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Chapter Text

The Ministry campus in New England is a long way from your family’s farm. In every conceivable interpretation of the phrase. 

The orientation tour is where the homesickness really starts to set in. The endless hallways of marble and polished granite and stained glass are a far cry from the windswept prairie where you grew up, the remote homestead where only clumps of cottonwood and the barn stood between you and the horizon. You walk through a palace, and you feel claustrophobic; you’re surrounded by strangers after years of having only your family for company, and yet their conversation is enough to deafen you. 

You wanted so badly to leave your isolated life behind. As the eldest daughter of the only Satanic family in two Nebraska counties, you grew up sheltered just like the fundamentalist Christian girls, but for entirely different reasons. You dreamed of a morning when you would wake up without cows to milk, or a kitchen garden to hoe, or the maddening wind driving in your ears—and now you’re ready to peel off your veil and race back to the bus stop, so desperate to be in your attic bedroom again that you can almost see the faded cabbage rose wallpaper, almost smell the old wood warming as sunlight bakes the house. 

Then, he walks by. The chattering group of initiates falls silent. 

Every thought in your head falls silent. 

No one has to tell you who he is. Before he opens his mouth, you know his voice. His brief greeting puts you right back in the barn, his psalms left to spin on the dusty old turntable while you rake out the horse stalls. Only your father’s voice has shaped more of your worldview, cigarette-stained and reticent as he read aloud from the Unholy Scriptures, as he shared news from the printed newsletter sent by the Ministry each quarter, as he catechized you over the milking pail. 

“Ah, Frater Imperator!” The Sister leading the tour calls out to the man, arresting him. “May I introduce the new class of novitiates?” 

Imperator turns toward the group, expression weary but polite. The novitiates crowd together like ducklings eager to shadow their mother, offering the man handshakes and occult gestures and even curtsies, and Imperator stumbles through his part of every interaction, uttering more encouraging sounds than words. By the time he faces you, the sharp light in his eyes puts you in mind of the horses again, of the way they stamp and wicker in their stalls during a thunderstorm. 

He is overwhelmed. Ready to flee, ready to buck. And you can hardly blame him. 

Instinct takes over. Withdrawing the hand you’d been prepared to offer, keeping your eye contact soft, you share your name. “It’s an honor, your Dark Excellency.” 

“It’s…” The man might be out of encouraging sounds, at this point. Imperator inclines his head, strands of salt-and-pepper hair caressing his brow. “Welcome, welcome. Everything we do is for the glory of Lucifer, right? Perdonami, I need to… yes.” 

With that, he spins on his heel and continues on his way. Gloved hands clenched at his sides, shoulders flinching as if he can’t decide whether to hunch into himself or fill out the sharp lines of his black jacket. The other initiates explode into gleeful communion, but this time you ignore the noise, watching as Imperator disappears around the next corner. 

He's the leader of the Satanic Ministry, and yet something tells you that if you chased after him, if you invited him to join you at the bus stop… you might see his shoulders sag with relief. 

You’re half-tempted to try it. But as always, his resolve gives you courage. 

It isn’t until later that night, while you stand cutting an apple in the dormitory kitchenette, that your mind pieces the scene together and plunges you into the frantic realization that Imperator recognized you. That he quoted your own words back to you, plain as if he were reading them off a sampler hung on the wall. Distracted and devastated by this knowledge, your control over the knife slips. 

The price of knowledge is always pain. When you nick your thumb, when the skin wells with blood, you suck it into your mouth.  

Everything we do is for the glory of Lucifer, right? 

A simple phrase, trite maybe… but at some point, with all the ancient tomes available to him, he instead chose to inscribe your clumsy reasoning on his heart. 

He’s never seen you before in his life—but he remembers you.  

Just like you’ve always remembered him. 

When you learned about Papa Nihil’s death, you were at the feed store. 

Lilly was still tiny enough to hold in your arms, sticky fingers tangled in your hair and head surprisingly heavy on your shoulder. You were shadowing your own father as he compared prices on flake bedding, half your attention lent to him and the other half devoted to tracking your younger sisters as they rollicked about the fluorescent-lit warehouse, playing hide-and-seek between the seasonal displays and watching videos on Dad’s battered old phone. Happy for a change of scenery, for good cell reception, for novelty. 

Then, you heard the familiar sound of driving guitars. Fluted organ music. Panic threatened to close your throat, and you whirled about so quickly that Lilly uttered an almost cartoonish yelp in your ear, now a helpless passenger in your arms as you darted down the nearest aisle. Somewhere between the bird seed and the log splitters, you found your sisters clustered around Dad’s phone—four girls ranging in age from eight to eighteen, still pale from winter and dressed in their town clothes, soft calico dresses and hand-me-down coats. 

“What are you doing?” you hissed. “Turn that off, you can’t listen to hymns here!” 

Delilah turned to you, tears glimmering in her dark eyes. “Papa’s dead. Cardinal Copia is Papa now.” 

Handing Lilly over to the second-eldest, Jessibel, you snatched the phone and cranked down the volume, praying some busybody hadn’t listened too close to the lyrics. Rearranging themselves, your sisters leaned over your arms to watch the video, Delilah sniffling and Lucy whispering he looks so different with the paint and Hera uncaring, still playing hopscotch on the faded floor tiles. Adrift in disbelief, you stared at the screen—at someone’s shaky bootleg video of him, already in chasuble and with thurible swinging, his expression closed in a way that needled at your heart, that reminded you too much of your own face in the bathroom mirror. 

Heavy footsteps announced your father’s arrival. Forsaking the girls, you turned to show him the screen. No words were exchanged, but his own weathered face closed off as he muttered, “Everyone back to the truck.” 

Crowded together in the old Ford, you all watched the ascension from the beginning. Your father prayed for Nihil’s soul in Hell, for the swift arrival of the Infernal kingdom, that Satan would guide and protect the new Papa Emeritus. You bounced Lilly on your lap, soothing her fussy cries even as part of you longed to join her. Your mother hadn’t been in Hell but a year, then, and in the sanctity of your own skull you prayed that Nihil would find her somewhere in that foreign land, offer her some comforting words… or perhaps vice-versa. 

And you prayed for him. The man on stage, who came out expecting one thing and ran into quite another. The man who chose to stand tall regardless, rigid and proud and majestic but still somehow… remote.  

Even from himself. 

A few nights later, you were looking for some paperwork in the scuffed old secretary downstairs when you stumbled upon the latest Ministry newsletter. Tearing the address block off the back cover, you returned to your attic room and rescued a sheet of paper from the crate of homeschool supplies stored beneath your bed. And Lucifer knows why, but you sat down and poured your heart out to man you’d never met—a man you never thought you would meet. Hunched over your crossed legs on the moonlit floor, pencil scratching and breath soft, pausing only to wipe the tears from your eyes so the paper wouldn’t end up watermarked. 

You made your prayers manifest. Slapped a stamp on them and dumped them into the mailbox out by the road with the rest of the weekly mail. 

The next morning, you returned to gathering eggs and sweeping horse stalls, trying to block all thought of the incident from your mind. If the world beyond the farm gates altered in some fundamental way, you’d hear about it eventually. 

Just because time moves slowly doesn’t mean it’s stopped. 

Copia is used to lying in bed at night, watching the day’s fumbles and failures play out across the insides of his eyelids. It is his own personal highlight reel of ineptitude, and he scarcely knows how he would get to sleep without it. 

But the night after you withdraw your hand, that is all he can think about. 

He had almost gotten to you. The young novitiate who’d fussed with her veil so much that a few tempting locks of hair now sat uncovered at her temples, the woman with the sun-flushed cheeks and the soft, intelligent eyes. The only newcomer who didn’t jockey for position in front of him, who hung back the way he so often has. And the moment he turned toward you, the moment he paused for breath…. 

You took your hand back. Tucked it alongside your skirt, focused somewhere beyond him and defaulted to rote politeness. 

You told him your name.  

And all at once your words were alive in his head, harmonizing like a choir, a song where your silence should be. His lungs burning, consuming all the oxygen before he could even think of using it to speak, before he could use it to salvage his dignity. He had no choice but to make a speedy exit, because he knew if he lingered too long, he would project your own simple theology across the canvas of your sweet face—and the combination would unravel his already threadbare self-control, shatter him like bone. 

Accepting that sleep won’t come, he shoves his way out from under the covers and moves toward the simple metal desk in the corner, nearly throttling the lamp as he struggles to turn it on. In the main drawer is a leather-bound journal, and he returns with it to the bed, flicking through the pages of report cards and employee awards until he finds the few bits of correspondence he saved from when his parents died. 

When he ascended, there were more cards and letters than he could answer alone, and Marika took over the bulk of it. When his mother passed, there were just as many cards and bouquets, and these he answered himself, welcoming the distraction from his grief. There are probably records somewhere, but right now he concerns himself with your letter—soft as linen from all the times he’s handled it, creased from being folded to fit into his jacket pocket so he could keep it with him on stage. And the handmade card, decorated with dried flowers, a species he still can't name but whose vivid hue hasn’t faded despite the passage of time. 

He doesn’t have to read either to know what they say. They are sola scriptura to him by now, the simplest and most profound theological texts he’s ever read. The letter is longer, one of his most treasured possessions. 

Dearest Papa, 

I know it’s been a few weeks, but my family only just learned of your ascension. We’re the only believers in a hundred miles, we keep our heads down out of necessity, but we saw everything that happened in Mexico. And I just wanted to take a moment to let you know that my thoughts are with you, that my prayers are with you. 

It must be so difficult. I know sometimes, in our faith, we don’t talk about the things that are difficult. We accept the fact that we’re all bound for Hell, we feel the distance between ourselves and everyone we’ve lost more sharply because we know what kind of place God has prepared for them. We work in the darkness because we’ve been forced to, and we take the bitter along with the sweet because that was the price of our freedom, that’s how we’ll find our salvation. We seem like a brave and resolute kind of people, warriors honing their blades in preparation for battle, but maybe that’s not true all the time. 

Maybe I’m reading too much into it. You looked so proud on stage, and you’ve earned that right. I just think, if I were in your shoes… I’d be terrified. To find myself that big a mirror, being made to reflect so much of Lucifer’s light. 

But everything we do is for the glory of Lucifer, right? The Angel who took up His sword for creatures made of dust, the one who is still suffering while the Chosen Son sits at the Tyrant’s right hand? 

I live on a farm. I know what it’s like to get down in the muck and work. I think you do, too, even if your muck is glitter. I pray that your work frees countless souls from the prison of the false God’s flawed love, that you fill whole battalions, that you strengthen the hearts of the faithful.  

But I also pray that you’ll be happy and safe. That you’ll find moments of peace and beauty. You are Death, but to wither the crops you’ll first need to grow them. 

Until we have Eden on our own terms, 

Your obedient parishioner 

The card is shorter, but sweeter still. 

Papa, 

When my own mother died, I played one of your songs on my guitar at her funeral. Today, I played the same song again. The grasshoppers were golden in the sunlight, and the wrens sang along with me, and I cherished every bit of beauty so that I could describe it to your mother one day, so she will know the sweet hours her sacrifices bought me. If we ever meet in person, I’ll describe it to you, too. Even with a hundred people around you, you will feel alone, and nothing I say can change that. But when you can breathe, I pray you will know I’m breathing with you. I am so sorry. 

Your obedient parishioner 

Copia answered this outpouring of shared grief with a formulaic reply, and he’s always hated himself a little for that. Only a little, because he knows he wasn’t in the right headspace, and because he has no poetry in him. But now, he wonders if he dares to thank you. If you would forgive him, if you would smile at him, if you would perhaps be open to the idea of…. 

Slamming the journal shut, Copia leans against the headboard and closes his eyes. The notion is ridiculous. You’re a stranger. You’re half his age. You haven’t even taken your perpetual vows yet, though people tend to play fast and loose with the title of Sibling, and he has no idea if you’re an aspirant or a postulate or… frankly, it doesn’t matter. The fact remains that you’re young, you’re just beginning your journey within the Ministry, and he shouldn’t be obsessing over the way you withdrew your hand when it’s not like he could’ve felt your skin warming his. 

Even as he shuts off the lights and retreats beneath the covers, his gloves prevent him from feeling the cool whisper of the bedsheet folded over his chest. Turning his cheek toward the pillow, he muffles his breath and tries to sink into the wretched silence. 

Chapter Text

With your skillset, it takes some effort to avoid recruitment by Primo’s acolytes. 

You want nothing more to do with plants. Nothing more to do with livestock, or cooking, or sewing. When you’re not studying, you volunteer for shifts in the library, where you while away the hours alphabetizing books in the sunlit quiet. You even volunteer for janitorial duty, emptying the wastebaskets and mopping the floors in the administrative offices after everyone’s gone home. Any task that doesn’t require you to think too much, that gives you time to process everything you’re learning and experiencing, is one that you will happily embrace. 

Still, Primo’s hooded ghouls sometimes show up without warning. 

One evening, while you’re tipping the office shredder receptacle into the recycling bin on your cart, a misty black shape looms out of the shadows and manifests right in front of you. Your heart batters itself against your windpipe, and you drop the plastic bin—barely able to squeak, much less scream. The ghoul catches the bin before it hits the ground, offering it to you with what looks like an exasperated sigh. 

“I’ve told you not to do that!” Snatching the bin back, you hug it against your chest. “Did one of Papa Primo’s helpers send you here?” 

The ghoul nods and inclines its head toward the cart, as if to say, Because you’re wasting your time doing this. 

“Look, I know you always need another pair of hands in the greenhouse.” Recovering your equilibrium, you finish dumping out the paper shreds. “But I came here to get away from gardening. Calling cows home, collecting eggs. Things like that.” 

The ghoul shakes its head, unwilling to accept this answer. It gestures again toward the cart, a dismissive motion that conveys, This task does not make use of your skills or knowledge. 

“I know. That’s exactly why I like it.” Bending down, you slide the bin back into the shredder. “Where I come from, it’s hard to make ends meet. I already feel guilty about taking a pair of hands away from the farm, so please just—” 

“Let her be.” 

In the liminal space of the empty front office, Imperator’s soft voice rings out like a gunshot. It takes you a panicked moment to work out that he’s not even there, that the voice must have come from inside his darkened office. You thought he’d gone home like the others, that someone had turned out all the lights but forgotten about the CRT monitor on his desk. 

Now, as you crane your head to peep through the half-propped pocket doors, you can see that he’s seated there. His body cloaked in shadow, his face illuminated by the flickering monitor. The cold light calls out the streaks of silver in his hair, transforms his makeup into something that looks not just dramatic, but vaguely sinister. 

But his eyes are angled toward the door, the pale one luminous in its unexpected vulnerability.  

Holding your breath, you try to calm your racing heart. You may be sheltered, but no one here is immune to the compelling effect of those strange eyes. Sometimes, when it’s raining outside during Black Mass and the light in the cathedral is dim, you become convinced you can see his moon-blue iris glowing through the haze of incense and candle smoke. 

Of course, he shares this trait with his brothers. With the portraits of past Papas that hang in the halls. Still, it’s only his eyes you routinely find yourself falling into. 

A soft rustle tells you that the ghoul is beating a hasty retreat. Torn between breathing easier and turning to follow it, you screw up your courage and approach the doors. The gilded wood glides on silent casters, opening a few inches at your touch. “Forgive me, your Dark Excellency. I didn’t… I didn’t even notice you were here.” 

“It’s all right. I’m good at that.” The man glances away from you, reaching out to turn on his amber-shaded desk lamp. “I’m just… finishing a few things.” 

You blink as your eyes adjust to the light. “Is there anything I can help you with?” 

Imperator utters a harsh noise. “Not unless—” He stops himself, his frown deepening. “Forgive me, Sorella. It’s… Ministry business.” 

“Of course.” And it’s not your place to pry. Thinking quick, you offer, “I’ll just grab your trash and shut the doors.” 

“Ah, you don’t have to do that—” 

“Actually, I’m under strict orders to get yours.” You drop your eyes to the elaborate silver wastebin under his desk. “Something you throw out attracts ants?” 

“Oh, ah… sì. Of course.” Imperator tries to nudge the bin out from under his desk with his foot—and promptly tips it over, causing the contents to spill across the floor. His shoulders slump, and you stare at the little wedges of cheese printed on his dress socks where they poke out of his trouser legs, unsure if you should laugh or sigh. 

When you finally return your eyes to his face, you think he must be having a similar debate with himself. 

“Long day?” you wonder, smile shy and swift. 

“Somehow, they keep getting longer.” An answering smile flickers across his lips, subtle enough to stop your heart. Clearing his throat, the man crouches down and begins collecting the scattered papers and tissues. 

“Oh, please don’t.” He’s Frater Imperator. You’re the one who should be on her knees. You hurry forward to help, but he waves you off before you can even grasp the bin, claiming it for himself and stuffing the spilled trash into it. 

“Hey, it’s my doing.” Once the bin is full, he offers it to you. “You know, maybe we can trade.” 

“Trade our… trash?” you ask, confused by this statement. Taking the bin, you straighten up. 

“No, the…” Standing himself, Imperator dusts off the knees of his trousers. “Maybe we can trade the things we want to leave behind. You sit here, you deal with… all of this. I’ll go worry about gardens and calling cows home and collecting eggs, eh?” 

The fact that he overheard you ceases to be embarrassing the moment you accept that… he’s cracking a joke. His smile is slight, but you can feel yours widening even as you try to contain it. “I don’t think you’d like the middle of Nebraska very much. The things we do with pasta would horrify you.” 

“Oh, Lucifer. Do you do the...” Imperator scowls, spinning one of his gloved hands in space. “The thing with the mayonnaise…” 

“Macaroni salad, yes.” You laugh, no longer able to hold it back. “See? If you visited my home for dinner, you’d excommunicate the lot of us.” 

“Right. Administrative bullshit it is.” Still, Imperator’s scandalized expression softens into one of gentle humor. And you shouldn’t stare, but he is a handsome man. He’s grown his mustache back during the few months you’ve been at the Ministry, and it somehow makes him appear younger and more distinguished at the same time.  

It takes effort to tear your eyes away. “Well, I should—” 

“Before you go, I wanted to… thank you.” 

You’ve never felt the weight of your own skin before. Returning your eyes to his face, you inquire, “For what?” 

Imperator considers his words, his right thumb and forefinger rubbing together almost as if he’s timing them, as if he’s counting down the beats before a song begins. “I do know you. You are responsible for… some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever had said to me, even if they weren’t said aloud.” 

You flush so hot that sweat starts to bead along the small of your back. “Oh. I wondered.” 

“And I’m sorry if I sent form letters back. Sometimes, I’m not very good at expressing myself. Ironic, eh?” Imperator forces his hands to go still, his voice transforming into a relentless drum. “But I kept your letter on me when I performed, I’d read it beforehand, it… as much as I loved the stage, it was terrifying. I liked knowing I had you with me. It was my amulet, it… I would take it into Hell with me, if I could.” 

Lucifer bless Delilah in the feed store. Elation and embarrassment war for supremacy in your mind, the effect nauseating. You’ll treasure this moment for the rest of eternity, and yet your instinct is to cut it short, to run from the room. “I’m… glad I could help.” 

“Grazie mille.” Imperator bows his head, and the wayward strands of hair that flop over his brow are unreasonably attractive. “I shouldn’t keep you… from your work.” 

“Or I… um, yours.” Grateful for this moment of reprieve, you spring into action. Leaving to dump his trash is easy, returning the basket to his office more difficult. Imperator sits at his desk again, and you force yourself to keep your head bent as you close the pocket doors behind you. 

You can feel his eyes upon you, though. Watching you through the gap in the doors, his gaze electric with anxiety and curiosity and something that reminds you a little too much of hope. 

Imperator told you that your words were always riding next to him, and yet you still tell yourself that he has no reason to remember your name. No reason to single you out. 

That just means you’re pleasantly surprised whenever he does. 

His expression is reserved when he enters your formation class one sunny Wednesday afternoon, as he exchanges courtesies with the novice director. It transforms into something else once he catches sight of you, but you struggle to put a name to it. The little smile you share with him feels conspiratorial, the way he shakes his head unmistakable as anything other than can you believe I’m about to do this? 

You wonder if he’s perpetually this self-effacing. Because just like at Black Mass, he transforms the instant he steps up to the podium. The front aisle of the classroom becomes his stage, the blackboard his instrument. You’ve heard his voice on albums, seen him perform and preach, but this is the first time you’re able to follow along with his thoughts in real-time, watch as he sketches them out for you. As the topic of Gnosticism evolves into discussions of Tertullian and Eusebius, he does his best to bridge the intellectual gap, to make the lesson approachable.  

But his quiet passion alone is enough to captivate you. 

Everyone finds an excuse to linger afterwards. Accepting that the odds of speaking with him are low, you hug your books against your chest and wander back into the hall. You’re nearly to the library, alone on the stone catwalk that stretches before a stained-glass triptych of the eldest Emeritus siblings, when you hear footsteps hurrying to catch up with you. Turning around, you watch as Imperator draws up short. 

His arms are also full of books. He taps his gloved fingertips atop the spines as he ventures a quiet, “H-hello.” 

“Dark Excellency.” The words feel heavy and light all at once. “Good to… see you again?” 

“Right, yes.” He mumbles your name, and then steps forward somewhat robotically, as if he’s repressing the urge to rush. “Are you also headed to administration?” 

Perplexed, you glance over the iron railing standing between you and the busy lower hallway. “I think… administration is the other way?” 

“Ah, you may be right.” The way Imperator acknowledges this fact comes across as more dissociative than deceptive. When he catches up to you, he doesn’t stop walking—and out of sheer instinct, you follow. “I hope the class wasn’t too boring?” 

“Not at all.” Laughing, you admit, “I can’t say I understood a lot of it, but… it’s interesting to watch you talk. You get so animated.” 

“It’s a bit like being on stage.” Imperator indulges in a sheepish grin, lifting one of his hands to gesture at himself. “You put on the face. Far less flamboyant, though.” 

Every time he smiles, your mouth aches to mirror his. “You always looked like you were having a good time in the videos.” 

Imperator’s lashes flutter in confusion. Lucifer, why are you looking at his eyelashes? “Sorella, have you… never seen a ritual in person?” 

You shake your head, concentrating on the way the slit in your habit billows with every step you take. “No, afraid not. My family’s pretty isolated. The idea of worshipping with a whole congregation… it still feels strange to me.” 

“Sì, you did mention that.” Imperator halts near the descending staircase, and your body doesn’t give you any choice but to follow suit. Looking at him, you try to breathe through the hailstorm of your heartbeat. “Coming here is a bigger change than usual, then.” 

“It is.” You’ll never get used to the veil, for one thing. Even now, as it scratches against your ears, you long to tear it off. “We have some of the psalms on record, but we mostly rely on the Scriptures. Sixth generation, you know.” 

“Forgive me for assuming. It’s good to be reminded…” Imperator adjusts his hold on his books. “Sometimes, I forget the band is an outreach project. That we have old faithful in this country.” 

“Your music is beautiful, though. I think I told you that I played one of your songs at my mother’s funeral.” You smile so you won’t cry. “She was the one who wanted me to come here. She thought I was too smart to spend the rest of my life in an apron." 

Imperator’s made-up mouth twitches at the corners. “I think I agree with her.” 

“I don’t.” Your laughter sounds strained, and you swallow the moisture pooling in your throat. “Now that I’m here, sometimes… I feel even more lost. I still don’t know what I’m being called to do.” 

