irritating as fuck when people get mad at Black people existing in premodern historical fiction/fantasy media. like first of all, you're racist. and second of all, you are acting as though Black people didn't exist in premodern Europe which is simply false. especially when we're talking about the Mediterranean, like what the fuck do you people think is along the southern half of the Mediterranean Ocean?? everyone's on boats, there are GOING to be interactions with Black people in Northern Africa, and there are GOING to be Black people in Mediterranean Europe. stop being stupid. your imagined homogeneous white European past is not historical reality, get over it you massive losers
summary: Copia and Perpetua had been stolen away from one another and Perpetua wants to make it clear who Copia belongs to.
wc: 2.2k
tags: explicit 18+ (smut, being a lil weird about wounds), copvia, (full tags on ao3 link above)
warnings: copvia (the normal brothers), mildly dubious consent, perpetua gets jealous of a tattoo
Copia had been marked long before Perpetua had the chance to lay his own claim to his twin. Stolen.
Something uncoiled, writhed in Perpetua’s gut the more he stewed on it.
Some sick part of him knew that they were always fated to be entangled in each other like this; in blood, in flesh, in each other’s sheets.
The fine point of Perpetua’s nail twirled around the thick curled hairs of his twin’s chest, lazily circling at the dimpled skin of his nipple, at the rotating 666 tattoo above his heart. A pledge of eternal loyalty to their Dark Lord. Maybe part of an initiation rite. Perpetua had never been certain, never asked.
But he hadn’t been asked to partake in any similar ritual. The close examination of the corpses of his predecessors showed no sign of the mark on their torsos, nor could he find it branding any of the ghouls, the clergy rank and file.
Perpetua couldn’t understand why it…bothered him. He’d known of it, of its meaning and importance to his brother, to the Ministry. But it’s pride of place over Copia’s left breast, just above his heart…
Mine.
How vulnerable he lay here beside him, dressed in little save the sheets and the afterglow of their shared sin. Even in this half-asleep state, he reacted to Perpetua’s every touch, the drag and pinch of his nails on plush, warm skin. His twin whimpered so sweetly. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Copia’s resting face, intoxicated watching every little gasp and hitched breath slip passed his lips as Perpetua’s clawed hand ventured lower over his belly.
The claws–his claws–had been one of the first things he’d adopted since his arrival, an added layer of safety to his new environment. The Ministry indulged him in this bit of image making, incorporating it in his official appearances. The fine silver plate he wore with his papal robes. The long, scissor-like blades with some suits. Even under his plain leather gloves, he wore his nails in their fine manicured points, painted black. Before he could grow his own to such lengths, having kept them bitten down to the quick for as long as he could remember, he took to wearing the glue-on acrylic kind.
He didn’t need such tricks now, he thought with a hum, teasing gooseflesh up along Copia’s arm.
With a closed-eyed grumble, Copia stirred just enough to pull Perpetua into his arms, mumbling a “C’mere, Pet” and pressing hazy kisses into his hair. Perpetua couldn’t resist the cradle of his arms, the way his head fit perfectly in the space against his brother’s soft chest and shoulder.
They’d been made for this, he thought, ear pressed to Copia’s chest, listening to the steady thump thump thump of his heart. Made for each other. Once, they’d shared this.
One heartbeat.
One flesh.
He’d been stolen away too.
Nearly fifty years had separated them since; distance and religion and their own faulty childhood memories dividing them further.
When had they fallen so out of sync? When did their breathing fall out of rhythm? Whose heart had skipped out of time?
All Perpetua wanted, craved, was the safety of their union–to crawl into the space just beneath Copia’s ribs, to bury his claws into supple flesh and dig until warm and sticky in the viscera as they were joined back together. To mend the festering wound where they’d been so cruelly torn apart. To feast upon each other, let it fill the void within and be reborn anew. As someone else, something else.
This could never be. Of course.
Perpetua mindlessly traced an imagined line connecting the freckles along his twin’s shoulder, admiring the smudged facepaint along Copia’s jaw, down along his neck as it trailed off into a peppering of red and purpling love bites.
What had it been like before in the amniotic warmth of the womb, intertwined like this, safe in each other's embrace? No higher loyalties than their shared blood binding them?
No one could deny him this, he thought, this sick need to possess the other half of his soul. He’d long felt incomplete, an unnameable absence gnawing within him. Perhaps his old God–that Good and Loving God–uncaring of how he’d suffered, of how he’d tried to rend himself into something worthy of salvation, had already seen him damned.
Straddling Copia’s bare torso, Perpetua traced that Devil’s mark again with his fore- and middle fingers. His mark of fealty to Satan, to the Ministry and their mission.
To a family–a mother–Perpetua barely knew.
Why not to him, to his Papa?
Pressing tentatively into the skin earned a low hum until the razor’s edge of his claws broke through into a dark trickle of blood at the top of the mark. Perpetua couldn’t help his own reverent gasp as Copia’s eyes snapped open, a helpless grunt of pain escaped him as he floundered about for anything coherent.
