Thank you all so much for the continued support on this story. With this, ‘strella's and Copia's journey is finally concluded, at least for us. I'm releasing them into the happy future they've been fighting for now, knowing that they're on the right path. It's wild how long this story has been a part of my life, through so many ups and downs, and it feels bittersweet to let it go. It all started with a random little idea about someone struggling to fit in, led to me posting the very first chapter, today, exactly three years ago (yes, I did plan for this) and now ending it with a big smile and some tears on my face.
I'm so glad that I got to spend this time with you all and share such a huge passion project. Your comments mean the world to me, chatting to you, hearing your theories and thoughts, the reactions and love you've shared with me over the years.
It won't be my last fic but there certainly won't ever be a fic quite like this one in my life again ♡
in nomine amori • copia & his sorella prediletta ✨️
1.5k words in slightly disjointed excerpts. copia x (unnamed) f!oc. a little soft, a little silly, a little spicy. angst-adjacent at points? he just has a lot of feelings.
He's not accustomed to being touched. At least, not in any meaningful way. The weight of hands upon him has always meant something else: duty and demand. An endless expectation.
But then there is her.
He lets her touch his face when no one else can. Lets her cup his jaw, trace her thumbs over the faded remains of old wounds. The paints don't shield him from her; she sees through them, straight to the man beneath.
Sometimes, when he's tired, she cleans them from his face herself. When it's late and the world feels small and safe she takes a damp cloth against his skin, gentle and slow, and watches the shape of him softening. Turning from Papa in to just Copia. Her Copia, the man who looks at her like she holds his heart in her hand. It's a transformation she alone gets to witness.
Her hands move with a devotion that matches the expression in her eyes, and he catches her wrist to press his lips to her palm.
"You need not look at me like that, cara mia."
She tilts her head, still focused on the lines of his furrowed brow.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something more than I am."
She takes a slow breath, brushing her knuckles along his jaw, and meets his timid gaze.
"I look at you as you are, my love – nothing more, nothing less."
⸸
When she kisses him, it isn't hurried or desperate. It's measured almost to the point of hesitance. She touches him as though he is something precious.
He has spent years feeling like an afterthought. But in her hands – in her quiet, steady love – he is known.
⸸
On the nights he sits alone in his office, drowning in doctrine and demands – she appears. Not always to speak, sometimes only to touch his shoulder in passing. A quiet reminder: I'm here with you. She'll straighten the papers strewn across his desk into neat stacks, knowing well he will ruin them again, and pour him a glass of wine.
"For the nerves," she says, and he exhales, exhausted and grateful.
"For my sanity, more like."
⸸
The clergy doesn't notice the way his eyes follow her as she moves through the halls, the softness in his voice when he speaks her name, or how he hesitates when she leaves the room, reluctant to be without her. But she sees. She knows.
⸸
The first time he undresses her is a moment of reverence. All careful hands and roaming eyes, gentle fingers tracing along her clavicle as the fabric of her robe pools at her feet.
"Quant’è bella," he whispers to himself, voice hushed and edged with awe. His hands tremble as they settle on her waist. "You are..." he shakes his head, words failing him.
"Tell me," she pleads, shivering beneath his touch. "Tell me what I am."
He looks her in the eyes and brings her hand to his chest, guiding her to feel the undeniable pounding of his heart.
"Mine."
⸸
She stands behind him as he readies himself in the mirror for mass, straightening his collar and dusting off his shoulders. Her fingers linger at the nape of his neck.
"You belong to them," she says, meeting his gaze in the reflection, "but you come home to me."
He turns with certainty and a pride that fills his chest, and presses his lips to her forehead.
"Always."
⸸
An involuntary, almost imperceptible whine escapes him as he envelopes her nipple with his lips, and her heart aches at the sound. She holds his head in her hands, fingers tangled in his hair as he sucks and kisses and inhales the sweet scent of her. Snaking his hands round her waist, he grips her tightly, fingers digging into her skin as though she'll disappear the moment he lets her go.
"You are my lifeblood, tesoro. You know that, sì?" he asks, voice shaking, and she looks at him with a softness that stops him in his tracks. The weight of the moment hits him and he closes his eyes, unable to look directly at her.