Imperator regards you for a beat before swallowing, himself. “That… may change. It may not. All we can do is move forward, you know?” 

“I know.” Flushed with anxiety, you point over your shoulder. “But, um… if you’re trying to move toward administration, it really is back that way.” 

Imperator’s voice sounds deeper, less nasal when he allows his breath to rumble in his chest. “Where are you headed?” 

“The library.” 

“Then I’ll walk you there.” Stepping aside, he nods his head to indicate that you should precede him down the steps.  

He’s only a few inches taller than you. Walking beside him feels less like being sheltered by a tree, and more like being escorted by a loyal sheepdog. Enough eyes turn to follow you that you lapse into silence, but when you risk a glance at Imperator, you see the little smile hovering on his lips. When he steps through the shafts of sunlight piercing the gloom of the hallway, everything about him seems to shine—his chains of office, his clerical collar, his eyes and his hair and the satin finish of his inky makeup. 

Even when he isn’t saying anything, it’s like you can still hear his voice. He’s the wind singing through your guitar strings, the silhouette of a swallow flitting over the chicken run, a leaf spiraling across a still pond. He moves like a dancer who’s forgotten how to dance, like a gamboling colt, and given his age you can only describe the effect as charming. 

In a faith that forbids you almost nothing, just looking at him shouldn’t feel like a transgression. 

Just lying in bed at night thinking of him shouldn’t feel like a sin.

Chapter Text

Copia has no desire to debate theology with students inducted into the faith by the “well, actually” side of YouTube. It’s a massive failing on his part, it’s not how an Imperator should behave, but he did his time in the library and by Lucifer, the new Siblings can go learn how to navigate the ancient card catalog and come back to him once they’ve got some Van Luijk under their belts.  

But he keeps flattering the novice director. He keeps showing up to talk to the novitiates about entry-level Satanic and left-hand path ideology, sometimes crafting lectures out of nothing but two cups of coffee and the first book he pulls at random off his office bookshelf. Just for the chance to be in the same room as you for an hour. Just for the chance to walk you to the library afterwards, to talk to you, to shovel every smile and laugh you share with him into the ravenous white-hot furnace of his hope.  

At the library doors, he always imagines a world where he extends his hand, where you surrender yours, where he brushes a promising kiss across your knuckles and asks you to have dinner with him. But he doesn’t live in that world, and he’s not that kind of man. Instead, it’s an awkward series of head-bobs and goodbyes and thank-yous as you disappear inside, and Copia is forever furious with himself, because he knows that he’s squandering the greatest opportunity he's ever been offered. 

He knows that he’s running out of time. 

Sure enough, one rainy October day Marika convenes another meeting to discuss the directive. Alone at the head of the conference table, elbows propped on its gleaming surface and his hands folded over his face, Copia grapples with the enormity of the task ahead of him, the sheer stupidity of it. He’s had, what—over thirty years to avoid this fate? 

Again, he wonders what would happen if he channeled some of his stage persona and asked you out for a cup of coffee. Maybe Lucifer put you in his path again for a reason, maybe there’s still time to avoid doing this the old-fashioned way… 

…but how long could he keep up the ruse? That he’s seductive, or smooth, or in any way desirable? 

Before you arrived at the Ministry, he had less than five hundred words to build his futile daydreams around. Now he knows that the sound of your name sparks in his brain like a match, that even your accent enchants him—it isn’t Southern, it’s something else, something that rolls and blooms like the warm green farmlands of the Veneto plain. Now he knows that you’re beautiful, but there’s a grounded quality to it, a warmth that tells him you’ve known the ache of an empty heart and the ache of a full one. You’re not a painted doll, not a good-time girl, Dark Lord knows those are wonderful and make the world go ‘round, but… he likes your quiet maturity much better. 

He has no idea how to make himself desirable to such a woman. Someone who can see right through the spotlights and the sequins, who can weigh his heart with a glance and find him wanting. 

But later that day, the rain passes. And he passes you in the hall, and he knows that this is it. That there is no reasonable explanation for this encounter other than the unholy intervention of Lucifer, Himself. 

This is his final chance. 

As he’s walking from the administrative wing back to his apartment, he spies you in one of the many candlelit alcoves located throughout the Ministry. Not seated or knelt in prayer, but standing on the leather armchair tucked within, straining on your tiptoes toward the high point of a crown glass window, where the vent casement is thrown open. 

Once more, you hear his footsteps on the stones. You turn, and while your cheeks flush at the sight of him, your lips bloom into a smile. “Imperator—oh, please come here?” 

Copia would answer this invitation a thousand times, no matter what name you used for him. And he wanders over just in time, because as you try to duck back from the window, your shoes wobble on the chair’s thick stuffing. Out of sheer instinct, he reaches up to seize hold of your waist. Your hands land on his shoulders, you huff in embarrassment, and he fights to keep from digging his fingers in, from pulling your warm body into his greedy embrace. 

“That’s, ah…” Copia looks at the ornate carpet, at the stone walls—anywhere but at your face. “Are you trying to get up, or get down?” 

“Sorry… here.” You do move to get down, and Copia assists you, only half-conscious of your weight once you step off the chair. He withdraws his hands after you’re safe on the ground, and you gesture to the chair, indicating that he should take your place. “Quick, hop up and look. They’re coming back for the night.” 

Now torn between confusion and curiosity, Copia hesitates only a moment before doing as you ask. On the other side of the casement window, sunset is painting the rain-soaked Ministry grounds in shades of amber and blood orange. Sometimes he’s half-convinced that the building is a sentient, slouching thing, a co-creator of Satan’s kingdom that buds and branches as necessary to serve the Clergy. It’s full of odd nooks, sharp turns, areas that remain windowless even when they should sit along an exterior wall.  

Here, the window looks out on a nearby wall with a chimney, the bricks so close that Copia could stretch out his arm and touch them. But he sees what you mean when he spies a half-dozen sooty birds clinging to the chimney itself. Small as wrens, but shaped like falcons. A few birds duck down inside the chimney as Copia watches, their rhythmic, rasping cries echoing off the old stone. 

“Chimney swifts,” you supply, standing right beside him, your eyes bright with interest. “I heard them a few days ago. They can’t perch upright, they either have to fly or hang on something. They’re endangered now, because a lot of modern buildings either don’t have chimneys or cage the tops.” 

“They live in the chimneys?” Copia is interested, now. Standing on his toes, he watches the little flock as it migrates into the chimney for the night. “They don’t catch on fire?” 

“Pretty sure they don’t stick around if there’s a fire.” Your voice isn’t sarcastic—it’s honest and fond. “You should see the little nests they build, it’s almost more like a shelf? Stuck right on the chimney wall. They cluster together like bats.” 

Settling back onto his heels, Copia considers this information. “I wonder if the… cap, cage? The thing on top of the chimney fell off, you know?” 

Your shoulders sag with resignation. “Are you going to put it back on?” 

“No, Sorella, no. I was thinking…” Copia manages to climb down from the chair without humiliating himself, his nose still full of smoky autumn air. “We could uncap the others?” 

He thought he’d seen you smile before. He was wrong. For the first time he witnesses your full, unfettered grin, and it’s like getting smacked in the face with a censer full of glowing embers. “Some people consider them pests. It’s illegal to hurt them, but people try to chase them off.” 

“I like them even better, then. A bird that makes its nest in what must pass as Hellfire for something so small…” Copia nods to himself. “That bird can stay.” 

You bite your lip for a moment before offering, “That would be… really kind of you.” 

“Did you hear them as you walked past?” Copia isn’t going to run away from the conversation this time. He refuses. 

“Someone had the window propped open, yeah.” You glance toward it again. “I admit, I’m still… homesick. For the animals, too. I grew up on a farm, it’s very odd not to fall asleep with a cat between my ankles, or wake up to the rooster crowing. I guess I’ve been keeping an eye out for… neighbors.” 

Copia steels himself, and wonders, “Do you like rats at all? They’re considered pests, too, but… I consider them neighbors.” 

Your brow furrows. “Wild rats? Or pet rats?” 

“Sì,” he says, half-sick with anticipation. “Pet rats.” 

You perk up like a wilted flower in the rain, the shyness in your eyes so familiar that he’d swear it originated inside his own chest. “Do you have pet rats?” 

Copia makes you promise to wait right there. He doesn’t want to bring you to his quarters, doesn’t want you to see how he lives. Instead, he brings Bastian and Ptolemy to you, transporting them in his arms with their harnesses on. The second you see him reappear with two lazy white rats on leashes, you spring from the chair, tripping over yourself to ask him questions. And every single one tears out a little piece of his heart—because you ask how you should approach the rats, what noises you should make, what noises you should avoid, you even ask him about smells and body language. And Copia knows then that although he has no choice but to carry out his responsibility to the bloodline, he’s going to hate every single second of it if you’re not there beside him. 

“There are rats on the grounds, too,” Copia tells you, fighting hard not to smile as you dangle your knotted cincture in front of Ptolemy’s nose. You’re both seated on the rug, minding the rats as they play. “If you’re kind to them, they’ll be kind to you.” 

“Like most things,” you laugh, meeting his eyes. Flushing anew, you turn your attention back to Ptolemy, inviting him into your hands. “If my father saw me playing with one of the rodents that gets into the grain, I’d go to bed with plenty to think about.” 

Copia chooses his words with care, not wanting to offend you. “Is it… difficult, living in such a remote place?” 

“The remote part? Not really.” You cradle Ptolemy under your chin as you look at him again. “Things just sort of… happen in their own good time. The internet’s kind of hit-and-miss, and we still have an antenna TV. It’s nice, in a way… things here feel kind of manic.” 

Copia struggles to wrap his mind around this. He’s always lived in the beating heart of the Ministry, never needed to keep his finger on the pulse of theistic Satanism when he could hear the bloodstream itself rushing in his ears. “Do you like it here?” 

Your answering silence is eloquent, and you seem to accept that it’s speaking for you, flashing him an apologetic smile. Before he can despair, though, you take a soft breath and note, “I do like… some things.” 

“You do?” Copia lets Bastian down to roam, focusing his attention on the leash. “Cosa ti piace?” 

You likewise release Ptolemy so the rats can explore the alcove together. “I like the library. I like having the chance to truly live my faith, to talk about it without fear. I like the beauty of the architecture, and…” You take another breath, this one deeper. “I like it whenever I run into you.” 

Copia fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Instead, he channels this impulse into his hand, gripping the leash loop tighter. “Sorella, I want to ask you something. But I’ll be honest… I’m terrified you’re going to slap me.” 

The corner of your mouth quirks. “Slap you?” 

“Slap me so hard I forget my own fucking name.” You burst out laughing as he curses, and the sound is so loud in the stone hallway that Copia can feel it vibrating over his skin. He glances up and down the hall before leaning closer to you. “Please promise me… you can yell, I probably deserve that. But no violence?” 

Your cheeks are glowing, your eyes filling with starlight even though the sun hasn’t fully set. “I’m not going to waive that option… but trust me, I’ve heard plenty of slappable offenses through the walls by now.” 

“No! No, it’s not—” Copia winces, backing away from that rhetorical cliff before he can stumble over the edge. If he’s being honest, that’s exactly what it is. “Look, it’s about a… high church tradition.” 

You blink heavily at him. “I’m really hoping major arteries aren’t involved.” 

“No, of course not.” At least he can promise you that. Fuck, he’s just going to have to come out and say it. “I’m being forced to—”  

“Cardi.” Marika chooses that moment to bustle around the corner, her smile warm and her eyes brighter than the lenses that glint before them. But she might as well be a wraith, because she materializes so suddenly that Copia almost leaps out of his skin. “I have been looking for you, I—” Her smile pinches down at the corners. “Why do we have the rats here?” 

“Just t-taking them for a walk.” You glance at him in concern, picking up on his stutter. Copia wills himself to just drop dead. 

“Well, let us walk them back to your apartment, and we can discuss—” Marika finally notices you, and within two blinks she has her professional mask back in place. “Ah, Sister. Surely Frater does not mean to keep you from your supper?” 

“Oh no, Frater and I we were just… talking.” With marked reluctance, you pass him the lead for Ptolemy’s leash.  

Copia accepts it, careful not to brush your fingers with his own. “Sì. Just… talking.” 

You rise to your feet alongside him, questions replacing every star that previously twinkled in your eyes. Somehow, they make you look even more beautiful. You forgive his clumsiness, you laugh at his stupid jokes, you study his face as if you’re really seeing him... and when you turn to leave, Copia’s body almost burns with the desire to scramble after you. To remain within the pool of sunlight that seems to travel with you, warm and safe and seen. 

But you leave because you have no other option. You shut the next set of fire doors out of respect, and it feels like you’re sealing him in a tomb. 

Chapter Text

You’re working alone at the circulation desk a few days later when the printer next to the return slot starts churning away. 

Three minutes later, it hasn’t stopped churning. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that someone must’ve started printing one of the books in the digitized collection, the tomes that are too fragile for continued handling, you tug the first printed page off the bottom of the stack to see what it is. But it’s not a title page, or a sheet containing copyright information—oddly enough, it’s an introductory letter on a mockup of official Ministry letterhead. 

And you have to read that letter three times before you finally accept the purpose behind it. 

You’ve got sections of the informational packet scattered across the heavy wooden desk by the time Sister Taylor and Sibling Ashlen from admin come careening through the library doors, veils and habits in disarray. Their eyes lock onto yours, and you’re certain your own expression must look at least half as wild, at least half as outraged. Ashlen grabs the arms of your wheeled desk chair, trapping you inside it as they shove you out of the circulation area and into the nearby media room. Taylor slams the door behind her as she rushes to join, the pages of the disorganized booklet now massed together in her arms. 

“You can’t mention this to anyone!” Ashlen hisses, voice strangely muffled. The air is dry and tasteless, the ventilation system running strong enough to drone. The room is lined with metal cabinets, the shelves between them stacked with vintage media equipment obscured beneath acid-free covers. “Not one word!” 

“Is that thing real?” Even now, your skin feels like it’s fixing to crawl off without you. “Why was it sent here?” 

Taylor huffs a blonde curl out of her face. “It’s not our fault. IT did something that fucked up all the printers. Accounting is printing over in the sacristy, there’s a whole fucking drama about the votive budget now…” 

“And everyone is being invited to apply?” That’s the part that sticks in your craw. “Everyone can apply for… for both of them?” 

Taylor hugs the booklet pages closer, tilting her sharp nose toward the drop ceiling. “You saw nothing.” 

“I fucking well did!” You’re not sure your mother would be proud of the note you hit just then, so like her own voice when faced with too much childish sass, given that you’re using it to swear at a Sibling. “It’s a Prime Mover application!” 

Ashlen raises a scolding finger, their husky-blue eyes flashing. “And that information cannot leave this room—” 

“For Papa V, and…” You have to spit the words out of your mouth, or you’re going to gag on them. “And for Frater Imperator?” 

“This is Marika’s fault,” Taylor grumbles. “Can’t review a PDF, has to have it printed out…” 

“Look.” Ashlen holds up both hands. “We have nothing to do with the policy part of this. We’ve just been designing the application packet.” 

“And it's lovely! Regular work of art!” Honestly, it is. The booklet contains all of the legal paperwork, articles detailing the history of the institution and the ritual, and even an exuberantly footnoted essay exploring the evolution of fertility iconography in the Ministry’s vast catalog of artwork. It’s a very professional setup for something that’s filling your lungs with so much heat you’ll never be able to breathe it all out. 

Because now, the strange conversation you were having with Imperator makes sense. Because now, it is horrifying. 

Ashlen is silent a beat longer before their self-control crumples in the face of gossip long denied. “According to the paper-pushers over in accounting, senior Clergy has had it with ‘the boys.’” 

Taylor is quick to follow suit. “Like, they are Papa Nihil’s kids, and neither one of them has an entire Little League team to his name? Scandal.” 

“Hey, they’re not the only ones to blame for endangering the bloodline.” Ashlen waggles their brows. “I mean, when do we get to apply for Papa Terzo?” 

Taylor rolls her eyes. “I’m not interested in playing the six-degrees game with every other individual in this building.” 

“I am.” Ashlen’s grin is wolfish. “I’m a completionist.” 

They don’t know. To them, this is strictly a matter of high ritual, of ensuring the Emeritus line continues and that the Tyrant God is toppled from His throne. And five months ago, you might’ve felt the same way. A few days ago, you might’ve felt the same way. 

But now, even as your fellow Siblings jabber away, there’s only one word ringing in your head. 

Forced. 

You’ve had good luck with stumbling across Imperator in the hallways—but you don’t see him for the rest of the day. You don’t even see him at the high table in the refectory at supper. You’re forced to wait until the next morning, when sure enough, he shows up to teach the formation class. His smile falters when he watches you walk through the door, and you know your expression must reflect the storm of anxiety brewing inside your skull. He nods toward the door, as if asking whether he needs to pull the ripcord on his talk; confused, you shake your head, taking a seat so he knows he’s free to lecture. 

Lucifer’s sake—when did you start communicating with him like you’ve known him for years? 

When the hour is up, you couldn’t begin to explain that day’s topic. You’re more concerned with the glint of panic in Imperator’s eyes, because it’s feeding your own. You slip into the hall as usual, but instead of leaning against the wall to wait for him, you start walking toward the library. Within minutes you hear his dress shoes clapping on the marble, the tails of his jacket snapping against his legs as he runs to catch up with you. 

You don’t look back. You can’t. 

“Sorella?” Imperator draws up beside you, voice dark with concern. “What is the matter?” 

You don’t stop walking. “I need you to take me to the deepest, darkest, most private place you know. Absolutely no one can hear us.” 

Imperator stumbles over his own feet, but quickly recovers. You still can’t bring yourself to look at his face, but you see his hands flexing around his books as he answers, “R-right. Um… here.” 

You follow his shoes down the staircase, underneath it, away from the main hall that leads to the library. Then you start moving upward, chasing Imperator up wide staircases and narrow ones until finally, at the top of a curved set of iron steps, you find yourself in a dusty space that looks like a disused observatory. The tall windows are boarded, the autumn wind that whistles through the knotholes soothing to breathe, but cold enough to leave you shivering. 

Imperator tosses his books on a table and reaches up to unpin his chains. The glittering jewels pool on the table too, and he shrugs off his jacket, moving to drape it over your shoulders. It carries the heat of his body, it smells of his citrusy cologne and Satan’s sweet hellfire, you almost start crying, and you don’t know why. 

“Dolce Sorella…” Imperator’s voice is deeper than normal, serious as the grave. He unburdens you of your own books, compelling you to look into his eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong. I have people who will bury the bodies for me now, whatever it is—we will figure it out.” 

“Yesterday…” He’s fitter than you are. You’re still fighting to recover your breath after all the stairs. “The printers…” 

Imperator groans, stacking your books on the table. “Don’t remind me. You should see the mediation calendar, eh? The sacristy is pissed at accounting, accounting is pissed at HR. Alliances are being forged, and we may see actual interdepartmental warfare in our time—" 

“Something I wasn’t meant to see got sent to the library printer.” The words want to cut your tongue. “The Prime Mover application.” 

“Oh.” You get a preview of what Imperator will look like when he’s tipped into his own grave. The light bleeds out of his eyes, his expression going slack. “Shit.” 

Stomach churning, you carry on. “The other night, you tried to tell me you had some high ritual to perform. That you were being forced into it—” 

“Forced was the wrong way to put it. I mean, it’s not like they’re going to tie me to the bed.” Imperator’s blush is the color of apricot mallow. Just knowing this feels like you’ve been inducted into a deep mystery of the faith. “Er… I didn’t say those words out loud.” 

You agree to forget them, because you’re trying very hard not to imagine him tied to a bed. “But you don’t want to do it?” 

“It’s more that… I wish it didn’t have to be this way. So formal, and…” Imperator clears his throat. “I’d like to have children. But even more than that, I’d like…” 

If your heart beats any faster, it’s going to fly out of your mouth. “What?” 

Imperator is now watching you the way you’ve watched passing clouds before, trying to divine whether they’ll bring rain. But when he speaks, his voice sounds defeated. “Eh… what I want doesn’t matter. I’ve never been my own man.” 

That doesn’t make it better. “You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do. Especially… with your body. That runs contrary to our entire religion.” 

“Well, I was born into the wrong family to have upstart ideas like that.” Imperator tries to recover his smile. “Like I said, I’m not opposed to the end result. For the glory of Lucifer, right?” 

When it comes to something like this, Lucifer’s kingdom can get fucked. “Frater—” 

“Copia.” Even his pale eye is soft as milkweed floss. “If we’re talking about bodies, and… you know… I feel like you should just use my name.” 

Finally daring to lift your hands, you clutch his jacket around your shoulders. The drafty old space tries to swallow your whisper as you ask, “Copia, were… were you going to ask me? To help you?” 

Copia’s throat bobs. He’s standing so close that you could reach out and tuck those rogue strands of hair behind his ears, and the fact that you want to scatters goosebumps across the back of your neck. Because the gray shadows in the room are kind to him, his features are so striking and his expression is so nervous and Satanas, maybe you shouldn’t be doing this…. 

“I was,” he confesses. “But… but I realized it would be a bad idea.” 

Your heart plummets into your stomach. “Why?” 

Copia doesn’t answer for a few seconds. When he does, his voice is the quietest you’ve ever heard it. “Because the rite is humiliating, and the whole process is like being under un microscopio… and in the end, what would you have? I’d have a child by a woman who’s so beautiful that I hide from her in my office, and you’d have… a child with a coward for a father.” 

Lost, you ask, “You hid from me? When?” 

“The night you were cleaning.” Copia lowers his eyes to the rough wooden floorboards, his hands sinking into his pockets. “I was working in the dark, and when you came in… I saw you. But you didn’t see me, and by then, I was too afraid to leave. To talk to you.” 

This man is old enough to be your father. He’s the leader of your religion, he speaks for the Dark One. The idea that he would be frightened of someone like you is laughable. “But you’ve performed the ritual all over the world. You could have anyone you wanted—” 

“Because of what I am. My name.” Copia nods in agreement with you. “But that’s really… all I have to offer, sì?” 

You have no idea how to even start explaining how wrong he is. It’s like trying to untangle a skein of yarn—if you find the end, can you even work backwards without making it worse? And you hesitate a moment too long, because just as you internalize the fact that he called you beautiful, just as you accept that if he does this with someone else, you’re not going to be okay, his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“I, um…” Even before he wrestles the sleek little device out to peer at it, Copia is mumbling. “I should go. You can take my jacket, just… send it to the laundry with everything else.” 

“Does… does senior Clergy pick?” The question is out of you before you can snatch it back. “From the applications? Or do you pick?” 

Copia’s skin is so flushed that you can’t even see his freckles. “If I have a strong opinion… I can pick. But don’t worry about it, yeah? It’s just… è quello che è.” 

He leaves without saying goodbye. He picks up his books and his chains and you’re no one, you’re nothing compared to him, you have no power to make him stay. You linger in the room, listening to his footsteps retreat, and you’ve relied on his resolve for so long that you’re not sure how to deal with the lack of it, how to scare up enough courage to chase after him. 

In the end, you can’t. 

For Copia’s sake, you mind his business as if it were your own. But as days turn into weeks, that starts to become a problem. 