He tried to sit up but Perpetua’s free hand at his shoulder eased him back down to the bed, nails digging into flesh when Copia tried to seize his wrist. A warning.
“Shh, it’s just me,” Perpetua cooed, pressing kisses to his twin’s stricken face. “You’re okay, it’s okay.”
“What the f–?” Copia tried to cry out but the sudden downward drag of claw tearing into his chest caught his voice in his throat, choked out into a strangled sob as Perpetua carved through his tattoo.
Dark blood oozed from the jagged wound around his fingers, tangling into the coarse hair around his brother’s chest.
Perpetua pressed their foreheads together, mismatched eyes wide and unwavering into Copia’s own as he breathlessly whispered, “I need you, Cardi. I need us to–”
Without another word, Copia nodded, lips trembling as his twin kissed him all along the beginning hints of stubble across his jaw. Tears slipped down his cheeks in silent torrents but the twitching of something against Perpetua’s ass only pushed him further into whatever reverie he had succumbed to.
Perpetua ran his tongue along the side of his face, lapping up every bit of salt with a pleased hum as he finished his work with a final upwards swipe, cleaving the tattoo apart.
His own arousal dripped translucent down his thighs as he slid his clawed nails free from the bloody V now carved above his lover’s heart. His twin whimpered at the loss of his fingers, joining him in admiring the sight.
It was rough work, uneven in a way that would bother Perpetua down the line. But for now, he marveled at the sight of his initial in Copia’s flesh as it wept blood down his breast from the broken sigil. His mark a further unholy desecration upon his brother’s body as he righted one of the many wrongs in their life now reunited. His claim upon his brother.
Mine, mine, mine.
His tdick throbbed in rhythm with the panicked racing of his heart. Cradling his hand, he pulled his trembling fingers still sticky with his brother’s blood into his eager mouth, desperate to not waste a single drop. The savory essence blossomed onto his tongue, richer than anything he’d ever tasted before. It dribbled down his chin as he moaned around his fingers like a starved man sucking at the last bits of a bone’s marrow.
More.
Copia stared up at him, dark-eyed, greying hair sweat-plastered to his forehead. Perfectly pliant beneath him and watching, every bit the cornered prey.
Perpetua leaned into Copia’s neck, lips hovering down along the fluttering pulse of his jugular to his collarbone, going in for the kill.
“You’re so beautiful,” Copia murmured, voice somewhere far away despite how close they were.
Perpetua placed a wet kiss just above the bloody opening and Copia shuddered out an anticipatory breath. “I know.”
Dipping his tongue into the warm, wet heat of the wound made them both keen at the sensation. Yet Perpetua tongued deeper, as deep as the wound would allow, savoring the metallic sweetness of his brother’s slit.
His spittle and blood-slicked fingers found their way between his own thighs, teasing at his aching length before slipping into his cunt.
Copia’s whimpering only made him grind harder into his palm. What sweet noises he could force out of his twin, just for him, only for him…
Perpetua leaned forward to force their lips together in a clumsy pressing of faces before growling and forcing Copia to sit up with him. “You’re mine, yeah?”
Copia nodded mutely.
Perpetua grabbed his face. “Noo, say it.”
“I’m yours,” Copia breathed, forcing out the words through his brother’s frenzied grasp, through the stinging pain in his chest. “I’m all yours, Pet.”
Perpetua shook his head with a playful pout, fingers still pumping in and out of himself, mixing his slick with his twin’s own blood. “Try again, angel. What’s my name?”
Copia squared his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut. “Papa.”
It almost felt cruel, but fuck if it didn’t feel so good to force him to say it, to make him speak truth to the reality he’d denied for so long, that he still tried to side-step like a crack in the pavement.
“Fuck.” Perpetua bit his lip, tried to muffle the rising pitch of his moans as he trembled beneath his own touch. It embarrassed him how such a small concession could tease him over the edge.
“Please,” Copia pleaded and reached for him. “Let me–”
Perpetua shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Papa, please…” Copia tried again. “Let me at least taste you.”
Perpetua stopped, tried to catch his breath. “You want a taste, hm?”
Copia nodded as if his life depended on it, as if he didn’t have his lips locked with his brother’s cunt soon he would suffer a truly horrible fate, the only known antidote to his affliction.
“Yeah?” Perpetua nodded along teasingly. “Alright, open up. Don’t be shy…”
After a pause, his twin closed his eyes and obediently opened his mouth, sticking out his warm, wet tongue like a penitent waiting for communion. His Papa obliged, placing his slick, wet fingers against his tongue. His tongue swirled around them, taking in the sweet taste of his pre before taking Perpetua’s long, delicate fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean.
“Good boy,” Perpetua cooed. He freed his fingers from his brother’s greedy lips, and Copia glanced up at him from under his lashes in expectation.
“Open,” he ordered once more. Copia obeyed.
Gripping his jaw open, Perpetua tongued a string of bloody spittle into his awaiting mouth before forcing it closed. He knew he didn’t need to go through all the extra trouble as Copia eagerly swallowed every bit with a closed-eye reverence, as if it were an unholy sacrament binding them together. A shudder shot down Perpetua’s spine at the thought.