She knows the answer to the question, but she's not sure he knows that right now. In these moments of insecurity, he sometimes loses himself, loses grip ever so slightly of the certainty of her love for him. He needs her to ground him back into reality again, to speak her love into the air, into his ears, right back into his weary spirit.
"I know, my love," she sighs, gently cupping his fallen face in her hands, guiding him to look at her and gently rubbing her thumb across his quivering bottom lip. "And you mine."
⸸
He sighs dramatically as she plucks the pen from his fingers.
"Vita mia, amore mio, luce dei miei occhi," he says, punctuating every term with a gentle peck to a different part of her face — her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose. "I am very busy."
"You’re very grumpy," she counters, tucking the pen behind her ear. "And in desperate need of a break."
Copia exhales sharply, "I do not need a break, amore... I need my pen."
"Your pen will survive five minutes without you."
He narrows his eyes but melts as she sinks into his lap and pulls him close, the scent of lavender that clings to her skin calming him with each breath. "Fine. Five minutes."
"Five," she agrees, and kisses him slow and deep. There is no rush, and no intention of keeping track of time. When they finally pull apart, breathless and dazed, she attempts to brush her now disheveled hair behind her ear.
The pen.
She laughs softly, mirroring his raised eyebrow with her own.
"Huh. I guess it did survive."
⸸
He tugs at his vestments, grumbling under his breath as she watches on in amusement, letting his torment linger for just a little longer.
"Cazzo," he huffs, struggling with the clasp at his collar. "This stupid button—"
She steps closer, batting his hands away, and he sighs, tilting his chin up as she works the fastening with ease. "I swear, these robes are trying to kill me."
She smirks. "Dramatic. Besides, I think you enjoy me taking them off you."
His lips curl into a grin.
"Perhaps."
⸸
He grips her hips as she settles over him, the firmness of his grasp betrayed only by the trembling of his breath. Candlelight flickers across his face, catching the faint sheen of sweat on his skin as his chest rises and falls in shallow waves beneath her fingertips.
"Amore…" he exhales, eyes fluttering shut as she drags her hands over his ribs, tracing her hunger into the soft flesh of his belly.
She leans in, presses her lips to the hollow of his throat, feeling the way he swallows hard beneath them. He always gives so freely, always wants to please, but tonight — tonight, she just wants him to feel.
"Let me," she whispers, mouth ghosting over his pulse, her hips rolling slow and deliberate.
His breath staggers as his fingers tighten against her skin. "Oh," he gasps, head tipping back. "Cara, please—"
"Please, what?" she murmurs, trailing her lips along the curve of his jaw.
His restless hands run up along her spine, his voice just a whisper as he pulls her against him.
"I don't know how to let you."
She stills, just for a moment, adjusting herself so that she's leaning over him, face to face. "You don't have to do anything," she says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Just be here with me."
He looks at her then, eyes dark and pupils blown wide.
"Only you," he breathes, voice shaking. "Sempre."
⸸
"Long day?"
Copia sits on the worn stone garden steps, head bowed and shoulders curved inward like a scolded child. He isn't startled when she steps closer, nor does he look up – only exhales in amusement as she sits down beside him. "Something like that."
She doesn’t ask for details, doesn't push for more, she just leans in slightly, pressing her shoulder against his. For a while they sit in silence, and she watches the way his hands rest in his lap, his right thumb absentmindedly scratching at the palm of his left hand.
"I had a feeling," she starts, slipping a hand through her habit into the pocket of her slip. "So I brought you these."
He turns to look at her, brows lifting in quiet surprise as she pulls out a selection of wonky, mismatched cookies wrapped in parchment. Some slightly burnt at the edges, the others perfectly golden.
"I think I overestimated my abilities."
"Tesoro," he says with an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as he takes them from her. "They're perfect!"
"Shut up!" she scoffs, playfully swatting his thigh with the back of her hand.
He grins as he takes a bite. "I'm serious," he says, a touch of gratitude hiding behind the teasing. "These are exactly what I needed."
He wasn't accustomed to being loved, not in a way that is patient. Purposeful. Enduring.
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