Because your imagination starts to peep through keyholes it shouldn’t. It chases after fleeting images, it spins self-indulgent fantasies, it entertains wistful daydreams of what could have been. Soon, you’re thinking about the business of becoming Prime Mover all damn day—and you do so unburdened by additional distractions, because Copia seems to fall between the cracks somewhere. He no longer comes to teach classes, he doesn’t show up at dinner, you don’t run into him in the hallways. He doesn’t even preach at Black Mass, ceding his days to Papa Secondo. 

Just as quickly as Copia appeared in your life, he up and vanishes. And while you remind yourself that this was bound to happen, that he’s an important man, that he owes you nothing... the speed with which your memory rushes to cannibalize itself undermines your pathetic attempts to salve your pride. 

You’re left with the memory of him in the observatory. Close enough to touch, his scent crisp and sweet in your nose. The visible strength of his neck behind his clerical collar, and the soft tempting sheen of his hair, and the shyness in his eyes. You start to wonder if his eyes would stay shy even as he buried his cock inside your welcoming heat, if he would hide his face against your cheek as he pinned you down with his hips. If he would stutter filthy words of praise into your ear, soon too intoxicated by your reaction to be self-conscious, soon coaxing you to shudder around him with the power of his soft voice alone. You stare right through the books you’re shelving, right through the people who stop to talk to you, too preoccupied by the question of whether Copia would cradle or clutch you against his chest, whether he would leave you bruised or breathless from his kisses, what it would feel like to have his come dripping out of you as— 

These visions shock and arouse you in equal measure, leave your core molten and your mind reeling. You shouldn’t be thinking about Copia that way, but all the same... you shouldn’t chastise yourself for doing so. And you certainly shouldn’t be fighting the urge to touch yourself when you’re alone at night. One of these shouldn’ts is rude and one is a sin of omission, because you’re not honoring the animal instincts you were born with, because you’re not wresting pleasure from this world while you can get it.  

You should own up to it and let yourself be chastised. But how do you phrase that? How do you tell one of the dark confessors, “Yes, I’ve become obsessed with the idea of Frater Imperator fucking me like he can’t believe he has the chance, fucking me like he loves me?” 

Then one morning, you unlock your mail slot and find a thick newsprint booklet rolled up inside. You’re not the only one. Within minutes, the halls of the Ministry begin to echo with the sound of fluttering pages, with giggles and prayers and giddy conversations. All Siblings capable of pregnancy and within a certain age bracket have officially been invited to apply for the position of Prime Mover. Not just for Perpetua, but for both of the twins. 

And the idea that someone else, at that very minute, might be entertaining the same lurid thoughts about Copia Emeritus makes you want to tear the booklet apart with your bare hands. 

That night, you call home. Thankfully, no one else is using the phone bank located in the basement, and you remember to bring a blanket to spread on the frigid tile floor. Seated against the wall beneath the row of phones, old-fashioned receiver pinned against your ear, you wait for someone to pick up. 

Once the call connects, your seven-year-old sister’s voice comes peeping down the line. “God bless, may I ask who’s calling?” 

“Hey, Lil,” you laugh. “Good job with the script.” 

“Satanas!” You can practically hear Lilly dancing on her toes as she drops all pretense of being a cute little Christian girl. “Daddy, it’s the nun! Oh, when are you coming home? Do you have a pet ghoul yet? Do you still have to say prayers every day? Have you met Papa—” 

“Hey, there.” The phone crackles, Lilly’s babbling soon replaced by your father’s smoky drawl. “How are you doing, hon?” 

“Good,” you manage to tell him, curling your fingers around the metal phone cord. Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back. “How’s the farm?” 

“Same as ever.” A creaking sound tells you that he’s settling into his recliner. “You wow ‘em with your brilliance, yet? Play for ‘em?” 

“I don’t know how much brilliance I’ve got.” You ignore the question about music, steadying your breath before taking the plunge. “Look, Dad, an opportunity’s come up. I wanted to run it past you.” 

“Well, seems like you’d know more about it than me.” Voices squabble in the background as your sisters line up for a chance to talk to you. “But go ahead, darlin’.” 

“Prime Mover.” Silence echoes in the wake of these words, and you rush to fill it. “I guess Frater and Papa haven’t paired off like they should. And I probably wouldn’t get chosen, but I could throw my hat in the ring. They gave us this application, see—” 

Your father cuts you off. “I thought you wanted to join the Ministry to make a better life for yourself. To devote yourself to Lucifer, not a man.” 

“Frater and Papa are Lucifer’s representatives on Earth.” The fact that you’re defending this wild idea makes your cheeks burn like hot coals. “It’s a position of honor.” 

“I know that. One of the highest honors our faith can bestow.” 

“And I don’t know either of the men. Not really.” Adjusting the booklet on your lap, you study the list of material benefits promised to anyone serving as Prime Mover. “But Dad, if I… if everything went according to plan, I’d get a stipend every year for the rest of my life. It’s more money than I’d make anywhere around Bloomfield.” 

“And what does money have to do with it?” 

Where you’re from, it’s hard to make ends meet. “I could send it home.” 

For a long while, your father is silent. When he speaks again, all the warmth in his voice is gone. “I thought I raised you better than that.” 

Taken aback, you stammer, “But you said—” 

“If you do this,” your father argues, “I want you to do it out of love for our Lord. We work hard, but we have never gone hungry. Lucifer rewards His faithful, He will not let us go hungry. If this is a sacrament you want to pursue, I will support you with everything I’ve got… but I will not take your money. Is that clear?” 

Tears welling anew, you nod as if he can see. This was the only cold, impersonal justification you could think of for applying, and apparently no one else is buying it either. “Yes, Dad. I’m sorry.” 

“I can’t believe I’m telling my daughter at the Ministry this, but if you truly feel called to this work… I think you should spend some time in prayer.” Clearing his throat in discomfort, your father lowers the phone from his mouth and calls across the room. “Delilah, get over here and say hello to your sister.” 

After you speak to your sisters, you take your father’s advice to heart. It’s late, and too many icy roads stand between you and the main cathedral to make the prospect of walking there attractive. But there are plenty of little chapels and prayer alcoves located throughout the Ministry property, places where idols and candles gleam in sacred silence. 

Getting to your favorite, the one where Copia once brought his rats to play with you, means wandering through the main hall of the administrative wing. You’re halfway across the dark flagstones when you feel your feet drift to a stop beneath your habit, when you feel your attention pulled toward the second floor. The papal portraits at the head of the double staircase have been reordered, some ancestral Emeritus spirited away to the Clergy dormitories to create space for Perpetua in his silver and shining jewels. 

To Perpetua’s left hangs the portrait of Papa Emeritus IV. Clad in silk and satin jacquard, eyes already solemn. As if he’s seen too much, as if fate has forced him to answer for too much, as if he’s one clap of thunder away from kicking down the stable door and galloping across the prairie even if it brings him to ruin. You try to compare the two twins, but your eyes refuse to linger long on Perpetua, and you decide it’s because his expression is inscrutable and aloof, his face hidden behind the mask. Whereas Copia… 

…Lucifer’s light, you just want to see him again. Without the paint, without the vestments. 

The dam breaks, and you stop lying to yourself. For minutes that feel like hours, you stand in silent contemplation of a man who carried your college-ruled letter around like an ancient talisman. A man who knows what it’s like to keep moving forward, a man who likes Gnostic texts but not macaroni salad, a man who considers rats and chimney swifts his neighbors. A man who seems to operate by the childish logic of reciprocity, an old-fashioned kind of give-and-take—if you’re kind to me, I’ll be kind to you. 

A man who seldom laughs, but seems desperate to find any reason to smile. 

The next day, you complete the required paperwork and tear it carefully out of the booklet, slipping it into the locked mailbox outside the medical wing before you can entertain second thoughts. 

Chapter Text

If this is an amuse-bouche of Hell, perhaps Copia’s not such a big fan, after all. 

The only change they let him make to his new papal apartment is to repurpose one of the absurd number of walk-in closets as a rat palace. He does the work himself after the contractor installs the ventilation he requested, fitting the room with shelving and walkways and perches and hidey-holes and a transparent split door. For one frantic weekend Copia tries to forget about the absolute mess he’s made of his life, never changing out of his sweatsuit, drinking Nastro Azzurro in lieu of wine and congratulating himself every time he successfully punches the electric drill through the rock-hard plaster walls. 

Bastian and Ptolemy take to the new place well. And after that, Copia loses control over it. 

Marika decides on Palermo marble floors and soft saffron wallpaper. On fawn velvet curtains and cornice moldings carved to resemble one long portion of the River Styx, complete with hooded souls lined up to pay Charon. He refused her this pleasure so long that she’s making up for lost time, and the space ends up bright and fresh, full of heavy Georgian furniture. It is nothing like him, seems to have no room for anything of his. His video games end up in another closet, and his wall hangings remain in the moving boxes.  

This is Frater Imperator’s new home. Not Copia’s. 

There are three bedrooms, and two of them mock him every time he walks past. One remains empty, a renovated but unfinished space reserved for the future nursery. And the other… 

…the other bedroom is furnished as opulently as his own, but he doubts it will be used on a long-term basis. 

There’s only one person he’d want to see in there, anyway. 

He blew it. He blew it on purpose, because he worships an angel known as the Great Deceiver, but there isn’t a deceptive bone in his fucking body. In the end, he couldn’t ask you to sign up for… all of this. Freezing marble floors you didn’t pick out and fussy draperies on everything and a gray box of a nursery that looms between two bedrooms, a contract you can stand in, a deadline designed to smack you right between the eyes every time you walk down the hall. Being poked and prodded by doctors and having to submit to him in front of his whole goddamn family and… 

…him. The man who’s letting it all happen because he doesn’t see an alternative. 

Between finishing the apartment and overseeing Samhain preparations and being forced to sic a pack of ghouls on Perpetua, ordering them to drag his cryptid ass back to the Ministry after he realized Marika was one hundred percent serious about wanting her “grandchildren,” Copia is forced to step back from you. And that’s probably for the best. He misses your voice, he misses your smile, but he doesn’t miss the urge to burden you with his problems.  

For a few weeks, he concentrates on his work. 

But as October rolls into November, he finally turns his attention to the flood of Prime Mover applications. 

They’re slow in getting to him, and they come in bundles tied with twine, like newspapers getting dropped off for ragazzi dei giornali to hawk at streetcorners. That’s because before Copia ever sees them, the Siblings in admin scan each application and upload the information to a database, which he just loves attempting to access. Unwilling to have a computer in his new apartment, he takes to sifting through the hardcopies. At first, this buys him time. 

Soon, Copia learns there’s only one data point he cares about. 

On the front page, next to the consent signature, there are two checkboxes. One to express interest in him, and one to express interest in his brother. Some primal part of his psyche decides he doesn’t want to share with his twin, and after that, the work becomes criminally easy.  

The applicant is also interested in Perpetua? No.  

Perpetua? No. 

Perpetua? No. 

After two post-work bouts of this, he’s three applications away from depleting the piles. And Copia begins to entertain a bone-deep sensation of impending doom, as he realizes the choice may ultimately fall to the Ministry higher-ups. So far, all of the applicants have checked both boxes, and he’s not sure whether to chalk this up to avarice or masochism. 

Until he gets to the very last application. The first one, chronologically speaking. 

Until he glances at the boxes and reads the signature. 

When Copia regains full use of his faculties, he’s somehow made it out to the terrace overlooking the apartment’s walled garden. The grass is green despite the winter frost, the trees are bare, and he’s smoking, something he hasn’t done in years. He wonders where he found a goddamn cigarette, and vaguely recalls hiding an emergency pack in his t-shirt drawer when he quit after being tapped for the Ghost project.  

No wonder it tastes like shit.  

And he’s not sure if it’s the nicotine or sheer terror that’s causing his hand to shake, but the fog of dissociation fades and reality comes rushing back and holy fuck, holy fuck, you applied. Even after he told you he thought better of asking you, you applied. You checked his box alone and you’re brave and compassionate and so beautiful that just looking at you is enough to render him nonverbal and oh Lucifer, please, please, he’s never wanted anything the way he wants this to be real. 

With a start, he drops the cigarette and crushes it underfoot, sucking in clean air as if he can scrub the poison from his lungs. Swiveling around on his heel, he hurries back into the apartment and finds the pack of cigarettes and crumbles all of them into the toilet, flushing the temptation away before he can succumb to it again, because you signed a legal document asking him to consider putting a baby in you which means it probably isn’t a joke and he will live like a Mormon missionary from this point forward, he will live off air and the taste of you alone. 

Distantly, he’s aware of the fact that he’s never been this hard. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s gasping. This probably qualifies as a panic attack, and thank Satan you aren’t there to witness it. But as he flops onto his bed fully clothed and tries to pull himself together, he knows he has to see you. 

Within seconds, he corrects his language. Praise every infernal creature writhing beneath the Earth’s mantle—at last, he has a reason to see you. 

The next day, Copia clears his calendar. He considers ordering flowers or lunch or towering silver platters of Italian pastries, but decides all of that might seem a bit presumptuous. Instead, he just asks a ghoul to fetch you, and eyes the cut-crystal whisky decanter sitting on the sideboard until he knows he’s going to have to get rid of that, too. 

Twenty minutes later, someone taps on his door. Copia pulls his voice from deep in his chest, so it won’t crack. “Entra.” 

He hasn’t seen you in weeks. You’re wearing your habit and veil and a thick black cardigan, but you come to him with eyes that would put the Magdalene to shame, little tendrils of hair clinging to your sweat-dewed cheeks. Trying to brush them away, you begin, “Sorry, the ghoul was fast, I could barely keep up—” 

And then, you pause. You notice the apartment, the sunlight filtering through the eastern-facing windows. You notice him, the fact that he’s dressed casually with his jacket and waistcoat left off, black suspenders over his shirt. Your eyes rove over his ungloved hands, his unpainted face, and your flush remains but your mouth wobbles in a way that immediately has him moving to your side. 

“Dolce ragazza, will you come…” Copia’s panic is gone, replaced by something quiet and searching. He offers his hand, hoping to guide you out of the open doorway. “Will you come sit with me?” 

You stare at his naked palm. “I didn’t know you’d be here, the ghoul didn’t say anything—" 

“Sì, it’s just me.” Your hand trembles as you reach out for him, and he moves to close the distance. The fire crackling in the scrolled fireplace is nothing compared to the warmth of your skin. “Is that… all right? That it’s just me?” 

Your voice descends into a whisper. “Can I still call you Copia?” 

“Certo,” he promises, drawing you closer so he can shut the door. “When you’re not calling me… other things. If you care to be in a position to call me other things?” 

“Sweet Lucifer, I missed you.” You finally look up at him, and your eyes aren’t just soft—they’re liquid. “I’ve been praying for you every minute.” 

“I missed you, too.” Copia gestures toward the brocade sofa. “Here, come sit.” 

You accept the invitation this time, though you still look overwhelmed. The way you consider his hand before releasing it makes him feel like an animal you’re trying to tame, like you’re praying he won’t bolt across the room. “Can I… would you mind if I took off my veil? I hate this thing…” 

“Of course,” Copia agrees, and within seconds you've plucked out the pins and shaken yourself free. You ruffle up your hair, and he curses himself for ever thinking you merely beautiful.  

Dumping the fabric in your lap, you take his hand in both of yours and squeeze it. “Have you been okay? Remembering to eat?” 

“No and yes?” Copia almost laughs, though he shouldn’t have doubted you. “Is that really the first question you have, whether I've been eating?” 

“Yes, I…” Your silky little thumbs trace over his knuckles as you speak, and he can’t control the shiver that runs up his spine. “I figured something happened.” 

“A lot of things have happened. Some bad…” Copia nods toward the coffee table, where your application is sitting. “Some very, very good.” 

You follow his line of sight. Your thumbs go still. “Then, this is… it is about my…” 

Copia’s animal panic is gone, but his fear remains. Determined to push through it, he rattles out, “I want you for my Prime Mover, yes. I would have no one else in this building. If this isn’t a joke, if you want to be here—” 

“It’s not a joke.” You could be offended by this insinuation, but you aren’t. “I swear it, may the Tyrant send me home this instant if I’m lying to you.” 

“Ti credo.” Copia lets himself believe you, using his other hand to cover both of yours. The sensation of skin against skin feels raw and powerful, it gives him strength. “But please understand… I know it’s a lot.” 

“It is.” Your smile is a masterclass in bravery. “That’s why I didn’t want you to have to go through it alone.” 

Though he has no idea where it comes from, Copia lowers his head and rumbles, “You’ve always been with me during the difficult parts. My little amuleto, hmm?” 

Your expression transforms in an instant, from uncertain to resplendent. And Copia curses himself for something entirely new, because he didn’t realize things could be this simple. “I tried to… I want to be. Yes.” 

Lucifer, he wants to kiss you until he can’t think anymore. But he holds back, clearing his throat as he concentrates on logistics. “This is, ah… the new place. With… everything… comes the need for a papal apartment after all, sì?” 

That word is doing a lot of heavy lifting, and you blush all the way down to the hollow of your throat as you look around. “Yes, with everything… I guess you’d need more space. It’s beautiful.” 

“We need more space. If you want to join me here.” Copia braces himself for disappointment. “It’s not required that my Prime Mover live with me, though. If you’d rather have your own rooms, you’re encouraged to take them—” 

“Oh, no. I want to stay with you.” Your fingers tighten around his hand. “I want to stay right here.” 

If Copia isn’t careful, hope is going to replace his core personality. “I’m glad to… to know that. Because you’re also not required to raise the child, but if you were here—" 

“We’ll raise it together.” You dip your head, soft wisps of hair caressing your temples. “Copia, let me speak plain. I want to have your child. I want to raise it with you. I want to wake up every day and… and have the chance to know you.” 

“Why?” He blurts out the word unconsciously, acting on pure muscle memory. “I’m sorry, I just—” 

“Because you’re a kind man.” Copia stiffens, listening as you speak. “When you preach, you ask us to be kind to one another. You work so hard, but you always have time for everyone. Even picking up the trash isn’t beneath you. You’re doing this out of responsibility to your family, I know, but you roll with the punches so well…” Your cheeks look like they’re about to start giving off sparks. “And I want my child to be like you.” 

If he thought there was a chance in Hell you’d accept his suit, Copia would drop to one fucking knee. Voice hoarse, he confesses, “I’d rather they be like you. Sweet and strong and…” He edges closer to what he really wants to say. “…and it’s not for my family alone that I’m doing this.” 

“You really do want a child, then?” He can’t blame you for interpreting his words along those lines. “You would… love it?” 

“I would. I like children, even though I think I was probably a very bad one.” He shrugs. “Three going on thirty. Obsessed with the rules.” 

Hellfire, he missed the sound of your laughter. “I’d rather have a tiny lawyer than a tiny criminal.” 

“I’m just worried the poor kid might end up too much like me.” Copia dares to grip your hands more tightly, gratified to watch you smile in response. “You know, a little… peculiar.” 

“I think children like you are going to come into the world regardless. And if they had you for their father, then that would probably be for the best.” You scoot closer to him on the sofa. “Besides, I’ve got five little sisters, and we cover the whole spectrum as far as personality is concerned. Serious to social.” 

“I saw that.” Copia glances toward your application. “Senior Clergy gave you full marks for, ah… family history, let’s say.” 

“Oh, that’s not the half of it. My father is the youngest of eight, and the only boy.” This is the most intimate conversation Copia’s ever had, but for some reason it just keeps flowing. “If we have a son, he might weep tears of joy.” 

“There are a lot of boys in my line.” Copia doesn’t dare meet your eyes as he says these words aloud. “A lot of… twins. If that gives you second thoughts—” 

Shaking your head, you assure him, “Right now, I’m having the opposite of second thoughts.” 

Copia tells himself that doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. “I’ll arrange for the official meetings, then. If you want to propose any amendments to the contract, you can bring them up once we convene. Or… or now, or whenever.” 

It seems this idea hadn’t even occurred to you. “I can ask for things?” 

“Ovviamente.” Copia’s voice rasps a bit as he promises, “Even after the contract is signed, I would… you’re giving me an enormous gift. What can I give you?” 

You drop your eyes to the veil puddled on your lap. “It’s not what you can give me… but what you can take away.” 

Chapter Text

The legal proceedings take a solid week. 

There are so many minutiae. So many agreements to make, so many little details to hammer out. Of course, you won’t have sex with anyone else. Of course, you’ll submit yourself to the care of Ministry doctors and sign medical release statements. Of course, your child’s surname will be Emeritus and they’ll be raised in the faith. There are talks of shared custody and power of attorney; even at your young age, you’re made to draft up a will. All of this feels heavy, it feels like giving up your hard-won autonomy, but the God you worship is the God of fair trades. 

You’re surprised at the concessions Copia is willing to make, though. It makes sense when he releases his medical records for your inspection, when he negotiates some fancy bit of paperwork to ensure you have legal access to the apartment even if you don’t own property at the Ministry. But he wants it down in writing that he won’t sleep with anyone else, so you can break the contract if he does. He insists on changing his insurance beneficiary to you. And when the one-year deadline comes up, he clears his throat and suggests, “I’m open to a longer timeframe, if the candidate is also… amenable.” 

You’re amenable. You’ve already taken his side, and you can no longer deny plain facts. Just the sight of him sitting beside you at the glass-topped table, his gloved pinky within brushing distance of yours, is enough to make you feel like a teenager with a burning crush.  

It’s gotten worse over the last week, as he’s grown brave enough to attend to you. On Monday morning he entered the conference room, located his assigned seat, and moved the card over to the chair beside yours. By Friday he’s developed a habit of hastening to the catering cart to secure your pickle-free sandwich before someone else can claim it by mistake, and he’s constantly plying you with bottles of water and cups of coffee. Whenever the lawyers start reciting chapter and verse, he dips his head closer to yours until he catches your eye, just so he can offer an encouraging smile. 

You’ve never been in a relationship. You only have a few notches in your belt, quick and not-so-happy accidents. The way Copia treats you feels like a revelation and a secret and a promise, and if he leaned over to kiss your cheek you would turn to present him with your lips, you would melt beneath his touch like fresh spring butter.  

You decide on three years. This puts you in a good position to bargain, but there’s little you want. You’ve already been laicized, and you sit beside Copia in the best winter dress you own, wine-colored twill with princess seams and a sweetheart neckline. You caught the way his eyes widened the first time he saw you in it, took pleasure from his obvious appreciation even if you couldn’t quite understand it. You know you must look like a country mouse seated next to him, but that’s something you can rectify. 

In the end, you ask only for a Ministry accountant to invest your stipend and set up a trust for your sisters, and for a bigger clothing budget. You’re no fashion plate, but you want to do Frater Imperator proud. 

Once your signature is inked on the last piece of parchment, once a drop of blood squeezed from your finger mingles with a drop of Copia’s beneath the heavy wax seal, word travels fast. The minute you step across the threshold back at the dormitories, your feet leave the ground. The Siblings snatch you up and deliver you to a pillow-strewn armchair, voices mingling in awe and congratulations and praise. They beg for details, for insight into the workings of the senior Clergy, but you don’t feel comfortable sharing anything. This is what you anticipated, what you feared, and that night you pack up your tweed suitcase and your guitar and sneak through the hallways, making your way to Copia’s apartment.  

Heart in your throat, you knock on the door. He answers within seconds, and your nipples swell against the soft cups of your bra the instant you lay eyes on him. He’s shed his chains and jacket again; he’s just wearing his black shirt and trousers, his tailored waistcoat left unbuttoned. He looks so relaxed and unguarded during moments like this, the scholarly equivalent of a rancher just come in from the pastures. 