Mine. The thought crept to life within him, kept churning ‘round with every punch of breath from his lungs. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Insatiable, Perpetua sealed their union with a kiss, forcing his tongue into his twin’s mouth to steal a taste of this back and forth comingling.
He felt ablaze, almost fearing Copia would burn himself from the bruising grip he kept on his hips. But he didn’t pull away–couldn’t–as if they were fused together in this moment.
Reaching behind himself, Perpetua finally started to stroke Copia’s long abandoned cock, the poor thing weeping at the sudden attention lavished upon it. Copia keened into his brother’s touch, how those strong, slender digits worked his girth at an inhumane pace. His hips bucked out of sync as curses and pleas poured from his lips like tears, almost incoherent.
“‘Please,’ what?” Perpetua teased, amazed at how slick his fingers had become in so little time. “Too much? Need me to stop?”
“No!” Copia wailed, mismatched eyes wide. “No, I-I–” His eyes rolled to the back of his head with the swipe of Perpetua’s thumb circling over his tip, pulling a long out groan from somewhere deep within him. The heft of his cock pulsed in his brother’s hand.
“Can I–?”
“Mhm?”
“-ah!”
“Yeah?”
“-inside?”
Perpetua grinned, giddy, almost drunk on the sensation as he leaned Copia back down onto the mattress. Stealing one last uncoordinated kiss, Perpetua lifted his hips, maneuvering to line Copia up with his entrance. Foreheads pressed together, they watched as the head of his cock teased between his folds lost in those damp curls before disappearing within him altogether, filling him completely.
A shuddering sigh escaped the both of them at their reunion, Perpetua fully seated in Copia’s lap.
Relief.
A grand design for two pieces to so perfectly slot together nearly sixty years in the making.
Once, Perpetua found a steady pace, he placed a hand on Copia’s chest to steady himself, over the wound, where he’d stolen back his own twin, his own heart. Copia’s fingers laced together with his and squeezed.
“You,” Copia breathed, heart hammering in his chest. “Only you.” He didn’t need to say anything else. He stared up in reverence at his pretty twin’s face, unable to help the “thank you’s” spilling out of him as Perpetua clenched down hard, all others forsaken, forgotten as they came together again.
Just spent 45 minutes researching what a specific street in a city smells like in october so i could write the word "damp." the word is in the final draft. it is doing its job. it cost me 45 minutes and a mild obsession with historical weather records. worth it. the word is perfect. you would not believe how hard i worked on that word.
I'm so close to having a coherent thought about this, but I find it very interesting how violent behaviour is viewed in characters, versus other sorts of antisocial behaviour (-phobias, -isms, etc). maybe it's the perceived separation from reality? because if you're lucky, nobody in your life will ever slit anyone's throat, so you get to view it as an abstract and fantastical action. it's pure play! whereas if a character says something like "you look fat in those jeans", BAM! instant hatred, because now you can link it to painful moments in your own life. even though the people you've heard those words from (moms, aunties, grandmas) are probably people that you still love.
which is why you get all these books that embrace hyper violence but flinch away from any -phobias and -isms, because that would be uncomfortable.
what makes the dissonance especially jarring is that viewing violence as abstract is a privilege. in Canada and the States, we get to sit comfortably in our homes while our governments fund weapons and send troops to inflict violence overseas. and sure, we can watch a genocide live-streamed on social media, but it still feels distant.
don't confuse this as me saying violence shouldn't be written about! everything should be written about! it's more me wondering why violence feels comfortable to write about, when arguably milder social offences do not.
I really think everyone needs to truly internalize this:
Fictional characters are objects.
They are not people. You cannot "objectify" them, because they have no personhood to be deprived of. They have no humanity to be erased. You cannot "disrespect" them, because they are not real.
I know this has good intentions, so I will just add the "how you treat them, even as objects of fiction, can speak about your own character, be careful out there"
Your addition is actually completely antithetical to my message. It is literally the opposite of what I am conveying.
Stop telling people to encourage the cop inside their head.
How you treat fictional characters, given they are entirely objects of fiction, does NOT necessarily speak to your own character, and you do not need to be "careful".
It is not dangerous to imagine dark things happening to fictional characters. It does not mean you are secretly a bad person. It does not mean you unconsciously want to hurt people in real life. It is not a "slippery slope" to doing bad things to people in real life. You cannot damage your brain or turn yourself into a bad person by consuming "dark" fanfic.
I can write tentacle noncon of my favorite character all day long and be a fierce anti-sexual assault advocate in real life because what I do in my head is not the same thing as what I do in real life.
Every time you censor a word describing something unpleasant - like writing abuse as ab*se, rape as r*pe, covid as c*vid, or murder as m*rd*r, what you're communicating is that there is something shameful in describing reality as it is. There is nothing shameful in talking about reality as it is, but fascists want you to think there is. Stop censoring words. Write them in full so people know you feel no shame in discussing these topics.
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