beautiful man with a rich history,” she says, cradling his cheeks in both hands now. “I wish I could know all about him.”
“You would not like it,” he returns with a soft shake of his head.
“Don’t make assumptions about me.” She flicks his nose and his lip twitches. “No matter how many times you call me your dove, it doesn’t make me the pure innocent angel you’ve created in your head. I don’t need to be protected and I certainly don’t mind what you did in the past, it wouldn’t change a thing.”
He lets this sit between them for a moment, looking at her determined features.
“To me, you are, Manon. It is not… purity or protection, I know you are not fragile,” he says. “It is about freedom. About peace. You are this to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You see me in a way no one has seen me before. A way– I cannot see myself in. I would not change it, I would not show you what you cannot–” He pauses, the word omitted. “You are too good for me.”
She’s confused by this, he can tell. For a while she contemplates his words, then she shakes her head at him. “I know enough things to make up my mind. If you are an Emeritus, you are notorious. It comes with fame.”
“Not my brother. Primo never strayed from his teachings.”
“I think you lived what you stood for,” she counters. “Freedom, indulgence, pleasure, sin.”
“Hm, perhaps, but often I let myself go more than I should have,” he says. “It was easy, to piss off Imperator. But that is not the whole truth.”
No, the truth is that Secondo clings to control but the grip is so tight that it hurts. When he slips, the result is ugly.
She might not believe him but excess is never a pretty sight. Perhaps it's a lie he tells himself, that he's honoring the Morning Star, that he fucks and drinks and spends out of spite for those who think true virtue lies in making yourself small, in denying yourself the baser pleasures of life for a merciless God.
The illusion is potent, his reputation, the admiration he sees in the eyes of so many, the image he sold to everyone by never letting them glimpse beneath the surface. It's easy to tell yourself that you're not transgressing when surrounded by people who don't believe in shame.
But that doesn't mean he never felt it.
Manon didn't see him when he threw up all over the hotel room in Vegas, when he lost his dead mother's necklace and cried drunkenly into some woman's shoulder whose name he never caught, when he couldn't fuck her because he was too wasted to get it up and she laughed and left him sitting, pitiful and naked his underwear. She wasn't there the many times he woke up draped over dirty hotel toilets with a pounding headache, shirt stained with the liquid contents of his stomach, long abandoned by whomever he spent the night with.
Something tells him she'd laugh and call him silly, to expect any of this to change her mind. If he revealed the deformed, withered insides of his own self she'd shake her head at him and tell him she knew about it all along.
But it is one thing to know and another to bear witness.
"I'm looking respectfully" well can you look at me like you're dying of a fever. like you're delirious and it hurts. like you're fighting desperately for your life.
discoholicmusic
dededos
blakekathryn
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
annaxmalina
tangentwithtanner