It makes him seem human. It makes him seem real. 

“Is everything all right?” Noticing your luggage, Copia moves to relieve you of it. “Did… did the rumor train arrive?” 

“Serving the Siblings and all points south,” you try to joke, biting your lip when his eyes spark with humor. “I know the moon won’t be right for a few weeks. But until the ritual, could I crash on your couch? Um, figure of speech, I know there’s a bedroom…” 

“Come in,” he says, smile as quiet as his voice. “Bedroom or couch, take whatever you want.” 

If you’re being honest, the apartment is far too opulent for your tastes—but you know you should be grateful. The main room has been set up as a living and office space, everything designed in shades of muted saffron and ivory. A well-appointed kitchen sits through an arched entryway, while a hallway leads to additional rooms. Copia opens the doors for your inspection this time, and you count two bedrooms, a bathroom that looks like it came straight out of an architectural digest, and more closet space than you could ever hope to use. 

The final room is still empty and undecorated. You figure it out before Copia can offer an explanation. “For the nursery?” 

“Sì,” he says, shutting the door again. Using your suitcase to gesture between the bedrooms, he asks, “Blue or gold? I can move if you want the blue…” 

Unsure, you ask, “Which do you think I’d prefer? You know, I’ll just take the smaller one—” 

“No, amuleto.” Copia’s smile kicks up at the corner. “I think I know which one you’d like.” 

The room he ushers you into is bigger than your attic bedroom back at the farmhouse. A curtain-draped bed stands atop a riser, like something out of a fairytale, and the furniture is polished oak. But it’s the little details that quickly start vying for your attention—the cream crocheted blanket tossed over the leather stool for the vanity, the flowers embroidered on the sheer bed curtains, the plush velvet sheen of the golden carpet underfoot. Toeing off your shoes, you let your stockinged feet sink into the softest thing they’ve ever felt, sighing in open pleasure. 

“This space is lighter, I think.” Copia adjusts his grip on your luggage, tipping his body forward so he can see your face. “Will it work?” 

“It’s better than I could’ve ever dreamed.” Reaching up, you unpin your hair from its bun. “Thank you so much. For all of this.” 

Your hair is unbrushed and curled into a weird configuration from being twisted up all day—but the second your eyes focus on Copia again, you know not a bit of that matters. He’s not so much admiring your hair as he’s consuming the sight of it, eyes raking down the length before wandering back up to the tendrils that frame your face. 

“I should be… thanking you. Again and again.” As if just noticing the weight of your bags dragging on his arms, Copia jerks into action, moving to set them down on the trunk at the foot of the bed. He pauses before releasing the handle of the guitar case, wondering, “You play?” 

“A little.” Though it must be obvious, you laugh and note, “Acoustic.” 

“I would… listen, if you want to practice. Or go away, if you want to practice.” Copia nods toward one of the interior doors. “We both connect to the nursery. But the other is your bathroom, so… I’ll let you…” 

Officially running low on words, he nods and sees himself out, shutting the door behind him. In the silence of your new room, you heave out a breath, wondering when your ribcage turned into a corset, when your cheeks became permanently stained pink. He’s just a man. You’re only here to perform a religious rite. And you’re not the type to engage in gossip and girlishness, you had to take your mother’s spot in the family too early for that. You’ve stood too many times in front of the pantry and wondered what to put together for dinner, you’ve done too much laundry and mended too many pairs of jeans and picked too many splinters out of tiny fingers…. 

But Copia is so sweet. So polite and attentive and handsome and… definitely the only male in the herd who should breed. The other Emeritus brothers are too brash, too headstrong. 

This thought does not help. By the time you’ve showered and changed into your flannel pajamas, you know you’re just going to ruin them in your sleep. You came of age in a house with six other people, and you’ve spent the last six months living in a shared room in the dormitories. Sex is everywhere at the Ministry, but you haven’t partaken, just heard other people chasing pleasure through the walls at night. And maybe it’s all starting to get to you, because you’re already slick and distracted by the time you wander into the living room and find Copia fussing in front of a minifridge cleverly concealed inside one of the consoles. 

He rockets to his feet when he sees you. In your oversized, faded pajamas and patchwork robe, hair damp and curling. Working his mouth for a moment, he stammers, “Do you remember… are we supposed to quit the alcohol already?” 

“Yep.” You haven’t done the full medical checkup yet, but the final paperwork had a letter from the Ministry doctors bundled with it. “And caffeine. At least, I am.” 

“They haven’t stocked the big fridge yet. We have…” He turns back to the minifridge with a frown. “…juice?” 

“That’d be great,” you agree—and when he pulls out a juice box, you repress the urge to laugh. Because he looks like he’s questioning a lot of his past decisions right then, but you honestly don’t mind. 

“You should take charge.” Copia gestures to the sofa, inviting you to sit. “Just call to the kitchens. They’ll bring up anything you want.” 

You skip from rug to rug as you cross the marble floor, unwilling to give up the warmth from your shower just yet. “I’m going to get spoiled, living here.” 

“That’s kind of the point.” You settle on the sofa, drawing your knees up under your robe, and Copia joins you. He prepares the straw before handing over the juice box. “I would like you to be… comfortable. Around me.” 

“You don’t have to spoil me for that to happen.” Resting your chin on your knees, you try to relax. “You’re a gentleman. I like that.” 

Lucifer, you also like the sight of that soft peach color dusted across his cheekbones. Clearing his throat, he plucks out one of his skull-shaped cufflinks so he can roll his shirtsleeve up. “Is that… why you chose me? And not my brother?” 

“It’s definitely one of the reasons.” You take a sip of cold apple juice before surrendering to temptation. “Judging by what I’ve heard, I’m guessing he’s an uncle we tolerate because he’s blood in this household, but… how is Papa V doing with all of this?” 

Copia goes still, fingers frozen on his sleeve in mid-fold. At first, you worry you’ve offended him—but before you can apologize, he laughs. The sound rides low in his chest, warm and deep. “Do we… have a household? Where we can bitch about my brother?” 

“My parents’ marriage certificate was only one page long. We’ve got ‘em beat by a mile.” Recovering, you concentrate on the juice box clenched in your hands. “Sorry, not that we’re… we don’t have to talk about him, if you don’t want.” 

“No, it’s just…” Copia leaves his loosened cuff where it is, leaning back against the cushions as he looks at you. His eyes are so full of wonder that you have to take another sip of juice to keep your mouth from running dry. “He’s less open to the idea than I am, let’s put it that way.” 

This fact surprises you. “He doesn’t want a Prime Mover?” 

“He tried to get on a flight to Italy. I had to send some ghouls to drag him back from the airport.” You take your turn to burst out laughing, and Copia bites back a grin before carrying on. “He hasn’t even looked through the applications. I’ve been asked to lean on him, yeah?” 

You nibble on the juice box straw, amused by this idea. “Are you going to?” 

“Oh no, my carefully ordered and prioritized work calendar.” Copia makes a motion as if sweeping items off his desk, and you fight to keep from giggling. “Amuleto, I would rather carve my left eye out with a spoon than talk to that creature about his solemn duty to… you know.” 

Flushing, you drink deep. You will not be held responsible for what happens if he keeps calling you pretty Italian words. “Understandable.” 

“He wasn’t raised in our faith. He tries to pick and choose from his pastoral responsibilities like he’s at a buffet in Vegas.” Copia’s look of disapproval is impressive. “But he puts on a good show, I’ll give him that.”  

Surprised, you tilt your head. “People always say you miss the stage.” 

“I do.” Copia unfastens his other cufflink, tucking both into his waistcoat pocket, and you try not to notice the brown hair that softens his wiry forearms. “But sometimes, I think other people miss it more?” 

“How do you mean?” 

Copia rests his gloved hands on the flat of his stomach, considering his answer before he commits. “That was pretty much the only time in my life that people paid attention to me. And I admit… that part was nice.” 

You weren’t expecting to come here and get your heart broken. “Oh, but that can’t be true. You’re so—” 

“It doesn’t matter.” Copia drops his eyes, focusing on the juice box in your hands. You can hear his rising anxiety, sense that the topic is growing sensitive. “It wasn’t my choice when it started, and it wasn’t my choice when it ended. Most things are like that.” 

The resignation in his voice is enough to stun you into silence. The Cardinal you once watched on stage has risen to the rank of Frater Imperator, but he’s never felt like his own man. Or like his desires matter. Even if he gets something good, he accepts that it could be torn away from him at any moment. 

And rather than let these truths make him mean—he’s turned into the calmest, gentlest dog in the pack. He’s letting you drink juice in your pajamas beside him, he hasn’t made a single overture towards you. You’re going to give him your body, a baby, and yet he acts like he expects nothing. 

He, Satan's representative, who by all rights should feel entitled to every pleasure the world can afford him. 

As you lie in bed that night, staring at the yards of embroidered georgette gathered overhead, you embrace the fact that you’ve started to feel protective towards the man sleeping two rooms over. The idea that anyone would judge or ignore or hurt him makes you want to bristle like a mama boar; if some fool made the mistake of doing it in your presence, you would run them out on your tusks. 

In a few weeks, you’ll make a living sacrifice of your body, offering it up for his use alone. Because it’s an opportunity to bring glory to Lucifer and your family. Because you do want your son, if you have one, to be sweet and polite and attentive. But mostly because… 

…you just want a taste of what it’d be like if Copia felt protective towards you, too. 

In the observatory, he started to tell you about the things he wants even more than a child. And you decide, then and there, that you’re going to figure out what they are. 

You’re going to figure out a way to give Copia a taste of Satan’s paradise. 

Chapter Text

It takes Copia a few days to accept that gifts make you uncomfortable. 

It starts when the Ministry fulfills one of the contract prerequisites, and a new car appears on the snowy drive outside the west wing. It isn’t extravagant, just a nice black sedan—but you take one look at the insurance paperwork and the interior and begin to fret, eventually working yourself up to the point where you suggest returning it to the dealership. After a lot of confusion and circumvention, Copia manages to identify your chief complaint. 

It’s not the fact that you don’t like the car. It’s the fact that it’s new, and as a consequence expensive. You’ve never touched a brand-new vehicle in your life; you could make do with something else. 

“Can’t I just borrow your car if I need to get somewhere?” you mutter at one point. “You must already have one we can use?” 

Amused, Copia escorts you to the family garage and whips the cover off his car. The second you set eyes on his classic Le Sabre, the stern line of your mouth goes slack. 

“We can’t in good conscience transport a kid in that, can we.” It isn’t a question. 

“Total deathtrap,” Copia concurs, shoving his hands into his coat pockets so he can’t reach out and tuck your windswept hair behind your ears. “We’ll need boring-but-safe to run errands in town… to go visit your family, if you want to drive that far.” 

Furrowing your brow, you nod in agreement. But then, you take a few steps forward and run your gloved fingertips along the mean angled point of the Buick’s trunk. When you glance back at him, your smile is starting to peep out, like the sun from behind the rainclouds. “She’s a stunner, though.” 

“This bad decision dates back to my twenties.” Copia has no idea where the desire to tease you is coming from, but he’s determined to enjoy it while it lasts. “I promise, this is not my midlife crisis.” 

“No, pretty sure I’m your midlife crisis.” Copia laughs because it’s true, and you grin because you’re in on the joke. “Maybe just… take me on a drive, sometime?” 

Lucifer, he already likes this too much. Having someone around, someone who matches his energy instead of demanding that he keep up with theirs. “After summer dries the roads, amuleto. Your deathtrap chariot awaits.” 

Then comes the issue of the phone. Like the car, it arises during the first week, while Copia is still coming to terms with the fact that there’s someone else in his apartment. A pretty woman who smiles every time she sees him—sometimes bashfully, sometimes with delight or good humor, but she smiles. He comes out in the morning to find you already dressed, prim in your wool skirt and cotton blouse and knitted cardigan, purse in hand. 

“I’m going to head into town,” you tell him, smile a little awkward this time. “Try out the car. I made coffee, it’s in the kitchen if you want it.” 

Copia blinks. “Are we not giving up caffeine?” 

“I have to, but that doesn’t mean you should go without.” You open the closet to grab your coat. “I can still put on the pot.” 

“I wouldn’t…” Deciding he can explain his reasoning later, he clears his throat. “Where are you headed?” 

Your smile widens. “The clothing budget hit my account, so I’m going shopping. No more fieldmouse Prime Mover.” 

“Fieldmouse?” Copia almost feels affronted by this description, because he wouldn’t change a thing about your classic dresses and homemade sweaters. You always look so warm and soft and touchable, and it’s becoming something of a problem, given his own preference for slim-cut trousers. “I, ah… I like the way you dress, though. I hope you don’t think you have to… look a certain way.” 

You purse your lips for a moment before responding. “But I… want to. I probably look a little threadbare next to you, with your nice suit and all. I don’t want to be an embarrassment.” 

Finding his courage, Copia lets himself cross the room until he stands in front of you. “You could wear… a burlap sack, and you would be the most beautiful woman in the room. Prometto.” 

He’s fairly sure he has you beat, but the deep pink of your blush pleases him nonetheless. “Maybe I’ll just go get some new things, then, I won’t… switch it up too much.” 

“Do whatever you want, I just… I like you the way you are.” Trying to segue, he jokes, “You know, when I explained what a Prime Mover is, V accused me of wanting a… Satanic tradwife? You could just play off that.” 

Your laughter rings off the marble. “Should I embroider your insignia on a headscarf, then? Or an apron?” 

“Lucifer, no, I take it back.” You struggle to contain your amusement, and Copia reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. “I should make sure I have your number before you go, though. The one on your application was for the central line.” 

Your laughter fades into an embarrassed cough. “Oh, I don’t have a phone. I just get messages from reception.” 

Surprised, Copia notes, “Then I will have the technology people get you one today.” 

“Oh, I don’t need—” 

“You do. For… in the future, for the children.” Your eyes widen when you hear the plural, and his brain starts to skid off the tracks. “And for now… so I can text you. Maybe just to say hi?” 

It takes you a second to process this. “You want to—” 

“Because I tried to text you Hi a few days ago, and Sister Margery in reception gave me a whole lecture.” Copia is now officially rambling. “Apparently if you text the central line, it sends them an email for some reason, and one of the novitiates tried to print the email out and chose the fax by mistake, and the fax is this high unholy object that exists only for the Romanian congregations and large catering orders? She was very cross with me, and…” He stops to catch his breath. “Anyway. That is why you need a phone.” 

Copia has no idea how to interpret the look that flits across your face. Like you want to fight him and you want to submit to him and you want to smile and you want to cry. Swallowing, you settle on, “If you texted me to tell me about your day, I would… really like that. So, I’ll take the phone…” 

“Bene,” Copia breathes, trying to settle his nerves. 

“…for that, and for the children.” His brain seizes entirely as you throw the plural right back at him, and you fill the ensuing silence. “But not a fancy one, not… I don’t need ten cameras, or… or anything like that.” 

“Okie-dokie,” he agrees, rather proud of himself for managing to speak but loathing what he says. 

“I’m going to head out, so… have a good day.” Your smile has an edge of panic to it now, and you almost flee out the door with your purse and coat clutched against your chest. 

Copia wanders to his office in a daze, carrying a mug of the coffee you brewed, because he doesn’t want any other coffee. There’s a pretty woman in his apartment who makes him coffee and apparently, she’s at least open to the idea of giving him twins… and when he realizes that, when he remembers he mentioned that possibility, the disappointment that deadens his pulse forces him to relinquish the cup for fear that he’s having some kind of cardiac event. 

Children doesn’t mean… two pregnancies. Not necessarily. 

Powers and principalities, he has it bad. He should not be this easy to enrapture. He’s in his fifties, he’s had his fun, he heads a religion that could be all-orgy-all-the-time with one memo disseminated from his office. But you smile at him, and you consider his needs, and you’re worried your clothes will reflect poorly on his station. 

Within moments he’s picking up the phone, calling the sacristy, pulling up inventory spreadsheets on his computer. 

That evening, Copia returns to the apartment with two small boxes in hand—only to walk in on you sifting through a larger one. You glance up when he enters, and he stops short, taking in the sight of you in a knee-length dress of ruby challis, cut with a high, buttoned waist and a neckline that plunges just short of what he’d like to see. Flushing, you stand back from the kitchen island and offer yourself for inspection, letting him drink in the sheer black hose you wear beneath, the shining black Mary Jane pumps, the buttons along the close-fitting sleeves, the bangs…. 

“I got my hair cut,” you note, as if he can’t see it, as if the sight isn’t routing every spare drop of blood straight to his dick. Layers now give your hair some bounce, accent its natural curl, and you’ve got half of it swept up into a black ribbon. The long bangs frame your face, kiss your cheekbones on either side, make your eyes look even fucking bigger. “Is… is something like this okay? It’s just a little dressier.” 

“Perfetta,” he whispers, and somehow you hear him all the way in the kitchen, somehow your cheeks grow even redder. 

“I’m glad you like it. I got another dress, and a suit the wardrobe department is tailoring for me, and…” You trail off, turning back toward the box full of crumpled newspaper. “We both got… a present.” 

Now desperate to keep your attention off the erection testing the structural integrity of his pants zipper, Copia focuses on the package. “In the mail?” 

“Yeah, it’s…” Your nose crinkles, and when your eyes find his again, they seem to be asking him how much generosity he’s willing to endure. “Gifts from my family.” 

Perhaps more intrigued than he should be, Copia makes his way into the kitchen, setting his own boxes down on the island and angling his hips behind it. Glancing inside the package, he can see that most of the space is taken up by a knitted blanket, folded and curled into a serpentine pattern to cushion half a dozen glass jars topped with pinked squares of black gingham. 

“This is the first of many,” you note, and he can hear the warning in your voice. “I told my father you accepted my application, and… the entire clan knows, by now.” 

“They sent…” You draw out a jar, and he squints as he tries to discern the contents. “Giardiniera?” 

Blinking, you ask him, “Translation?” 

“Ah, pickled vegetables, for…” Copia gestures toward the refrigerator. “To pair with the antipasto?” 

Everything about your posture and expression tells him you were not expecting him to recognize hand-pickled goods. “I didn’t realize… that’s a thing Italians do?” 

“Of course, it’s delicious.” Taking the jar from you, he scrutinizes the cauliflower swimming in brine. “Oh, there’s whole garlic in here, that’s a very good sign.” 

You remain still, staring at him for a moment longer before busying yourself inside the box. Not just your cheeks, but your lips are now crimson. “There’s… classic pickles, and okra, and… oh! Auntie Hypatia’s specialty is the… here, the green beans.” 

This jar you pop open, releasing the tangy scent of aromatics and apple cider vinegar. You offer it to him, and Copia pockets his gloves before helping himself to one of the whole beans. Like the cauliflower, they’ve been pickled with garlic and hot peppers, and the end result has just enough spice to wake up his tongue. He fishes for a second helping as you hold the jar for him, your smile growing wider at his appreciative noise. 

“Zia Hypatia gets a front row seat at the naming ceremony and a Black Mass performed in her honor,” Copia declares between crunchy bites, and this statement launches you into a bout of hysterics. He has to wrestle the jar from your hands before you can slosh his newly acquired bad habit all over the countertop, and you rest your right hand over your mouth, banding your left arm across your middle as you try to muffle the sound of your laughter. 

“I just didn’t…” Tears are beading along your lashes. “Here I imagined you’d think it was kind of a strange gift.” 

“No!” Copia chuckles, screwing the top back on the jar. “It’s kind of your family to think of us. And I am Italian, why would I ever turn down food?” 

You take a deep breath to steady your lungs, letting your right hand settle on your collarbone instead. “It’s just that… they know we’ve come together for a rite, but they’re still apt to treat us like we’re setting up house.” 

Copia tries to ignore the sting of this statement. “Maybe we can just…” The word he wants to say is pretend, but it occurs to him that pretense isn’t required. “I mean, we… are. This is a house, we’re setting it up.” 

“But there’s gonna be so much, Copia. You have no idea.” You wipe the tears from your eyes, another laugh bubbling out of your chest. “Blankets and pickles and jelly and infant socks and probably a casserole, if someone can figure out a way to mail it…” 

“Eh, we could use better blankets.” Copia removes the new one from the box and shakes it out, admiring the deep goldenrod color of the yarn, the rams-horns motif worked throughout. “Those tapestry ones on the couch are too thin.” 

“Lucifer, yes, let’s get rid of them.” Sighing through your smile, you note, “I just don’t… as a rule, I don’t like getting presents.” 

Copia glances away from the blanket, peering at the small black boxes he brought up with him. “Why is that?” 

“I always feel like someone else deserves them more.” You take the blanket from him, folding it in an obvious attempt to distract yourself. “Like I’m taking something away from people who can barely afford to give.” 

“Your family is happy for you, and they want to share that.” Copia knows he can’t hide the damn thing now, so he reaches for the smaller box and offers it to you. “I, um… I got this hoping to make you happy, too. But if you don’t like gifts, I can take it back.” 

Tucking the blanket over your arm, you accept the box, hesitating a moment before unfastening the clasp. The roses in your cheeks fade as you study the unholy rosary worked in gold—the simplest thing he could find within the store of ritual supplies, the inverted cross faceted and the beads etched until they sparkle, but with no extra jewels. 

“You said you were worried about appearing…” Copia finds the very idea ridiculous, finds it impossible to speak aloud. “I haven’t seen you wear any jewelry. So here is some to wear, if you like.” 

Your expression draws tight, and he begins to worry that he’s overstepped. But then you lift your head, and your eyes are the sweetest he’s ever seen them. “You… pay attention to things like that? Like, I don’t have jewelry?” 

“You mean, do I notice?” You nod, the motion stiff. “Of course, amuleto. I notice many things about you.” 

Your blush returns. “I… I mean, I do—” 

“And not because I think it’s bad you don’t wear jewelry.” Fuck, he’s making a mess of things again. “I just… if you want to wear some, here is something new.” 

“I love it.” You close the box, but you fold it against your chest. “I, um… I used to wear my mother’s unholy cross. But I left it behind for Jessy when I came here.” 

“Then you should have one of your own.” Copia adds, “Not that it will replace hers, of course.” 

“No, but I’ve never…” For the first time, you reach out for him. He takes your hand the moment you offer it, squeezing it as you stammer, “Thank you. For thinking of me, for noticing, just… please, there’s been so much.” 

Copia can sympathize with the stress that comes from having too many things change all at once. It’s enough that his gift has been well-received. Nodding toward the other box on the counter, he says, “Well, that is your phone. It’s not an extravagance, it’s a tool. Siamo d'accordo?” 

“Translation?” you ask again, your smile returning. 

“Do we agree?” 

“Sì,” you try, and Copia can no longer fight the urge to grin. “We agree.” 

“Then I’ll go freshen up for dinner.” Copia pauses before going for glory. “Would you like to… come down with me? You have a seat at the high table if you want it.” 

“Actually, I was…” You look to the phone again. “We can call to the kitchens for anything, right? Maybe we could order food, and eat here tonight?” 

At this point, Copia owes his Lord at least a century of Satan Prayers and an entire fucking Dracaena tree shoved into one of the sacred pyres. “I will leave the ordering in your capable hands, then.” 

Copia takes himself in hand the instant he’s alone, unfastening his trousers and leaning right against the bedroom door, eyes shut and head tilted back. It isn’t even about the pleasure that crackles up his spine with every stroke of his fist, it’s about preventing potential embarrassment.  

Apparently, this is how middle-aged men end up wearing pleated pants—they decide to have kids. They manage to convince a lovely woman to join them in this endeavor, and then she’s always there with her soft dresses and skirts that make the idea of bending her over the furniture and sinking into her heat as realistic as it is tempting. She’s there with her lilting voice and her silky hair and fuck, he wants to see those long bangs framing your face as you look up at him, as you take his cock in your wet mouth. He wants those red lips soft and pillowy on his unyielding flesh, he wants to watch his come desecrate and drip from your new rosary, he wants to hear you whimper his name as he draws you up the length of his body by the chain and sucks the cross clean for you—  

He manages to limit the mess to his trousers, swallowing the moans that want to escape him, pushing his weight into his feet to keep from slouching down against the door as he tips over the edge. The pleasure is a bright flare, but not enough, not nearly enough, not what he envisions when he dares to imagine joining together with you. 

It’s only once he’s washed up and has fresh clothes that he remembers how awful the first time is going to be. Probably nowhere near pleasurable for either one of you. The thought fills him with dread, and he becomes even more determined to defer to your preferences in everything that he can… knowing there are so many parts of this process from which he cannot shield you.

Chapter Text

Moving in early was a mistake. 

Because now you know that Copia hums to himself a great deal of the time—not only Satanic hymns, but old rock songs and jazz standards. Because now you know that beneath his gloves his hands are soft and cool, that he has a callus on his right middle finger from years of straining to write as fast as his brain can think. Because he’s growing more generous with his laughter, and the sound of his soft rumble makes you want to pitch yourself forward, bury your face against his chest, pray he’ll wrap you up in his arms and let you stay there.  

And still, he remains shy in your presence. He stutters out half the words he says, and while he’s not overt about it, he monitors your moods like a trainer working with a new filly. When he perceives he’s earned your approval, his obvious pleasure makes your heart swell; if he chose any of these moments to drop to his knees and bunch your skirt around your waist, you would rake your hands into his thick hair and you would shudder apart on his tongue shamefully fast, the way you’ve started coming undone around your own fingers in the night. Because you can no longer ignore the hollow ache that throbs between your thighs, not when Copia is right there filling your days with his laughter and his bright cologne and his keen desire to make you happy. 

Maybe all the girlishness hasn’t been beaten out of you quite yet. Because if you wanted to risk the gossip, right now you could very well see yourself squealing in someone’s ear, “I like him so much that it makes me feel like I’m dying, is that normal?” 

You spend the rest of the week telling yourself it can’t be normal. You learn to put on your very best poker face, ducking down back hallways whenever possible to avoid the torrent of whispers, the endless stares. You knew the Siblings and members of the Clergy would be intrigued by your change in status, but it feels like the noose of their interest is tightening by the hour. In only ten days, senior Clergy will bear witness to the Prime Mover ritual. 

Thank the Unmaker, it won’t be everyone. But the gossip will start flying before you can even make it back to your room, and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. 

Potential humiliation turns into stone cold reality the day doctors arrive at the Ministry to conduct the medical workups. Yours won’t be that invasive, and thankfully you won’t be checked for fertility right off the bat the way Copia will. But in addition to several vials of blood taken for testing, you’re made to give up a pint for use in the ritual. A more ethical alternative to slaughtering an animal, and far more potent from a metaphysical standpoint. After the most loaded gyno exam of your life and a battery of psychological questions and a forest’s worth of waivers, you return to the apartment a little worse for wear, weary and in need of a nap. 

Copia’s beaten you to it. You find him passed out on the sofa, still in his ecclesiastical jacket, chains discarded on the coffee table beside his phone and one foot on the floor. 

Lucifer, he’s about the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. He should’ve left cute behind three decades ago, but he looks younger when he’s asleep, when the deeper lines etched into his face have a chance to relax. The sofa’s one of the most uncomfortable pieces of furniture in the apartment, though, and you decide to blame the blood loss when you kneel down and finally let your fingernails comb one of his rumpled sideburns into submission. 

Your touch is gentle, but it wakes him. Copia regards you groggily for a moment before jolting into alertness. “S-sorry, I was waiting for you—” 

“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re resting.” You take your hand back, and Copia seems to come to terms with the fact that you were touching him. The shadows in his green eye deepen, and his throat bobs beneath his collar. “You were put through the wringer too, huh?” 

“Next time, I’m climbing out the window the second the nurse has her back turned.” Copia’s gloved fingers twitch atop his abdomen as you laugh, and then the right one gravitates towards your face. You go still, letting him capture a lock of your hair between his forefinger and thumb, wishing to Satan he could actually feel it. “I waited downstairs for a while, but I wasn’t sure if you… would really want to see me afterwards.” 

“Because you think it’s your fault I had to go through it all?” Copia answers with a sheepish nod. You open your mouth, prepared to reassure him and urge him to go to bed… but then you stumble across an idea that seems brilliant in the moment. “Do you want to make it up to me?” 

Copia’s response is so instant, so innocent that it makes you smile. “Name it and it is yours, amuleto.” 

“Come lie in bed with me?” You can’t remember if your throat was this dry just a few seconds ago. “I just… I want to sleep, and I want to sleep next to you?” 

Aside from holding your hand a few times and thirty seconds of playing with your hair, Copia has seldom touched you—but that’s the moment you understand that he wants to. His pupils flash the slightest bit wider, his cheeks flush that pretty honey shade, and when his voice coils low in his throat, you become aware of every stitch of clothing on your body. “You would… let me? After all that?” 

“Come on.” Climbing to your feet, you offer your hands to help him up. “Let’s grab some water and at least get our shoes off.” 

Copia insists on taking your shoes off for you, bending down to untie your heeled oxfords while you sit on the bed in your room. You’re wearing one of your old cotton shirtdresses, printed with cabbage roses and designed with laces up the back that you can loosen for comfort. It takes him longer to situate himself—to shrug out of his jacket and waistcoat, to remove his cufflinks and collar, to tug off his gloves and set them on the bedside table beside his water glass. 

“Why don’t you take your gloves off the second you get home?” you ask, as you reach for the oversized blanket folded at the foot of the bed. “Just used to the uniform?” 

“Yes and no.” Copia watches as you scoot over to the right side of the bed, and then moves to follow you. Even now he doesn’t touch you, only letting his head settle atop one of the pillows as he lies back. “I have… sensory issues. And now I have the issue of forgetting what it’s like, not to wear them.” 

“But you don’t wear them all the time,” you point out, tossing the blanket over his legs. 

“Well, that’s because…” Copia stares at the embroidered curtains the way you did the first night—and, like you, he seems to find some personal insight there. As you slip underneath the blanket, he takes a deep breath and turns on his side to face you. “I don’t like to wear them when there’s a chance I might… get to feel your skin.” 

Lucifer—you’ve muffled your moans against the very pillow he’s lying on now, panting out his name as you strummed yourself to one empty orgasm after another. Now, the need that coils in your belly is so familiar that it’s hard to be ashamed of it, but he’s right there. The cause of it, your torment personified. 

Here’s right here, admitting that he’s longed to feel your skin on his. 

Determined not to let the moment go to waste, you shift beneath the blanket, resting your forehead against his chest just the way you’ve craved. Copia reacts instantly, enfolding you in his arms, and you learn so many things in that single, precious instant—that he’s stronger than he looks, that he smells even better once his cologne wears off, that his body is slender and warm beneath your hands. You have to take hold of his suspenders, curl your fingers around them and squeeze tight to keep yourself from touching him everywhere, and…. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the tears cooling on your cheeks. It's been so long. So long without a cat between your ankles or a horse beneath your currycomb, so long since a sister climbed into your bed to escape her nightmares or your father pulled you into his suffocating embrace. So long since you felt real sunlight on your face, since you heard laughter ringing through the kitchen, since you truly felt part of something. 

“Oh, my brave girl, sweetest thing...” Copia’s left hand migrates to your face, cradling your cheek as he urges you to look up at him. His eyes are soft despite his confusion, his thumb quick to wipe away your tears. “What’s wrong? Do you want… do you want me to go?” 

“No.” You release his suspenders, curling your right arm around his waist so you can haul yourself closer. He shivers when you grip your hand into the back of his shirt, when your breasts conform to his chest, but he doesn’t protest in the slightest. “Please don’t go. I just… I’m used to being touched. And I haven’t been, in the longest time. It feels good to have you here, really good…” 

“Shh, cara mia. Capisco… I understand.” With those words, Copia asks no more questions—only directs you to tuck your head under his chin again, his fingers fanning through your hair. His pulse flutters against your ear, rapid and nervous, but you’ve never heard anything more soothing. “You sleep right here… I’m not going anywhere. If anyone tries to make me leave, I’ll cram them into Zia Hypatia’s box and send them to Hell. Special delivery.” 

This threat is enough to conjure up a hiccup that wants to be a laugh, because Copia’s voice is teasing—and yet, you do not doubt him. He’s such a strange man, awkward and bold by turns, but above all quiet. You never expected him to be this quiet. 

You never expected him to be this perfect. 

When you wake up, all that’s left of sunset is a band of sickly green light fading on the golden carpet. 

You’ve turned around in your sleep, and now face the window on the right side of the bed. Copia is behind you, left arm tight around your middle and right arm thrust beneath your pillow, his face burrowed into your hair. His breath is slow and even, and for a few blissful seconds you let yourself sink into the sound, into the rhythmic caress of his chest against your back. 

Then the dizzy thought strikes you that Frater Imperator has you wrapped up in his arms. His touch is confident and comfortable; in his sleep, he holds you like a lover. He called you brave and sweet and cara mia, like that old song by Jay and the Americans, and the idea that he’s at least grown fond of you is enough to make your heartbeat hammer in your ears. 

You knew you would end up here eventually, but all the same, it doesn’t seem real. And in the gathering darkness, you feel yourself smiling—so wide that it hurts, so wide that your first instinct is to roll your face against the pillow to hide it. But you forget that his face is pressed against your neck, and your motion must be enough to interrupt his sleep—because the next thing you know, Copia is sighing against the neckline of your dress, his mustache soft enough to make you shiver. He pulls you closer, like a child clutching their teddy in the night… 

…and that’s when you feel it. 

You don’t remember making the decision to hold your breath, and when your lungs begin to burn, you have to exhale through pursed lips to remain quiet. All the while, his cock remains hard and prominent against the back of your thigh, and your mind exhausts itself trying to map out his contours. All you know is that he is stupidly thick, or at least he feels like it. You remember asking for the smallest speculum not three hours ago, and those unsatisfying notches you acquired years ago, and Satan’s sweet hellfire, you gave a pint of blood today, you’re going to lie in a pentagram painted with it and Copia’s not going to be able to get inside you and you’ll fail at being Prime Mover before you can even begin and you’ll lose all this, there won’t be any more strong arms in the dark or rumbling laughter or cara mias.... 

“Amuleto?” You only realize that Copia’s awake, that he’s speaking to you once the warmth of his body abandons yours. You roll over in protest, watching as he reaches his bedside table and switches on the lamp. He returns to your side within seconds, both of you squinting in the light, both of you confused. “You went stiff, you weren’t hearing me…” 

How do you tell a man I felt your hard-on and it sent me into an emotional tailspin? Breathing deep, you try to compose your thoughts. “I was just… I think I’m tired. My mind was racing…” 

Copia considers this as he lies beside you again. Face-to-face, his proud nose almost touching yours, his eyes as solemn as the day they were sketched for his formal portrait. “What were you thinking about?” 

Unlike all the times he’s been reticent and awkward, this time his voice tells you that he’s going to figure out the answer one way or another. Reaching up to fiddle with the unholy rosary chained around your neck, you steel yourself. “The… the ritual. I’d be a fool not to be nervous...” 

“Sì,” Copia says, using his fingertips to ease your mussy hair out of your eyes. “But there’s nervous… and there’s semi-catatonic.” 

“I’m sorry.” Taking his touch as permission, you trade your rosary for his hair, stroking a few strands up to join the rest where it sweeps back over his skull. Copia nudges his forehead against the heel of your hand like a cat starved for affection, and your heart almost cracks in two. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Then tell me the truth.” Copia captures your hand, bringing it to his chin so he can look at you. “What were you thinking about?” 

“It doesn’t matter—” 

“It matters to me.” Copia searches your eyes for a moment before lifting your wrist to his lips. The kiss he brushes across your pulse is so gentle compared to the rush of need it inspires. “We are… a team in this.” 

This ancient practice is meant for him, not for you—but you can’t let him go through it alone. You made that pact, you sealed it in blood. Relenting to the desire to stroke his cheek, to trace the path of his freckles with your fingertips, you whisper, “Everyone is going to see.” 

“Senior Clergy, yes.” Copia lets his eyes flutter shut, all but puddling under your touch. “Which sadly contains… all of my family.” 

Fuck, you hadn’t even considered that. At least your blood kin won’t be there to watch you. “Oh, Copia—” 

“It’s all right.” Copia rallies, his mismatched eyes focusing on yours again. “I’ve also been… thinking. We should go look at the ritual space, so it won’t be a surprise to you.” 

“Isn’t it in the main cathedral?” Copia looks so content under your hand, so relaxed that you couldn’t stop petting him if you wanted to. You begin to comb his hair back, learning that he can rumble in other ways, learning that his rough sound of pleasure is enough to make your nipples peak. 

“Not in the chancel, there’s…” Copia shifts closer to you on the pillow, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “There are levels beneath. It will be in one of those little chapels… much smaller, no windows.” 

Relieved, you release a breath. “Okay. I like… no windows.” 

“We’ll look at the altar. See if we can find a way to block your view of… of everyone.” Copia curls his hand around yours, lowering it back to his waist. Disappointment lances through you—but then his hand returns to cup your cheek, elegant fingers sinking into your hair, the base of his thumb settling into the curve of your orbital bone. “I was thinking I could… hold your head in my hands like this. It would make…” 

“Horse blinders?” Your giggle is breathy and disbelieving and lovesick, even you can hear it. 

Wincing, Copia tries to take his hand back. “You’re right, that’s awful—” 

Relinquishing your hold on his waist, you trap his hand against your cheek and arch forward, hardly knowing what you mean to accomplish before your lips meet his. Your heart leaps and your stomach sinks and you question yourself a split second later, until you hear your name whispered against your own mouth, until he’s not letting you get away.  

Until he’s reshaping your history, dividing your life into the time before you tasted him, and the time after. 

The kiss changes shape a dozen times, like a flock of birds wheeling through the sky—it’s a question and an answer, and then an apology and a furious dismissal, and then it’s a plea, a promise, finally surrender, hunger, a moment of buoyant laughter, a smile meeting a smile. His cool hand glides down to support your neck, thumb pressing softly into the tender part of your jaw until you open for him. His tongue is the one part of him that isn’t shy, it dances with yours until you’re panting as you try to keep up, until you whimper for mercy, and only then does he break contact, pressing his forehead to yours as he chases after his own breath. 

You were never kissed before this moment. This is your first real kiss. 

“You’re too big,” you confess, voice weak. “I woke up and felt you, and you’re too big. Everyone will see you struggle…” 

Copia sounds slightly drunk as he stammers, “I’m pretty average height for—” 

“No, your…” Bunching your hands into the front of his shirt, you curl your hips forward. He’s even harder than before, and the helpless groan that explodes from his throat when your low belly caresses his length makes your head spin. “I felt you.” 

“You’re not…” Copia’s right arm forsakes the pillow, both hands sinking into your hair as he leans forward to steal another kiss. You can feel his cock pulse when your breath rushes into his lungs; it takes all of your self-control not to squirm. “You’re not a virgin?” 

“No, but…” You screw your eyes shut, and Copia seems to take this as a sign to back off, stroking your side as you gather your thoughts. “It’s… been a while. I just don’t want to make you look bad. I don’t want to fail before we even begin.” 

For a few moments, the bedroom is silent save for the pounding of your heart and Copia’s ragged breath. When you open your eyes, it’s to find him staring at you as if he can’t believe you’re there in his arms, as if you’re the most glorious treasure in all of unholy creation. 

“There’s nothing that says…” Even as he suggests it, the flush across his nose deepens. “There’s nothing that says we can’t… before.” 

Your mouth is now drier than the wellsprings in Hell. “No? But what if it… works?” 

“Then Satan must truly approve of this match, eh?” Your happy laugh coaxes a smile out of him. “The ritual is a final seal on the process, it is… a request for His blessing. But we are already… set on this path.” 

You’re already his. You’ve been his for a week, and yet this is the first time he’s said anything about it. And it’s clearly not from lack of interest; even now, you can see the way his eyes follow your tongue as you try to moisten your lips. He’s so sweet that it makes you feel aggressive, like you want to keep him safe, keep him for yourself. 

Wrath is a sin. Greed is a sin. Lust is a sin. Everything for the glory of Lucifer. 

But as you angle your head forward to claim his lips, he lowers them to your collarbone, pressing a kiss beneath the beaded chain of your rosary. Shuddering, you hold him tight as he speaks. “But not tonight. You need rest, and red meat, and water.” 

You could make a horrible joke, but your lungs feel too small. If this is the way he cares for you now, how is he going to treat you once you’re pregnant with his child? “Can we… can we stay here in the apartment?” 

“Sì, of course.” As Copia draws back, he notices the wad of cotton taped inside your elbow, just below the short sleeve of your dress. Frowning at the florid purple bruise spreading underneath the bandage, he takes your forearm and rubs his thumb along the border of it. “I’ll order some steak to cook up… or spinach? And some ice cream?” 

Lucifer almighty, how are you supposed to do anything other than fall in love with this man? How are you supposed to get out of this with your heart intact? 

Now desperate to have all of him that you can, you ask, “And can we… tonight, can we sleep here together? So you can hold me again?” 

Copia’s smile is so full of relief that it almost hurts to look at. “I was praying you would ask.” 

Chapter Text

Copia wishes he had half your eloquence as he reviews his email for the final time. 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Prime Mover Ritual

Esteemed colleagues (and Papa V Perpetua):

This email concerns the rules that will govern the high ritual scheduled for the week following next. Out of an abundance of concern for the Prime Mover herself, as well as respect for the ritual space, I ask for strict adherence to the following:

1. Absolute silence while the ritual is taking place. Violators will be escorted out by my personal ghouls.
2. No drinks, snacks, unconsumed drugs, recording devices, portable speakers (I don’t care how long you spent on the playlist) or ‘self-indulgence’ allowed. We all know what I am talking about.
3. If I catch wind of any betting activity, I will entomb you alive with your winnings in that fucking room. I invite you to test me, Terzo.

I must stress again that the Prime Mover is a devout woman, a multigenerational member of our faith who deserves our admiration and praise. Please, I ask you to show her kindness and deference on what may be a difficult day.

Regards,

His Dark Excellency Copia Emeritus

Frater Imperator

Copia drums his fingers on the desk in front of his keyboard as he resists the urge to carry on typing. To say what he really wants to say. This is the closest he’s ever gotten to feeling like someone other than a parental figure cares about him, and he knows from experience that one ill-timed laugh, one crude joke is often enough to upset the flimsy house of cards that passes for his life.

Please, don’t fuck this up for me, he wants to type. If you don’t respect me, at least respect her. 

Please, just let me have this. 

By the time you duck through the library doors, free from your volunteer shift, Copia’s phone is buzzing with Terzo’s impassioned rebuttals that he would never consider putting together a ‘Laying Ritual Pipe So Deep Satan’s Ceiling Starts to Crack’ playlist and REO Speedwagon is definitely not on it. But Copia forgets how to be annoyed the second you brush your hair out of your eyes so you can smile at him. The second he extends his hand, and you skip forward to take it, huffing out a little noise of pleasure when he brings your knuckles to his lips. You fall into step beside him, hugging his arm against your side when he remembers to offer it, telling him about the interesting reference manuals you shelved that day, the amusing conversations you overheard. 

It's everything he dreamed. It’s all he ever wanted. Someone to hold in his arms as he sleeps, and a sweet face to wake up to. A kiss to pay for a guilty sip of coffee stolen from his mug, and thumbs wiping her lipstick off his mustache and lower lip before he goes to work. Quiet conversation on his lunchbreak, and the ability to glance into another person’s eyes and know you’ve shared moments no one else will ever hear about, that you plan to share more. 

Please, Lucifer, let him have this. 

Unfortunately, he can’t spend the entirety of his lunchbreak mooning over you. And when he opens the cathedral doors and ushers you in from the cold, your good mood begins to fade. Folding your arms across the front of your new black princess coat, you wander ahead of him through the narthex, your heels sounding on the flame-colored mosaic tiles. “You said it’s… underground?” 

“Here, let me show you.” Reaching for your hand again, Copia guides you through the nave and off into a side chapel. A brass cage bars access to the door on the far side, but both portals swing open once he produces a skeleton key from his pocket. He makes sure the doors are locked from the inside before leading you down a flight of stone steps, into the first of many subterranean passages that hold darker altars, where the rituals are private and imbued with deeper meaning. 

Thankfully, the main altar room isn’t too far away. Copia pauses at one of the offering pyres, lighting two candles before passing one to you. Your expression is serious, but remarkably calm; if he wasn’t smitten with you beforehand, he’d probably choke on his own tongue. 

“Over here.” A few yards to the right, another small tunnel branches off. The third door on the left also gives beneath his key, and Copia steps through first so you can see that nothing nefarious awaits within. It’s just an octagonal room with a low ceiling, the stone walls adorned with bas-reliefs of rising flames. Benches are carved directly into the walls, and in the center is the altar—low and wide, of gold-flecked terracotta granite. 

“There are going to be people all around?” You eye the continuous bench, your forehead wrinkling. “It’s… smaller than I expected.” 

“Unfortunately.” Copia sets his candle down on one of the altar corners, and you follow suit. “That’s why, ah… I’m not sure the traditional way will work?” 

“No, it…” Clearing your mind with a breath, you sit on the edge of the altar and lie back, turning your head as an experiment. “Even if I stare at the ceiling, I can see the benches out of the corners of my eyes.” 

“It’ll be brighter then, too.” Grateful for the modesty afforded by his own winter coat, Copia steps closer to your shins, where they hang off the end of the altar. Leaning over your body, he quirks his mouth. “Hello.” 

“Hey,” you chuckle, your eyes warming in spite of your spreading blush. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a hole-in-the-wall like this?” 

Unmaker preserve him, if he falls any deeper in love he’s going to hit bedrock. “Hoping to…” Summoning his courage, Copia slips his hands under your lower back and directs you to rise up. “Maybe… have you this way?” 

It takes you a moment to figure out what he means. Biting your lip, you curl your arms around his neck. “S-sitting up?” 

“I could…” Copia lowers his hands to your knees, warm and silken beneath your skirt. “Here, amuleto… spread your legs for me.” 

The way your breath hitches turns his half-hard cock into a true problem, but you do as he asks. Once your legs are parted, he can step between them, the toes of his shoes nearly touching the base of the altar. 

“If I stand, and you…” He repositions his hands again, at your waist this time, gently urging you to scoot forward until the bulk of your coat is pressed against his. In this position you have to look up at his face, and he almost groans at the sight—fuck, it’s a pretty angle. “There. I could… take you like this. We keep our faces close together…” 

He leans down to demonstrate what he means, brushing his forehead across yours. You nuzzle your nose against his cheek, your fingers digging into his coat collar as you breathe, “That… could work.” 

“And you just have to keep your eyes on me, you know?” Your eyes find his then, wide and velvet in the dark. “You’ll… tonight, if you want, I’ll start… showing you. You’ll know me.” 

“Yes.” There’s a soft hunger in the sound, in the kiss you press against his lips. “I do want.” 

“Me?” He can no longer hold back the surge of doubt. Your cheeks are the color of sin, and your hair smells like roses from your shampoo; you’re clinging onto him in the room where he might put his child inside you. None of this should be real. “Are you… are you sure you want to do this with me?” 

“Do you think you aren’t handsome?” You kiss the corner of his mouth, your fingers abandoning his coat for his hair. This time he lets himself moan, hears the way the hard acoustic space magnifies the sound. “Do you think I couldn’t… want you?” 

“I’m old, cara.” He should make the argument while you still have time to walk away. Even if it destroys him, even if it leaves him a shell of a man. “Old, and weird, and not at all what a young woman probably—” 

“You’re so handsome that I look at you, and every unholy inch of me goes hot.” Stunned, Copia clamps his mouth shut, watching as the lingering shyness on your face gives way to a sweet ferocity. “Even… even before I applied. When you would walk me to the library, when we would run into each other in the halls… Lucifer, don’t you know how the light treats you? And the shadows? Either you’re on fire or you’re glowing, there’s no in-between, you are… you are some kind of magic to look at. I can never look at you enough.” 

Copia can’t hear anymore. He can’t hear anymore, and so he has no option but to seize control of your lips, subdue them, coax them apart so he can lick deep, so he can taste you again. There is a discourse to the way you kiss him, it’s a negotiation and an argument and a game of submission—you never give in at the start. You make him work for it, and Lucifer, he wonders what else you’re going to make him work for. 

He will do it. He will work out his dark salvation through the gift of your body, if that’s what you want him to do. 

“When we’re here,” he growls against your lips, pulling back to give you the chance to fight for air. “When we’re here for real… do you want me to get it over with quick? Or make you come?” 

He can feel the way you shiver when you hear his voice drop. Your fingers are still wound tight in his hair, and you deliberate for a moment before deciding, “I don’t want everyone to think you’re selfish. Make me come… let them see how good you treat me.” 

Dropping to his knees on the stone floor, Copia presses a kiss to your stockinged calf. “You would give me that gift?” 

“Satanas.” Your eyes are blown black in the candlelight. This time, he doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. “You… you look good down there, too…” 

“Lo giuro su Lucifero, cadrò in ginocchio ogni volta che mi guarderai,” he groans, yanking his gloves off and tossing them to the floor before cupping his hands around your knees. “Fuck, I can smell you, my sweetest thing…” 

“Can we do this here?” Your eyes dart toward the candles on either side. “Is this okay?” 

“I will do this wherever you let me, whenever you let me,” Copia swears, sliding his hands up the sides of your thighs, the soft skirt of your dress gathering around his wrists and coming along for the ride. It’s his new favorite, the dark teal one with little gold flowers. His lips trail up your left knee, up the inside of your quivering thigh, until the texture beneath them changes and he realizes that your stockings are just that—actual thigh-highs. There’s a tender band of bare flesh between the welt and the black lace of your panties, and suddenly it’s the only thing in the Tyrant’s fallen world he cares about, he could not stop nipping and suckling on that perfumed tract of skin if his parents were watching. 

“O-oh…” For some reason, this fractured sound inflames his imagination more than hundred dirty promises ever could. Tugging on his hair, you try to guide him toward your core. “Please… you have no idea how bad I’ve wanted you…” 

“Do you think you're alone in wanting?” Gripping your hips in his hands, Copia scoots you even closer to the edge of the altar. “You think I haven’t spilled over my own fist thinking of you, amuleto?” 

Your fitful little whine tells him how much you like that idea. For that reason alone, he cuts to the chase, flattening his tongue over the seamed gusset of your panties. You’re already soaked, your taste explodes in his mouth and burns itself into his brain and he knows that his answer is animal, he can feel how the noise empties his lungs even if own ears remain deaf to it. Your clit jumps beneath his tongue, and he hooks his finger around the ruined material to pull it aside, anxious to feel you in full, to draw your clit between his lips as you close your thighs around his head. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, your hips instinctively trying to rut even though you’re in a poor position for it. “Copia, oh fuck…” 

“You’re so wet,” he groans, nudging your thighs apart so his hand has room to work. He doesn’t even bother to suck on his own fingers; he can gather your slick from the crease of your thigh before he parts your folds, tracing out the shape of you. “Are you always this needy?” 

“I d-don’t know.” He risks a glance up at you, and finds himself unable to look away. Your hair frames your angel face, your eyes are bright with longing. “I only ever… with some boys at the county fair, in their trucks, they didn’t make me…” 

If you gave him the names of these boys, he would hunt them down and make them answer for their crimes. Tracing his thumb along the underside of your clit, Copia rasps, “Am I… the first person to do this, then?” 

Your head tips back, plush lips rounding as you sigh toward the ceiling. “Yes… oh, right there…” 

With this sacred information burning like a fire in his chest, Copia commits himself to righting this unimaginable wrong. Lowering his head, he recreates the motion of his thumb with his tongue, not fighting when you twist his hair in your fists, when you try to mash his mouth against that spot. Instead, he uses your pleasure as a distraction, teasing his middle fingertip against your opening before slipping inside. A second later he lets his index finger join, as he learns just how willing you are, just how much you do want him. 

“You’re so open,” he pants against your pubic mound, raining kisses over your fragrant curls, over the flushed lips of your sex as you screw yourself onto his fingers with a throaty cry. “So soft, it’s like you were built to take my cock…” 

“Copia, please!” He can hear your growing desperation, and he answers it, latching his mouth onto your cunt with an appeasing rumble. The noise itself chases a harsh squeak out of you, and you untangle your left hand from his hair, planting it on the edge of the altar for leverage as you buck up against his face. Your heat ripples over his fingers as he strokes them in and out, as he urges your clitoral hood back with the tip of his tongue and draws it into a serpentine dance. Just as he crooks his fingers forward, you hunch over him, the noise you make dark and obscene and broken. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t dare stop, not while you’re fucking yourself against his tongue like such a good girl. 

“N-need you,” you grind out as you shudder against him, as you flood his mouth with so much sweet nectar that he has to drink it or drown. “Need you all the time, so handsome, so good, oh fuck I need to feel you come inside me…” 

Copia knew he was taking the rest of the day off ten blessed minutes ago, but this vision is enough to turn him a little rough, to inspire him to replace his tongue with his thumb so he’s free to pinch one of your outer labia softly between his teeth. Your sharp gasp coils at the base of his spine, and he finally allows himself to acknowledge how hard his dick is throbbing, how lightheaded he feels. “Do you know what it feels like to be full of a man’s come, amuleto? Or will that be a first you grant to me, as well?” 

“No,” you whine, riding out the last of your orgasm, flattening your left hand on the altar as you arch back. “Only… know I want it. Holy shit, it’s too m-much…” 

Burying his fingers deep, Copia kisses your overstimulated clit one more time, simply for the pleasure of hearing you hiss through your teeth. He keeps going, painting a path of kisses across your hip, back to your trembling thigh, only just noticing the sooty smudges of his lipstick, the soft red bites that will heal into loving bruises. Once he reaches your knee he glances up at you, shyness kindling in his brain again… until you lean down and capture his lips, uncaring that they’re still dewed with you, that his mustache now smells of your perfume, that his makeup is a wreck. 

“I never knew… it was like that with another person,” you admit, following his lips as he gets his shaky legs back under him. Your hands are warm on his neck, your kisses swift little benedictions offered between words. “That was…” 

“Just the first moment,” he assures you, licking off his fingers before he buries both hands in your hair. Your thighs twitch closed, knees hugging his as he brushes his lips over your chin. “I want… can we go back to the apartment? Just spend the day together?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, still half-dazed, your eyes full of something he dares not name. Recovering a little, your mouth flickers into a smile. “But… we can’t do that during the ritual. Because there’s nothing in front of me, and whoever is behind you…” 

Copia’s quiet laughter sounds bolder in the stone room, even to him. “That will probably be V.” 

Confused, you wonder, “Is there… please tell me there’s not assigned seating?” 

“No, just… brotherly hazing.” Your look of weary understanding shouldn’t amuse him so much. “He’s the new guy, they’ll try weaponizing my ass to make him suffer.” 

“So brothers are always brothers. Even in the Clergy.” Copia nods, and you roll your eyes before kissing him again. “Well, all the more incentive for me to see it first, I guess.” 

Chapter Text

You’ve only just managed to wrestle your coat off, to hurl it in the vague direction of the hall closet when Copia catches your hand and twirls you about to face him. The motion is surprisingly graceful, his compact strength serving him well as he snakes his arm around your waist and draws you close.  

“I changed my mind,” he murmurs, lips hot against your ear. “I’m not done yet.” 

He has you laid out on the fussy show sofa, skirt bunched under your breasts and knees hooked over his shoulders before you can even piece together what’s happening. He fills you with his tongue the instant he gets your underwear tucked aside, using the tip to map out your swollen folds, grinding the muscular flat of it against your clit until you’re a writhing, heaving mess atop the tapestry blankets. By the time you’re thrusting your hips against his open mouth, tortured on every side by the tickle of his hair and his mustache and his sideburns, he has three fingers buried deep in your heat. His index finger migrates forward, the soft pad of his fingertip caressing your front wall with little rolling motions until you utter the most profane sound you’ve ever heard another human make, until your skin is so flushed with sweat that you feel cold, until you’re not sure whether to beg him to keep going or beg him to stop. 

“That’s it, my perfect girl,” he sighs as you fist the blankets and lift your hips clear off the couch, orgasm so abrupt and brutal that it leaves you disoriented, leaves you feeling like the ground beneath the sofa has just given way. He suckles you through it, using his tongue to catch your clit and ease it between his lips like it’s some precious honeyed fruit, savoring your pulsing flesh as sensation rushes back to you, as the fire scorches away everything but him. When he finally relents to your shuddering gasps of submission, when he kisses his way up to your belly, his satisfied rumble is enough to make you clench around his fingers again. 

“That’s what I wanted to see,” Copia stresses, lapping up the beads of sweat gathered in the soft valley leading to your navel. “Be good and come that hard for me every time, or I’ll be forced to keep going until you do… vuoi essere una brava ragazza, non è vero?” 

You can’t answer or ask for a translation. Your own voice doesn’t exist anymore. Nothing else exists anymore—only him, and his magical tongue, and those eyes like the two halves of an eclipse. Now searching your face as if he wants to divine your secrets, as if he’s waiting for you to own up to the tangle of emotions you’re struggling to keep contained with every lung-bruising beat of your heart, with every sharp aftershock of pleasure that contorts your body against his. 

In another, happier world, you would hand him your heart and beg him to keep it safe for you. But that isn’t what you’ve come into his life to do. 

You’re here to hand him a baby. Nothing more, nothing less. 

As you let this thought ground you, starved for oxygen and feeling like you’re gulping in nothing but smoke, Copia lowers his head to trail lazy kisses along the exposed portion of your right thigh. He moves with care, allowing a few kisses to transform into gentle bites, leaving bruises there to make you a matching set on either side. Once your mewling breaths let him know you’re capable of sonic expression again, he cradles your thigh against his cheek and smiles up at you—a smile that is terrifying in its innocence, now that you know what his mouth is capable of doing. “I like these stockings, cara mia. Are they for me?” 

“N-no.” You should lean into this question, come up with something seductive to say… but you’re pretty sure the synapses in your brain currently resemble a strand of half-lit Christmas lights. You might not be the same person anymore. “They’re just… the most economical option. If one snags, I can swap out another…” 

Copia’s smile turns fond as he reaches up to catch hold of your panties and stretch the waistband over your hips. “Well, I like them because they improve accessibility. I think they stay on right now, hmm?” 

“Anything you want.” You would officially give this man everything you own, including your immortal soul. “Whatever you want, I’ll buy every color…” 

“And here you worried about me spoiling you.” Rising to his knees, Copia closes your legs and tucks them against his side so he can draw your underwear toward your ankles. “You are too good to me, my beautiful little poet. I promise… from now on, I’ll tell you exactly how I feel.” 

“Yeah?” you breathe, fully aware of how pathetic you sound. 

“Infatti.” Copia leans down to kiss your knees after your underwear passes over them, first the left and then the right. “I’ll use my tongue the way I should have from the start.” 

Holy shit, where was this version of him hiding? He’s still got his winter coat dangling off his body by one sleeve, his makeup is a travesty, his mustache is sleek with your come. Down in the altar room he looked up at you from the level of your knee while you fought to recover, his eyes radiating warmth and pride and just a hint of diffidence, as if he was secretly anxious for your praise, anxious to learn whether he’d done well. Even now you catch him glimpsing at you out of the corner of his eye, monitoring you like he always does, ever sensitive to your moods—as if you could possibly be displeased with him. 

As if he doesn’t know that he has a goddamn Doctorate of Theology in the female orgasm.  

“I have an idea,” you offer, pushing yourself upright as soon as Copia finishes disentangling your panties from the heel of your shoe.  

“Sì, amuleto?” Copia shakes off his coat sleeve and tucks your panties into the pocket of his vest. You’re not sure if you should expect to get them back. “What’s that?” 

“We wash our faces. We drink some water.” You catch his chains, using them to pull his face closer to yours. He reaches out to brace himself, one hand by your hip, the other on the hard painted back of the sofa. “And then I take your cock in my mouth, or as much of you as will fit inside, we turn this couch into a crime scene… and then we throw it out, and we get one of those big comfy numbers with built-in recliners.” 

Copia’s pupils almost consume his irises. “Can it have cupholders?” 

“Heated massage,” you promise, brushing a kiss across his forehead as he utters a deep, throaty sound of longing. “Because so far today I’ve been eaten out on a stone and on a creaky old museum piece, and as nice as it’s been, that’s not gonna work long-term.” 

“Then I see your excellent idea, and raise you an even better one.” With that, Copia stands and sweeps you into his arms, letting himself grin in response to your playful laughter. “We put this stuffy thing out in the hall so we can think of today every time we see it… and I take you to my bed.” 

“Promise you’ll pass those brains along to our kids, sweetheart?” And the way he looks at you then, the way his pale eye glints in the muted winter sunlight filtering through the kitchen windows… 

…you know you’re never calling him anything else. 

Levity gives way to lust. Copia crashes his shoulders into the door of the bathroom, he’s so caught up in kissing you, and your moan transforms into a shaky laugh as you reach out to grab the doorframe in an effort to stabilize him. He sets you down with a gruff sigh of reluctance, and you can almost hear a timer begin ticking inside his skull. There’s a bottle of micellar water in the cabinet, and he manages to remain more-or-less patient as you wipe away his makeup, the evidence of the miracles his tongue performed. But when you see him without the paint around his eyes, just enough lingering in his lashes to darken them, to draw attention to their enviable length… something in your gut twists, and your hand falters to a stop. 

“I’ve never looked at another man and felt the things I feel when I look at you.” Copia opens his mouth, clearly prepared to question your sanity, and you silence him with a heated kiss. Your heels are still on, and for the moment you’re the same height. “If you’re fixing to disparage yourself again, then no. I won’t listen.” 

“Lucifer, it’s only…” In the unforgiving light of bathroom, devoid of makeup and with nothing to prove, he really is just a man. One full of self-doubt and desire, so dangerously close to possessing every part of you. “Will you keep… trying to remind me?” 

“Yes,” you promise, breathing deep in an effort to cool your eyes. “I’ll tell you every day.” 

Copia takes the cloth and the bottle from you, sloshing cleanser onto a clean corner so he can wipe your face in turn. Shutting your eyes, you let him soak up your tears before he can see them. “When I call you beautiful, I hope you know it isn’t… it isn’t just a line. I knew you were beautiful before I ever saw you.” 

You should back away from this, but you can’t help but whisper, “Really?” 

“The most beautiful thing I could name.” You hear the bottle being set down on the sink, and open your eyes to find Copia studying your face like he’s uncertain what he’ll find there. “And when I heard your name, when… when I realized that the pretty novitiate I was already dumbstruck by was you? I had to admit that… maybe the Tyrant got one thing right.” 

And still, he let you alone. He barely even spoke to you, not until you showed up in his office that night. “I wish you would’ve said something then.” 

There’s so much raw affection glowing in Copia’s eyes that you can almost feel it tingling across your skin. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Stepping closer, you slip your arms around his neck. “I would’ve been here much sooner.” 

Lust gives way to love—or at least, something so heartrendingly close that you have to shut your mind against it. There’s no discussion to be had when your lips meet this time, just instant accord, instant acceptance. Copia hefts you into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you across the hall to his bedroom. It’s set up much like yours, with heavy furniture and linens in shades of slate blue and gold. But unlike your room, his has a fireplace, and he detours a few steps to reach it, groping for the switch on the mantelpiece as you duck back for breath. 

“Going for ritual ambiance?” As you speak, you use your toes to pull off your shoes. “Or just setting the mood?” 

“Neither.” Copia flips the switch, returning his hand to your leg as gas flames begin to dance behind the glass insert. “I want to keep that handsome thing going, this is much kinder lighting.” 

“My handsome, brilliant sweetheart,” you purr, aiming your next kiss at the little spot between his sideburn and the fall of his hair. Copia’s breath catches in his throat, his fingers tightening reflexively into the meat of your thighs. “Oh… sir, I think you like compliments.” 

“I do.” Copia’s laughter is full of disbelief, his eyelids crinkled with amusement as he moves to deposit you on the edge of the bed. “But stop distracting me, this is very serious business.” 

“It feels pretty serious,” you agree, letting your palm caress his obvious bulge once you’re seated right in front of it. He’s not fully erect, and yet he is still a force to contend with. 

“Ragazza cattiva.” Copia props his knee on the mattress, and you let yourself fall back as he crawls over you. His cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are still dancing. “Naughty girl. This is how it’s going to be, eh? I worship between your legs, and now you think you’re in charge?” 

“How are you the same man who used to stammer when you said my name?” Copia leans down to press a kiss under your ear, mimicking your last offering, and you tip your chin up with a sigh. “And by used to, I mean this morning?” 

“And how are you the same woman who begged me not to get her a fancy phone?” As he speaks, Copia lets his hands drift to the buttons on your bodice. His lips follow the curve of your neck, kisses so gentle that they leave your eyes misty. “Pulling my hair like I’m a dog on a leash, demanding I service her on an altar consecrated to the Dark Lord?” 

“Fair point,” you reply, watching as Copia pops open the row of bridal-style buttons. “Are you sure it won’t mess things up if… if I’m already pregnant when we go back there?” 

Copia’s hands jerk to a stop. He takes a moment to marshal his wits, but it’s evident that this idea has stirred the silt of his brain, clouding it again with his shyness. “I could… I could come on you instead. It wouldn’t eliminate the risk entirely, but…” 

Planting your elbows against the mattress, you roll up at the waist so you can kiss him. “If it won’t mess things up for the ritual… I meant what I said. I want to feel you so deep inside me, honey, all of you…” 

From the way Copia reacts to simple endearments, you wonder how long he’s lived without them. The next thing you know, your lower lip is caught between his teeth and his clever fingers are justifying the expense of your new lingerie, pinching your stiff nipples through the black lace until electricity jolts up your spine. Meanwhile, you’ve given up on trying to get his chains unpinned and are searching in vain for his pants zipper, because you can probably figure that part out. 

“Satan be praised,” he gasps, tearing himself away from you, sitting on his knees so he can unfasten his jacket. “You are a fucking gift…” 

“Less talk,” you whine, finally managing to get his trousers undone as he yanks his jacket and waistcoat off and tosses both garments toward the floor. Copia frees himself from his suspenders, allowing you to push his waistband down to the top of his hips. He’s already standing proud through the fly of his burgundy silk boxers, he’s uncut and weeping and every bit as intimidating as you feared. But your reservations melt away a moment later, as Copia bends down to kiss you so deeply that you can taste the sweet musk of your own orgasms, and you accept that he has you. 

He curls his hands around your waist, sliding you toward the center of the bed before you can reach for him. Locating the hem of your dress, he whisks it over your head, leaving you in just your stockings and bra. He doesn’t bother to undo the clasp at first, squeezing his thumbs between the wires and the undersides of your breasts, forcing the garment up toward your collarbone as his lips descend. He doesn’t just suck your right nipple into his mouth, he takes as much of your breast as he can get, his tongue painting your puckering flesh with fire as you keen beneath him. 

“Oh!” Raking your fingers through his hair again, you arch your back, gasping when your belly encounters the wet heat of his erection. “Oh Copia, that’s g-good, that’s…” 

Copia lets your abused nipple pop from between his lips, kissing his way over to the left one. “When I saw your name on that application, I should’ve marched down to the dormitories and carried you right back to this bed…” 

You’re going to pass out. Your heart has never beat this fast, your skin has never felt so much like a living organ that shivers and breathes and twitches in response to stimuli. “Satanas, I would’ve come with you. You could’ve burst in and just looked at me, and I would’ve followed you anywhere…” 

Copia has his tongue curled around your left nipple, hot and wet and so achingly good—but when he hears this, his self-control frays to nothing. After reaching up to pull his clerical collar out, he loosens the top button of his shirt before tearing it and his undershirt over his head. And his build is slender, but there’s a softness that age won’t let him escape anymore, a warmth that yields when you flatten your hands on his chest in an effort to keep him upright. Breathing hard, he gives you a moment to explore—to trace the shape of his shoulders with your fingertips, to map out the contours of his pectorals beneath their carpet of curls. He’s so hairy that the sight makes you giddy, strands of silver mixed in with the same dark brown that peppers his forearms, chest hair narrowing into a delightful trail that fans out again once it emerges from his navel and travels down to the base of his cock. 

“You have a tattoo.” Copia chuckles at your reaction, and you don’t blame him, because you can hear the excitement building in your voice as you brush your fingers across the Mark of the Beast. “Where did you get it?” 

“Storytime later.” Even as he scolds you, you can see sheer joy reflected in his expression. “There are more pressing issues at hand, non ci sono?” 

“You’re perfect.” If you ever had a way with words, you lost it back on the couch. You’re reduced to platitudes, clichés, but you mean them with every spark of corrupted, divine humanity burning inside you. You should probably be touching his cock, but you’re too enthralled by his torso; when you hunch up at the waist, it’s so you can trail your mouth along the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, savoring the way his moan vibrates beneath your questing fingers. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, so strong and sweet, this is all I’m going to think about now…” 

“Do you mean it?” Wresting back control, Copia takes advantage of your position to unhook your bra before sliding it down your arms. You let your hands fall away from his chest, looking to aid him—but in doing so, you stumble right into his trap. He cinches the shoulder straps around your wrists once he gets them there, using your own bra to bind your hands together and pin them overhead as he urges you to lie back. His green eye is lost in shadow with the firelight located behind him, his pale eye focused on your face. “Will you think of me like this?” 

“I already do.” Your voice disappears into the shadows, too. “But now, when I want you, when I’m here at home or in the library dreaming of you… I’ll know exactly what I’m missing.” 

With a deep groan, Copia leaves one hand in place to manage the makeshift binding and grips his fingers into the fat of your left thigh, hiking it over his hip. His heavy cock comes to rest against your core, and you buck up, your clit pulsing like it already recognizes its master. “Fuck, look at that, amuleto... look how pretty you are when you’re ready to take me.” 

Obeying, you glance down the line of your body, tongue nearly extruding itself through your teeth when you register how big he looks in comparison to you. Releasing your leg, Copia takes himself in hand, stroking his foreskin back with a sigh of relief. He’s dripping with his own arousal, pearly liquid smearing across your skin as he ruts forward, letting you feel how hot he is, how needy. 

“Let me go?” To drive the point home, you wriggle your wrists within the lacy confines of your bra. “I’ll get your pants off…” 

“Not important,” Copia argues, even as he releases you. You toss the bra across the bed, anxious to get your hands back on him, to dig your nails into his shoulders as he leans closer. Folding his left hand beneath your neck, he rests his weight on that arm—and as you lift your knees, you can feel him guiding himself, feel when the fat, slick head of his cock notches against your slit. “Satan almighty, how are you constantly this wet…” 

“Please…” You’re no longer above begging. Lowering your hands to his hips, you push his trousers down enough to get purchase on his skin, learning what the strong curve of his ass feels like in your palms. “Fuck, just go slow…” 

“Here, I’ll…” With a growl of frustration, Copia capitulates to your wisdom, taking his arm back so he can shuck the rest of his clothes off. His pubic hair is thick but close-trimmed, his legs dusted with even more whorls of soft brown. By the time he slips his hand beneath your neck again, you’re already determined to get him on his back, to memorize his musculature with the apple of your cheek, to kiss every sacred inch of him. But for now, he kisses you, coaxing your tongue into his mouth as a distraction while his cock slots back into place. 

When he begins to push inside, the stars that spiral behind your eyelids are bright enough to blind you. 

You know you shout something. You have absolutely no idea what that something could be. It’s certainly not a refusal or a cry of pain; the fact that your thighs fall open without you bidding them to, the blushing red trails your nails carve across Copia’s back are a testament to how badly you want him. But he’s so thick that he can’t just slide home. He has to support the weight of his cock with his hand at first, ease his way past the tight outer ring of your cunt, time his thrusts just right so that when his thumb brushes your well-loved clit, you pull him a little closer to his goal. 

“Fucking Hell,” he groans, eyes locked on the sight. Watching as your greedy body claims him millimeter by millimeter, as you toss your head back and pant for air. “Look at you… is this okay?” 

“Ye-es-oh-sweet-Father-in-H-Hell!” As much as he’s stretching you, it doesn’t hurt. There’s the sweetest burn, the sense of being pushed to your absolute limit, but there is no pain. Copia lifts his eyes to yours, looking to interpret your frenzied, ridiculous vocalizations, and he must see the hunger burning there—because his thumb finds a new pattern, sliding from the very tip of your clit down to the place where his cock breaches your flesh, and then back up again. The noise you make is something between a prayer and a curse, the sensation enough to make your heels scrabble against the wrinkled coverlet.  

“There you go, sweet one.” Copia stops rolling his hips, allowing you to focus on his touch—on the way he varies the pressure, rubbing the root of your clit in lung-stopping circles before stroking firmly over your taut inner lips. “Just let me in…” 

The tricks he’s performing with his fingers are more arousing than anything you’ve experienced, and yet more comforting than you could ever explain. As pleasure simmers in your veins, you let yourself take refuge inside it—like shutting your eyes and dipping your head beneath the surface of a warm bath, letting the world around you go lazy and silent.  

It’s just the extra little bit of relaxation you need, and when your cunt ripples and softens, you realize that was his plan all along.  

Copia adjusts the cant of his hips with his next thrust, and a few inches sink in all at once. You lunge forward, wide-eyed and gasping; Copia meets you there, kissing you until you can’t think about anything except keeping him close, until your arms are latched around his neck and you can feel his sweaty hair clinging to your brow. 

“So good,” he whispers, voice smooth as new leather despite the strain he’s under. He draws out a little, you wail at the soft caress of his head against your walls… and then he conquers new ground with the next thrust, replacing everything in your brain with roaring white noise. “So good for me. So good to me. I owe you so much, amuleto, you have no idea…” 

“Copia, please.” You never knew you could sound this submissive. You were reared on the Unholy Truth, raised to carry your head held high, to fend for yourself in a garden left to rot. But this man now owns a part of you that you’ll never get back, and with every word he says you can feel your resolve crumbling, the floor of your emotions giving way. “I n-need it all, just…” 

“Shh, cara.” In marked contrast, Copia sounds so calm. He’s cloaked himself in quiet again, even as his hips move against yours, controlled and powerful. “You never have to beg me for what’s yours by right. You’re going to be so round with my baby, and I’m going to love you the whole way through it…” 

The last remaining thread of your sanity snaps as he makes this promise. Curling your legs around his waist, you undulate your hips in a desperate bid to draw him deeper—and the rough, commingled noise of pleasure you make when it works will haunt you for the rest of your life. You’ll never listen to his psalms without hearing it echo in your head, you’ll never look at a picture of him without smelling his skin, without imagining him tense and prone above you. 

“You don’t have to worry about taking it all right now.” Copia’s lips linger atop yours, even as he continues to work your cunt open with slow, careful thrusts. “We have all w-week. Every moment you let me, I’ll be right here… and when we go back to the altar, I’ll slip right inside…” 

“Oh fuck.” Your brain does the situational math, sends your imagination reeling in a new and intoxicating direction. “They’re gonna… they’re gonna see that you fit. They’ll know I already belong to you…” 

And this is the turning point. The moment where everything changes, where the air grows thin and stale and hot, where it may be day or night outside but your current orientation in time and space no longer matters, you no longer care. With just a few simple words, you’ve managed to unlock something deep and wild inside Copia—an instinct more primal than having you, than even impregnating you. You see his pale eye blaze with unholy light, there’s no other explanation for it, but you don’t have long to marvel at the effect before he hooks his chin over your shoulder, his voice shaky and sinful in your ear. 

“They will.” Copia’s slick fingers clamp into your hip, he pulls you onto his cock, and you abrade your own throat with the way you cry out for him. “They’ll know you’re my girl, sweetest thing in the whole Ministry, that you’re mine and no one else’s…” 

“N-no one else’s.” Oh Lucifer, you thought the talk of getting pregnant made your blood sing—but it’s nothing compared to this. The taboo, forbidden, utterly insane idea that you’re actually his, that he’d want to keep you for his own. “Copia, I’m no one else’s, I swear it. You’re my man, the only m-man I want…” 

Copia draws back enough to look at you, his hips moving with more ease, with more confidence that you’ll stay open for him. The tension that’s ebbed and flowed this entire time now starts to build, tight in your thighs, in your belly, your breath catching each time his thick head angles in just the right way to caress the front wall of your cunt. “Tell me again, tell me I’m yours…” 

“You’re mine!” There are tears in your eyes, and you don’t know whether they’re from remorse or pleasure. You only know you need to clutch him closer, pull him deeper, taste the salt burn of his sweat on your tongue and bask in the intensity of his gaze for as long as you can. “You belong to me, you’re all I want, if anyone hurts you or tries to take you from me, I will send them to the Pit…” 

Copia returns his hand to your clit, rubbing it in clumsy, frantic circles as he starts grinding into you, as he seats himself as deep as he can go with each thrust. “Cazzo, mia preziosa ragazza, vorrei che lo pensassi davvero…” 

And then, he’s in. You feel his head ease into a little secret place inside of you, his hips are flush against yours and he’s swearing, he’s pleading, he’s so close and you fall over the edge with him, sobbing out in your madness, “Please, sweetheart, please put your baby in me…” 

He throbs. He’s so fat that you can feel every kick, every burst of his come as it fills you, the way it burns and soothes and spins your pleasure higher all at once. Copia bears down on you with the whole of his weight, and you take it, tightening your arms around his neck as his voice breaks against your ear, as he tells you how perfect you are, how he needs you, how you’re his. 

Dark Lord, you’d do almost anything to make this real. You’d sign a thousand pieces of parchment, let them paint the chapel red with your blood if that’s all it would take to carve out a moment in time where you knew this was real. 

When you trust yourself to open your eyes, you’re still pulling in rattling, almost painful breaths. You’re on your side, forehead pressed to his chest again, his skin damp and warm beneath your hands. His cock is soft between your thighs, but still big enough to remain partially inside you; your thighs are sticky with his cooling spend. 

And he’s kissing you. All over your bent head, left hand still curled around the back of your neck, his lips trembling. You dare to look up at him, and both of his eyes are so bright that you can see them in the dark. 

The enormity of the things you said hits you like a blast of buckshot. “Copia, I—” 

He silences you before you can apologize, cinching you even tighter against his body as he devours your mouth, until you’re forced to lift your knee and lock your ankle behind his thigh. He kisses you like he’s going off to war, like he’s never going to see you again, and your nose burns as you realize that he’s right. You’re never going to have this moment again, you can’t. 

You can’t come back to this place, or it’s going to destroy you. 

“You were so good for me,” he groans, once he lets you up for air. It’s a platitude. A cliché. It’s safe, and you tell yourself you don’t care if he means it. “Lucifer, I can’t believe you took it all.” 

He’s not going to talk about it. He’s a wiser man than that. And even now, you can feel your pussy spasm around his sensitive cock in response to his praise, hear the way the motion makes him hiss. “You w-were…” 

“Tell me later, dolcezza.” Returning his lips to your hair, Copia holds you close. “Just… just stay here with me, right now. Just be here with me.” 

Shutting your eyes, you let yourself collapse against him. Against the priest of all dark priests, the potential father of your children, the most skilled and conscientious lover you could ever dream of taking to your bed. A man who should make you feel cherished, a man who should make you feel safe—and yet, that safety now comes at a price. 

Because at some point, you’re going to have to give it all up. 

Chapter Text

Copia has three different sets of wires tangled in his hands by the time he accepts defeat. “I don’t think this is a TV, amuleto. I think it’s some kind of digital photo frame?”

“No, it’s a TV!” The Georgian sofa still has pride of place in the living room, and the way you’re sitting on it—fresh-faced, fresh-fucked, cradling an oversized bowl of popcorn between your knees—is enough to suck the air out of Copia’s lungs. “It’s just made up to look like a painting. I’ve seen this on the renovation shows the Siblings always leave running in the common room, it’s a whole thing…”

“Then how do we turn it on?” Mere weeks ago, Copia would’ve thrown in the towel when faced with this unexpected technological challenge. Now, he cranes his head so he can frown at the row of input jacks hidden behind the television’s faux gilt frame, determined to solve the puzzle. He’s never dealt with a flatscreen before, much less one mounted inconveniently on the wall. “Come on, Signorina Born-This-Century. Help your decrepit lover out.”

“Copia, my family’s old cabinet TV doubles as the kids’ table at Yuletide.” Still, he can hear you smile as you set the ceramic bowl on the coffee table and reach for the remote control. “It doesn’t even have a remote. I’m pretty sure the reason I have so many sisters is because my parents constantly needed a three-year-old who wouldn’t question ‘em, just get up and change the channel when told.”

“The remote doesn’t work.” Copia mutters to himself, mentally working his way down the troubleshooting checklist. “There’s no button on the damn thing…”

Behind him, he can hear you fiddling with something. A sound like plastic parts clicking together. “Copia…”

“It doesn’t…” Copia tries waving his hand in front of the infrared sensor again. “It’s not some spooky AI motion-activated thing.”

“Copia?”

“Could it be a breaker?” Copia tries to remember which closet the breaker box is even located in. “Did we blow a—"

“Sweetheart, can you look at me a sec?”

Copia nearly trips over his own slippers in his haste to turn around, forced to confront the fact that he now reacts to this nickname like a stray dog being trained to heel. But if you’re selling crumbs of affection for the low, low price of his self-esteem, then he can only consider that a bargain. Just a few hours ago, you moaned absolutely sinful things into his ear—that he belonged to you, that he was your man, that you would bury anyone who raised a metaphorical hand against him. And all of this, he knows to dismiss as passion play. A sexual game, a mistake that will dominate his bedtime failure reel until the day his soul shuffles off this mortal coil…

…but sweetheart will forever have the power to undo him. Every time that beautiful word leaves your lips, his brain is suddenly full of songs he should’ve written while he had the chance. It’s innocent and earnest and cheesy in a way that appeals to his nostalgic sensibilities, a title he’s happy to claim, one that demands nothing of him save that he exists.

Caught up in his own head, it takes Copia a moment to realize that you’re waggling the remote control in the air, indicating the lack of batteries inside the rear compartment. “I found the problem.”

“Oh,” he remarks, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Your grin is soft. Satanas, you look adorable in your patchwork robe and pajamas, your hair still damp from your shower. “Do you remember where all those cords go?”

“Er…” Copia looks back to the television, to the disconnected cords now dangling out from under it. “No.”

“Unmaker preserve us!” Grabbing the popcorn bowl, you collapse against the sofa cushions and flick a handful of kernels at him, your laughter young and bright. “Why’d you buy a TV you can’t operate?”

“Hey!” Copia shields his eyes with a hand, smirking as a piece of popcorn bounces off his chin. “I’ll have you know that I’m not responsible for anything in this apartment, bellissima. Not the TV, not the sofa…”

Confused, you leave your hand in the popcorn bowl instead of bombarding him again. “What do you mean, you’re not responsible for anything?”

“Esattamente quello.” Opening the drawers of the nearby console, Copia begins hunting for batteries. “Marika designed this space, she picked out everything. I was, ah… not trusted, let’s say.”

“If you’re looking for batteries, they’re in the kitchen.” The fact that you know this, and he doesn’t, only serves to amplify your curiosity. “Do you mean to tell me you didn’t… buy this furniture? Pick out the colors, or anything?”

“No.” Wandering into the kitchen, Copia finds the batteries in the junk drawer. “My last place was pretty… bare-bones. Before I started touring, I spent most of my time in the office. I mean, she’s not wrong, we needed more space to start a family—”

“But it does feel like we live in a dollhouse, sometimes.” Copia glances up to find you watching him, arms folded over the back of the couch and cheeks flushed. “I guess you could consider it… a reward? For all your hard work?”

“A nice idea, but no. This is an apartment fit for an Imperator.” Returning to the couch beside you, Copia busies himself with slotting batteries into the remote. “Which is apparently the only acceptable place to raise… little Imperators.”

Technical difficulties overcome, Copia snaps the cover back on the remote and powers on the TV, eyeing the wires for the cable and media players. Just as he resolves to get up and sort them out, you reach over and gently extricate the remote from his hand. Before he can question this, he finds himself being urged to lie back on the sofa. The stupid thing is so narrow that he has to drop his left foot to the floor, and you settle between his knees as they fall open, your belly cradled within the bow of his hips and your chin propped on his chest.

“You d-don’t want to watch a movie?” Even as he resorts to stammering, he lets his arms loop around your waist. If they don’t belong there, then why do they just fit?

“Why would I waste my time staring at a screen, when I’ve got you right in front of me?” There’s a new kind of warmth in your eyes, and Copia allows himself to entertain a flutter of pride. Lucifer be praised, he can still taste your saline sweetness on the back of his tongue, still hear your throaty pleas echoing off the stone walls of the ritual chamber. If he grows more confident once sex factors into the equation, it seems you grow more demanding—a vision of ideal Satanic womanhood, greedy for pleasure and gloriously unapologetic about it. His cock twitches against the fold of his inner thigh, his imagination feasting on the memory of your silky muscles gripping him tight, relaxing by degrees, learning to take him so fucking deep.

If he were a younger man, he’d still be buried to the hilt in your perfect cunt. As it stands, the fact that he needs more time to recover gives you the opportunity to rest, and he’s determined to see the good in that.

“Is this my hourly reminder, cara?” He prays that it is. Right now, he’s stuffing every compliment you give him into a mental lockbox, squirreling them away for a rainy day. “That I’m not actually some shambling creature from the Pit?”

“Hourly?” Weariness gives way to amusement, even as your right hand creeps underneath the hem of his t-shirt. You rest your palm atop his stomach—tempting, but not teasing—as you adjust yourself in his arms. “Sir, I distinctly remember promising that I’d remind you every day. Not every hour.”

“If you remember anything prior to the moment I bottomed out inside you,” Copia argues, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “then I haven’t done my job, hmm?”

Your laughter is abrupt, embarrassed, even as your eyes sparkle with fond desire. Nestling your cheek atop his heart, you murmur, “That’s not true. You have no idea how hard I’m… trying to remember everything.”

Copia can only interpret this statement along maternal lines. That you want to remember everything leading up to the birth of your child. Scooting down so he can prop his head on one of the bolsters, he asks, “Are you still feeling all right?”

“Mm. Little sore.” You move with him, motions sinuous and lazy. “Like I could fall asleep right here.”

Repositioning his own hand, Copia begins to stroke your hair—still marveling at the fact that he’s permitted to do so. “We should go back to bed, amuleto. It’s more comfortable there.”

“No, I…” Forcing yourself into full consciousness, you trace your thumb along the curve of his rib. “Copia, what do you want?”

“What do you mean?” Copia isn’t surprised to hear his voice emerge soft and low. He’s spent the afternoon lost between your thighs, and yet this moment feels far more intimate. “You want me to pick the movie?”

Your fingers fan apart, nails backcombing through the hair above his navel until he shivers. “No. When we were talking in the observatory, you mentioned wanting things. If you had your way, if you got to choose everything… what kind of life would you want?”

This question feels like a trap, and it takes Copia a moment to identify the reason why. When he was younger, voicing his aspirations aloud was like handing the Clergy a shiny new carrot, knowing full well they’d supply their own sticks. Even now, admitting that he enjoys any part of his life would only serve to weaponize its loss—and, thanks to all the toes his mother stepped on, there are individuals out there who would love to see him humbled.

But in this room, with your weight balanced between his thighs and your fingertips exploring his bare skin, with your mended pajamas and his faded sweatsuit, with the clean aldehyde scent of body wash and fabric softener filling the air… it feels safe enough to talk. He might ultimately hurt himself by obsessing over you, but that isn’t your fault.

You’ve already given him far more than he deserves.

“One where… people stop assuming they know what’s best for me.” As he speaks, Copia continues to trail his fingertips through your hair. “No more Ministry bullshit, no more having to keep my head on a swivel…”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You wouldn’t rush back out on tour?”

“No.” His eyes wander toward the television—which is now displaying a start-up screen that wants him to sign up for an account, an affront to both God and man. “I was… much angrier, when I was younger. Anxious to prove myself. But now, I like to imagine… I have oversight of a little Satanic church, somewhere. Someone to sleep next to, and a passel of kids.”

“How many kids come in a passel?” you ask, stilling your hand, cupping his waist where it bulges over the elastic of his sweatpants.

“Five.” This is a ridiculous exercise, which means he’s free to tell the truth. “At minimum.”

“Five?” If he didn’t know better, he’d think you were delighted by this answer. “That’s an awfully specific number.”

“I grew up without other kids around, you know? I had Terzo to tag after sometimes, but I should’ve had…” Copia knows no logic undergirds this argument, but he makes it anyway. “The more kids there are, the harder it becomes to split everyone up. I would never give my children to other people to raise, never let them think… they were in my way.”

For a moment, you watch him in silence. Eyes bright, but smile dimming. Just as he opens his mouth, prepared to change the subject, you return your hand to the sofa and edge yourself further along his body, until he has no choice but to coil his arms around your hips to hold you in place. Resting your forearms atop his chest, you lean down until your nose is brushing his.

“A peaceful life,” you repeat, as if committing his confession to memory. “Faith. Companionship. Bunch of kids. Recliner sofa. Tube TV?”

“Tube TV,” Copia sighs, rubbing slow circles on your lower back. “I had one… I don’t even know where they put it. The movers shoved all my stuff in boxes, but only my clothes got unpacked. My game consoles are somewhere, the contractors obviously didn’t drill holes for the—”

And at this, he pauses. His eyes dart toward the dislodged wires under the television; yours sharpen in understanding. “You like video games?”

He finds the box stashed in the bathroom closet, of all places. Brown cardboard always feels filthy no matter how clean it is, and when he admits as much, you pick up the box and spirit it back to the living room without another word. Aux cables he knows how to connect, and when you figure out how to switch the input stream, the title music from Super Mario 2 begins plinking out of the speakers to exaggerated shouts of triumph. Laughing, you plop down on the floor and snatch the primary controller from his hands—but the impulse to get some kind of playful revenge dissipates the instant you tug on his sweatpants, inviting him to sit next to you.

It's an awkward setup. The TV too high, the controller cables too short, the floor cold and uncomfortable. But Copia knows he would gladly spend the rest of his sorry life right there, with your head propped against his shoulder and your serious little voice grumbling in good fun each time he grabs a power-up before you can wrangle Toad over to it.

You let him reshape your body to accommodate his own. Begged him to flood you with his seed. His child may be hours or days away from being conceived, at this point—the fulfillment of the contract inevitable. He should be pleased, proud, preening.

Instead, he finds himself turning aside to hide another kiss in your curls, now anxious to brand you as his in every little way that he can.

By the end of the week, Copia still hasn’t gotten used to the new rhythm of his life—which seems to consist of feverish heights of pleasure followed by unassuming, soul-nourishing moments of domesticity.

He flops into bed after brushing his teeth the next night, only to feel you wriggle close in the semi-darkness, your body curling against his side like a question mark. He hardens so fast that his vision swims, because he now knows that this shy, unspoken overture is but a prelude to your beautiful shamelessness. You roll atop him once his interest becomes undeniable, pajama pants already gone, top quick to join them. Dipping your head forward, you kiss every number in his tattoo before laving your tongue over his nipple, and the noise he utters is every bit as hungry as it is pathetic. He’s only just managed to ease his cock inside your grasping cunt when you fold your arms under his pillow, breathing gone shallow; he caresses your sides, telling you how perfect you feel, how soon he’ll be able to satisfy you without all this struggle. Your hips stall, and he takes over, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you steady as he grinds in slow. You come not with a shout, but with a little sob, your muscles clenching so hard that his control slips, his balls hitching against his pelvis as he empties himself inside you.

And then, he wakes a few hours later to find you gone. His panic evaporates the moment he spies you sitting on the floor beside the rat room, back in your pajamas, nudging a rubber ball around for Ptolemy and Bastian to chase. Hearing him move, you glance up, and he can hear the contrition in your voice. “Sorry. I got up to use the bathroom, and they were squeaking at me through the door.”

It's the middle of the night, and he has work the next day. He should dismiss this, roll over, go back to sleep. But the fact that you’ve grown to like his rats does something to him, and before he knows it, he’s pulled on his sweatpants and crossed the room to join you. Smiling, you offload Bastian into his hands, and your playful little, “There’s your daddy,” threatens to obliterate what remains of his good sense. By the time he has you back in bed, slumbering against his chest, he’s already two months deep into a plan to spirit you away to an unpopulated Italian island.

Not that he would ever dare. Not that he should even dream.

Two days later, and he’s not sure how you both arrived at the understanding that his bedroom is the master bedroom—but you join him there every night, and Copia is unspeakably grateful for it. You received another package in the mail that day, and he finds himself working under the assumption that it contained more blankets and pickled goods… until he folds back the covers at bedtime, and finds you clad in a simple, but clingy black slip. He stares for a good thirty seconds before you laugh and grab one of the decorative pillows, whacking him in the chest with it. “I take it this is okay?”

He shows you exactly how okay it is. On your knees, straddling his face, new nightgown curtained around his head. You grip the headboard so tightly that at one point, he’s sure he can hear the wood veneer cracking—but that idea only spurs him on, as does the way you smother him with your sweet, dewy cunt after you try to withdraw after the first orgasm, and he pulls you back down with a possessive growl. When you plead for mercy after the third one, he finally relents, scooting out from under you and moving to conform his body to yours. He takes you while you’re still kneeling in front of the headboard, his fingers threaded into the spaces between yours, hips snapping furiously until you collapse into tears of pleasure one last time, and he can succumb to his own.

The next morning, you make him French toast for breakfast. Still wearing your new nightgown, as well as one of his shirts for warmth. You kiss him goodbye at the door, you taste like maple syrup and chamomile tea and everything he’s spent five decades pining for, and his feet are leaden as he makes the long trek to his office.

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this newfound bliss to end—but it doesn’t. He’s never been this distracted by someone, and the fact that you not only indulge his carnal interest, but seek him out strains his credulity to the breaking point. You’re the one who talks your way past Marika with a tin of fresh-baked cookies one sunny afternoon, only to toss them on his desk and leap into his arms the second he gets his office door locked. You’re the one who levers yourself onto the kitchen counter while he’s making coffee the next morning and seizes his hand, guiding it beneath your robe so he can feel how slick you’ve become just thinking about him in the shower. Soon the size differential is no hindrance at all, and he can pin your wrists against the bedpost or deposit you on top of the washing machine or bunch up your skirt in the library media room on his lunch break and sheath himself with one smooth thrust, rutting into you languid or rough or messy while you hide your face against his neck, holding back his own groans so he doesn’t miss a single one of yours.

Copia fucks you with a kind of half-crazed abandon it would have embarrassed him to think about a few weeks ago. He fucks you like a teenager, like a goddamn newlywed. And on top of that, he gets French toast. He gets racing games and Runza sandwiches and laughter as you open more packages from your family, revealing jars of peach jam and little crocheted goat plushies and samplers that say things like Bless This Unrepentant Mess. He gets to see your guitar come out, gets to listen as you strum infernal hymns so old that he doesn’t know the words, songs that remind him of clapboard belltowers and sheet music gone yellow with age—Hail to the Uncreator, and O Ye Mighty Tongues of Flame, and By Serpent’s Truth and Light.

He comes home one day to find a thick catalog from a local furniture store waiting on the kitchen island, and when his eye keeps roving toward the ugliest, bulkiest couch in the whole thing simply because it has a fold-down table, you stop him from looking further with a gentle kiss and the words, “Order whatever you want, sweetheart. I trust you.”

And in this new Eden, the only things he can’t have are affirmations of loyalty. He can’t ask you for those again; he would stop you if you tried to offer them. Not because he doesn’t find the prospect enticing… but because he knows he can’t handle possessive talk that doesn’t end with him being possessed. The things you said still echo in his head every night as he lies beside you, the only part of the failure reel that has the power to make him physically cringe.

Even more than your sweetheart, he wants to be your man. The only one you want. The one who belongs to you.

But that’s where the sidewalk has to end. That’s where the dream has to die.

Chapter Text

The very first thing you do the morning of the ritual is puke your guts out.

Copia flies into the bathroom alongside you, closer than your own shadow, quick to knock open the toilet lid and gather your tangled hair in his fist. He rubs your back as you heave out all your anxiety, all your preemptive embarrassment, his words foggy with sleep but somehow sweeter for it.

“Ecco fatto, amuleto.” For the moment, your body is no longer in your control, your stomach twisting itself like a rag. Focusing on his voice, you suffer through. “That’s it. You take your turn… then you can hold my hair, eh?”

Laughing makes it worse—but if you don’t laugh, you’ll start hyperventilating. This is it. This is what you signed up for. Over the last week, as you’ve spent time in prayer, you’ve become convinced that the Dark Lord always intended you to pursue this path. This is a sacrifice of blood and pain and bodily autonomy that will serve to further His kingdom, one for which you will be richly blessed.

But that doesn’t make it any less harrowing. Any less humiliating. There’s no shame in nudity, no shame in sex, but it’s Copia’s family, and… more than that, it’s the fact that you have to share. Share your intimacy with a crowd, share your greatest treasure.

Because you’ve already been blessed beyond measure. With the companionship of a man who isn’t put off by sickness and bouts of nerves, a man who’s already got a washcloth waiting by the time your stomach is empty, who cleans your lips and your eyes as he utters soothing words. A man who watches with open concern as you scour your teeth, who dismisses your brave smile with a soft tsk and draws your head against his naked shoulder, encouraging you to take refuge there.

Yours is a faith that stands up to scrutiny, one where rituals and offerings bear fruit. And if this is your reward for exhibiting yourself in public—then so be it.

At this point, you would do worse things for the opportunity to remain at Copia’s side.

After showering until your skin begins to prune, breakfast consists of lavender tea and saltine crackers. It’s a disgusting combination, but at least you can keep it down. Copia is quiet and pale, and when he appears in the kitchen dressed for the day, but with only his right eye painted, you guide him back to the bathroom to help sort him out.

“I’m sorry that I have to leave you,” he says, shutting both eyes so you can smooth cream makeup over his left eyelid. He’s seated on the edge of the tub, face turned toward the globe lights mounted around the mirror. “Just to… arrange some final details. I’ll be back as soon as I can, we’ll walk over together.”

“The ritual’s not until tonight. When the moon rises.” Taking comfort from that fact, you blow softly on his eyelid to dry the paint. “I’ll be fine. I’ll probably… go to the cathedral. Pray again.”

“È una buona idea.” Growing irritated with himself, Copia translates, “It’s a—”

“Good idea.” He opens his eyes, and the inquisitive cant of his brows makes him look so young. So vulnerable. Setting the brush aside, you cup his cheeks. “We’ll be together, sweetheart. Whatever happens, we’ll be fine.”

From the way Copia studies your face, you can tell that he’s searching for something. Uncertain what that could be, or whether he finds it, you submit when he coaxes your hands into his, bowing his head so he can brush his lips across both sets of knuckles. His lips hover over your left ring finger, before he leaves an extra kiss there.

“We are a team,” he affirms, donning a brave smile of his own. “In all things.”

As if it’s a completely normal day, you see Copia off at the door. This time, however, you barely have time to exit the living room before you hear someone else knocking on it. Heart fluttering against your ribs, you make your way back, half-expecting to encounter Psaltarian armed with another information packet, or perhaps a Sibling sent to deliver the robes you and Copia will be expected to wear later.

But when you finally get the door open, you find yourself standing face-to-face with Papa V Perpetua.

You can count the number of times you’ve seen Copia’s brother in the flesh on one hand. He seldom preaches at Black Mass, and you’ve never bumped into him in the hallways or the library. And you’re not alone in this, because the rumors surrounding him are the stuff of wild gothic fantasy, tales that paint him either as fable or freak, maestro or monster. You’ve heard Siblings swear that he can disappear into the shadows at will, that his body is incorporeal, that his elegant fingers can erupt into vicious claws at the slightest provocation, that his silver mask hides scars or naked bone or patches of ebony-black, scaled skin that even the darkest magic can’t glamour away….

But as you stare at him in mute confusion, you see only a beanpole of a man with none of the comforting warmth you’ve come to expect from Copia, and every bit of his awkwardness. The smooth cast of Perpetua’s paint makes him look younger than he is, and the effect is only compounded when he stoops his shoulders and shoves his oversized mitts into his pants pockets, like a teenage boy wrestling with his newfound strength, attempting to make himself appear smaller.

“I, um…” The man’s voice is surprisingly soft. His mismatched eyes meet yours, his lips working together for a moment. “I’ve come to… get you out of here. If you want."

Gripping your patchwork robe shut at the neck, you struggle to find your voice. “I’m afraid… I don’t understand?”

“I can get you out of here.” Perpetua says this as if he’s trying to convince himself. Nodding toward the circular window that caps the end of the hall, he adds, “I already talked to Judith. She can grab Marika’s keys when she’s not looking. We get in the car, sì? We don’t go to the airport this time, we just drive…”

Pulse pounding in your temples, you cut to the chase. “Papa, are you trying to rescue me right now?”

“I’m trying to shepherd the flock. Er—the herd?” Squaring his shoulders beneath his black turtleneck, Perpetua turns back to look at you. His teeth are crooked, his curls enviable—it’s as if nature itself can’t decide whether he should be gawky or gorgeous. “That’s what I’m supposed to do, non è vero?”

“It is,” you confirm. “But tending to the herd usually doesn’t involve committing grand theft auto.”

“Marika had a boot put on my fucking car.” Sighing, Perpetua admits, “Look, it’s just… hard for me to understand why anyone would want to go through with this bizarre tradition.”

You can’t very well tell him, Because I’m so infatuated with your brother that I’ve chosen to torture myself rather than let anyone else do this for him. “Papa, I know you’re still learning the old ways. But I promise, this is a great honor for me.”

“It’s an honor to be…” Unable to complete his sentence, Perpetua huffs in frustration and cuts his eyes down the hall. You follow his line of sight, gratified to find that no one is lurking nearby. “This religion is supposed to be about personal sovereignty. Isn’t it?”

And with this question, your confusion dissipates. Now somewhat amused to find yourself on the receiving end of the same speech you gave Copia, you inform the man, “I appreciate your concern, but I’m exactly where I want to be. The ritual itself might be unpleasant, but it’s just a few minutes in the… larger scheme of things.”

Perpetua’s frown pulls his upper lip taut, highlighting the silvery teeth painted there. Shaking his right hand free of his pocket, he braces his forearm against the doorframe and leans closer. “If you want a child, Signorina, you could find a boyfriend. A husband. Ask a good friend… anything other than this.”

“But this is what I want to do.” Silently thanking Lucifer for this revelatory intervention, you stand firm. “I promise, Papa, no one’s twisting my arm. I’m here of my own free will. Copia’s the best man I’ve ever known… if I wanted to call it all off, he’d be the first person to help me.”

The silence that follows gives you plenty of time to mentally smack yourself for blurting out Copia’s given name instead of using his title. But Perpetua doesn’t scold you for it. He doesn’t say anything at all, not until he’s spent so long squinting at your face that you’ve started to feel like some kind of alchemical equation.

“Fine. If this is the path you’ve chosen. But if you have any misgivings…” His jaw tenses. “I will end this madness, mi capisci? Now, or down in that room. Just say the word.”

“I appreciate that. Truly.” Releasing your robe, you offer your hand. “Seems being a good man runs in the family… which makes me even more determined to see this through.”

No claws or roiling shadows rise to meet you. Perpetua’s hand is perfectly ordinary, solid and strong beneath the black leather of his glove. He bows his masked forehead over your knuckles, a motion unwittingly reminiscent of Copia’s farewell, before releasing you and turning aside in one fluid movement. He stalks down the hallway, disappearing before your brain even reminds you to breathe, to duck inside and close the door.

This is it. This is what you vowed to do.

This is where you want to be.

You remind yourself of this as you oil and perfume your skin—luxuries you never indulged in, not until Copia chose you out of hundreds of people and you learned just how much you enjoy pleasing him. You remind yourself of this as you roll on your stockings, as you put on his favorite teal dress and tie a ribbon in your hair. You remind yourself of this as you tug an apron over your head and throw yourself into cooking lunch, because this ritual isn’t a morbid one—you will come back from it wonderfully alive, so there’s no reason to march off to it hungry.

And when Copia finally returns, still looking a bit green about the gills, you remind yourself of this as you lean around the kitchen archway and flash him a bright smile. “I’m making chicken soup. Will you set the table?”

Copia hesitates in the doorway for a beat, until his mouth relaxes and the breath he’s been holding gusts out of his lungs. Unpinning his chains, he leaves them and his coat draped over the sofa and wanders into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His hug is fierce, tight enough to make you squeak, and he sets the skin of your neck alight with a chain of lightning-fast kisses before you can even think of extricating yourself.

“Il mio regalo perfetto, il mio piccolo diavolo…” Laughing, you turn your head to find his lips, but he just pivots to the other side to keep targeting your neck. “Il tuo coraggio mi fa vergognare, mia bella...”

“Translation,” you sigh, brandishing the ladle as if you mean to rap his knuckles with it. “I swear, you better not teach our kids to sass me behind my back in Italian.”

“Then it seems you should learn before they do, hm?” While Copia’s posture is still tense, his smile competes with the heat rising off the stove. “My perfect gift, my little devil, my beauty…” He leans forward, kissing your cheek. “Your bravery puts me to shame.”

Maybe you should stop asking for translations, if they’re going to make your heart lurch like this. Pushing through the surge of regret, you keep your voice light as you resume stirring the soup. “Speaking of Italian—Papa V stopped by. You’re not gonna believe this.”

All at once, Copia’s smile disappears. You can feel his lips go slack against your jaw, hear the way displeasure tarnishes his voice. “Perché?”

You don’t need a translation for that. Cursing yourself for a fool, you try to recover, letting the ladle rest in the pot so you can wipe your sweaty hands on your apron. “Oh, he’s just… weirded out by the whole concept of taking a Prime Mover, I think. I had to convince him I wanted to be here. Mrs. Psaltarian should keep an eye on her purse, I think he’s hatching another escape plaaaan…!”

Copia uses his grip on your waist to twirl you around, and you hold the last note in your shock. Reaching past you, he shuts off the gas burner under the pot, his eyes never leaving yours. “What did he say, cara?”

You’ve never seen Copia look so deadly serious—and you hope you never will again. Even if it isn’t directed at you, the sight of his left eye gleaming with rage is enough to make your nerve endings hum like tornado sirens. “He didn’t say anything about you. He just offered to intervene if I didn’t want to go through with the ritual. He clearly doesn’t understand how this works, he doesn’t understand that I’ve chosen to be here…”

Releasing you, Copia backs up and plays his right hand upon the air—index finger extended, forearm bouncing, as if he’s tapping a key on a piano. “So it’s not enough that stronzo takes my job, and my music, and my stage, and my ghouls…”

Shaking your head, you move after him. “Copia, it wasn’t like that.”

“Now, he wants to take…” Copia snaps his jaw shut, staring at you with an expression that might be a reflection of his anger, or might be grief, or might be visceral terror—you have no idea which. His white eye is now so bright that it’s difficult to look at, like staring down a spotlight. “He has no right. No right, to come to our home. On today, of all days!”

Copia is dragging his jacket off the back of the sofa by the time you realize he intends to confront his brother. Darting out of the kitchen, you manage to make it to the door before he does, planting your shoulders against the painted wood even as Copia peers down at you in exasperation. “Sweetheart, let it go. He didn’t do any harm.”

“No, cara. You don’t understand.” You suspect that this outburst has little to do with Perpetua—this is just the shape that Copia’s anxiety has decided to assume. Even now, as he speaks of insults and animosity and things lost, you can hear panic threatening to steal his breath away. “That interloper has taken everything from me, and now he waltzes into our fucking apartment—”

“Listen to me. He didn’t come inside. He was nothing but polite.” Your brow furrows. “And I won’t be told I can’t talk to Papa, of all people.”

“Sì, you have every right to talk to him.” Copia grips his jacket so tightly that the leather of his glove creaks. “And I have every right to tell him to go fuck himself.”

None of the rumors prepared you for this level of sibling rivalry. “Honey, why don’t you eat first? Then you can—"

“He can have the rest, he can have everything I was, but I won’t let him try to tempt away the last good thing I have left!” The light in Copia’s arcane eye flares phosphorous-bright before collapsing inward, like a black hole devouring itself. Grinding the heel of his palm against his eye socket, wincing in pain, he growls, “The only thing I need, the only thing I’ve prayed to keep!”

In the seconds following these words, the world grows simultaneously too loud and too quiet. Copia’s breath roars in your ears, and yet you can’t hear your own heartbeat. The smell of stripped thyme leaves lingering on your hands is so strong that it makes you want to gag, and yet you can’t feel the hot air that begins fanning out of the fancy brass vent on the wall, only see how it sends tendrils of hair wafting across your brow. At last, Copia’s eyes flutter open—and they’re so fathomless with despair that they suck you down, too, until every inhalation feels like swallowing a knife.

“Tempt away your… Prime Mover, you mean?” Your voice is so thin that you know you should repeat yourself, but you don’t have the strength. “Your… child?”

Copia shakes his head, but doesn’t find the will to speak right away. “This… house we’re setting up, this…” He swallows, dropping his eyes to the inverted cross chained around your neck. “You. Here with me, being… so sweet to me, acting like you could ever…”

Warm air caresses your cheeks, drying the tears streaked across them. Your heart reasserts itself, dancing wildly between your expanding lungs. “Copia…”

“I know it was foolish to dream.” Copia’s grip on his jacket goes slack, the garment landing on the marble floor like a stage curtain. “Look at me. I’m throwing a tantrum like a goddamn toddler.”

“It’s been a bad day.” Pushing yourself away from the door, you take a tentative step forward. “But it isn’t anymore. Okay?”

“This is the worst day of my life.” Copia’s own eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Between this and the ritual, you should just go…”

“Love, no one could tempt me away from you if they wanted to.” Copia focuses on your face again, blinking in disbelief as he processes your words. “You’re the reason I’m here.”

Copia’s voice is reduced to a thready rasp. “I… am?”

Summoning your courage, you close the distance, stopping only once the toes of your shoes are angled between his. “I applied to be Prime Mover because I knew if you did this with anyone else… the thought alone would break my heart. I didn’t have any illusions you would… care for me, I just wanted to be near you…”

Slowly, as if you’re a fever vision and he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he tries to touch you, Copia returns his hands to your waist. You flatten your palms on his chest in response, alarmed to feel how hard his heart is beating. “The w-words you said… the first time we—”

“I meant them.” Edging closer, you blink the final tears free from your eyes. “Every single one. It was never an act.”

“My girl?” Copia lifts his trembling hands to frame your face. “Mine, and no one else’s?”

“My man.” Your laugh is a full-on sob. “The only one I want. Sweet and kind and funny, when he’s not ranting about his twin brother like a lunatic—”

Copia kisses you like he did the first time, like he’s unsure whether he’s overstepping. The softest, briefest caress, a profession of love hidden inside a request for permission. You twine your arms behind his neck, and then your feet are off the ground, your legs curled around his waist as he presses you back against the door. What follows isn’t an exercise in hunger, or a mad scramble for dominance—it’s so gentle that to answer it with anything more than a sigh feels vulgar. Copia proceeds to claim every inch of your face for himself, his thumbs sweeping over your jaw as he plants kisses everywhere, and you respond in kind until his lips seek yours again, breath mingling as you clutch him close.

“I can’t let you go and survive,” Copia groans against your mouth, his right hand sliding into your hair as his left supports your bottom. “Please, don’t give me this if you’re going to change your mind, if you’re going to leave me…”

“Never,” you assure him, stealing another kiss. “Never, I don’t want you to let me go.”

“You’ll stay here?” Copia’s lips descend to your throat, his hand tugging on your hair to lift your chin. “Stay here and let me love you?”

“I’m planning on it,” you moan, adjusting your hips until you can feel the hard ridge of his erection through the gathered material of your skirt, relishing the way he shudders and uses his weight to pin you against the door. “It’s going to take us a while to raise five kids, after all.”

“Sia lodato Satana, amuleto.” Enthralled by that idea, Copia’s kisses become clumsy, his lips curling into an incredulous smile. “Do you mean it?”

Lucifer, you wish you had a list of everyone who ever hurt him. Who reduced this strong, resourceful man to such grasping insecurity. Cupping the back of his neck to arrest him, you nestle your cheek against his, aligning your lips with his ear. “I mean it. I want you. With your pretty silver hair and your stammer and your silly jokes. I want to sleep next to you and be woken up by our kids demanding breakfast, I want to dance with you in our living room, I want to smell you on my skin even when you’re gone, I want to know the middle names of everyone in your family…”

This time, the way Copia commandeers your mouth is anything but gentle. His tongue demands entrance, his gloved fingers gripping into your scalp as he swallows your eager noise of surrender. When you arch your belly against his, he rocks forward with a deceptively casual movement, letting you feel just what you’ve done to him, intuit what he plans to do to you. But as heat flares up your spine, as your cunt clenches in anticipation of being split open on his cock… reality intrudes.

“We can’t,” you pant, as Copia returns his attention to the column of your neck. “We—”

“I promise, amore mio,” he purrs against your skin, attempting to silence you with a soft nip, “we very much can.”

“The ritual!” The second you say these words, Copia freezes. “T-tonight, we have to…”

Drawing back, Copia meets your eyes. You can see yourself reflected in his dark iris—hair disheveled, lips puffy and parted. “But we don’t have to, not if we have… a love match? It’s just a matter of being together?”

“But we signed all that paperwork.” Heart thundering anew, you argue, “We sealed the pact in blood.”

For five interminable seconds, you and Copia simply stare at one another. Then, the debate starts—neither side looking to win, merely tossing every possible idea at the wall.

“We could destroy the contract,” Copia theorizes. “We haven’t finished the process yet.”

“And risk the wrath of Satan? What if I’m already pregnant, what if we court His displeasure?”

“We elope.” Copia sets you down on your feet, though he makes no move to back away from you. “We pack up the rats and the NES and Zia Hypatia’s beans, we drive to Nebraska…”

For a mad instant, you entertain this idea. “And who’s going to cover for us? Papa?”

Copia snorts. “I’m not relying on that stronzo for anything.”

“He wanted to help me escape! If I tell him you’re helping me escape, he’ll probably be as pleased as a rooster in a henhouse!”

“Phrasing, cara mia.”

“Well, what’s the other option?” Scowling, you let your hands slide down to Copia’s upper arms. “Just go through with it? Let everyone—”

The truth claps through your head like a peal of thunder. Practically kicks your feet out from under you, compelling you to catch hold of Copia’s sleeves for stability. You can feel him pulling you closer, hear him saying your name, but the sound is muffled, distant, all of your attention focused on the epiphany flashing behind your eyelids. You do have a list of almost everyone who ever hurt him.

Senior Clergy. And they’ve all got front-row tickets to see you get railed inside a bloody pentagram sometime after the evening news.

“Cara?” Copia cups your chin, directing you to look at him. “You only do this when my dick is involved, somehow, so consider me worried.”

“We stick to the plan.” Apprehension threatens to leave you breathless, but you manage to get the words out. “We do the ritual for the blood pact, for the blessing it affords our child… and so I can show everyone in that room that you belong to me. That I am choosing you.”

Copia trades your chin for the back of your neck, pulling your forehead toward his. “Amore, the debt you hold over me…”

“We owe each other a debt.” Shutting your eyes, you collapse against the warmth of his body. “We owe each other everything, and nothing at all.”

For several long, blissful minutes, Copia just holds you. Your breath slows, your thoughts orienting toward a new purpose—not endurance, but vindication. You are a daughter of Satan, an infernal princess beloved by the King of Hell. You will assume the submissive position only when you consent to it. No matter how many of them there are, you won’t let the Clergy make you feel seen.

You will force them to watch.

In time, Copia invites you to surface from your thoughts with a gentle kiss on the nose. Smiling at the goofiness of it, you open your eyes to find him watching you with the expression of reverence he usually reserves for Black Mass. “Finish the soup for us, eh? I need to run one more errand, and I’ll be back.”

Confused, you ask, “Where are you going?”

With Copia’s next words, you know that you’re both on the same page. “We’re not rabbits caught in a snare. V wants to be Papa so bad? Fine. That makes me Frater Imperator, and I’ll set up my ritual space however I goddamn please.”