I Am SO Normal About Them

i am SO normal about them

one more? | cardinal copia x gn!reader

Inspired by all the kiss prompts. This is for @leezlelatch ♡

content: 750 words, gn!reader, some suggestiveness and spice but nothing explicit, lots of kissing going on here, we get a little frisky

Masterlist – Ao3 link

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Lunch breaks are invariably too short. They feel even shorter since you spend them wrapped up in Copia’s cassocked arms, hidden away in an empty corner behind the entrance to the library. Your back is pressed against the cool stone walls, your habit disheveled from his wandering hands, leaving half of your leg exposed to the chill draft haunting this part of the abbey.

The cool air feels heavenly against your heated skin where Copia’s fingertips are trailing up to your hip and back down in a steady dance. It’s oddly tender compared to the way his mouth is so insistent on devouring you. You can only imagine the purple discolorations blooming on your neck right now, the smears of lipstick and bite marks he left in his impatient fervor after he’d pinned you to the wall.

The bells have long since chimed to announce the passing of lunch hour. He should be back in his office and you should be back behind the reception desk. And yet your arms are still tightly slung around his shoulders as his tongue licks into your hungry mouth.

“I have to go back,” he mumbles for the fifth time as he breaks away for air, trying to step back but you don’t let go of his neck. “Amore…”

With your hand in his hair, you press your mouth to his once again, ignoring his complaints. His biretta has long since fallen off his head and you make use of the easy access, dragging your nails over his scalp in the way that he loves so much. He moans loudly and kisses back for a moment, moving his swollen lips against yours just almost chastely now. With the kiss distracting you, his gloved fingers wrap around your wrists and he pulls them off of him, pretending to pin you to the wall. With your hands off of him, he tries to tear himself away once more, but your fingers grasp his pellegrina at the last second. You yank him back, bringing your mouth to his ear as he stumbles into you. “One more kiss? Please?”

“You want your Cardinal to be late?” he whispers, bracing himself against the wall behind you.

“Yes, if it means I get another kiss.”

“I will get in trouble, amore.” He drags his nose along your cheek before nuzzling yours. “Do you have no compassion for me?”

“No.”

He tsks, pulling back slightly when you try to capture his lips again. “So cruel. So cruel to your Cardinal and you claim to love me.”

“I do love you. That’s why I want another one, silly.” You try to pull at his robes again but he won’t budge. “Please please please.”

He whimpers softly. “You know what begging does to me, dolce.”

“Please. Please, Cardinal, I need one more.”

“One more, then you will let me go?”

“Mhm.”

He leans in, kissing you as softly as he can muster. You trap his full bottom lip between your teeth for a second and he groans, pressing in harder until the back of your head hits the wall again. He pulls away with a desperate sigh and you whine at the loss of him.

“One more,” you beg, tugging at his robes.

“Amore,” he groans. “You are getting greedy now.”

“Isn’t greed a virtue?”

“I think you are mixing that up, no?”

He gives you another peck before he fully pulls away. You allow it this time, conceding in favor of your own reputation. Someone is going to want something from you any second now and you still have to get presentable.

Copia straightens his rumpled cassock before glancing at your ruined face with a smirk. “We continue this tonight, amore,” he promises. “You will bring the same hunger, yes?”

You nod, smiling like a fool when he winks at you. He almost stumbles over his own feet as he turns back around, still drunk on endorphins and your taste. A few deep breaths and you gather your wits before your eyes get caught by a red blob of color on the floor.

You pick up his biretta and put it on your head. He’s already halfway down the hall when you call out to him. “Looks like you forgot something, Cardinal.”

He spins around, the skirt of his cassock whirling around his legs. “Don’t even say it, amore.”

“You’re lucky,” you say with a grin. “Payment is very cheap today.”

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Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

My Secondo

+18 MDNI Includes: 2k+ words. Secondo/reader, loneliness, anger, fighting, physical threats (no physical violence. (Honestly, I don't even have any real warnings for this one. It's just angsty domestic fluff right now. But I'm not promising that will last.) Notes: Listen, I am WEAK for soft Secondo. And I will not apologise. Just let me have my grumpy man in peace. Please see my AO3 version with translations included. (Terrible Italian by Google.)

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Chapter 1: Fight or Flight

You’d fallen asleep before he’d come back. That had never been your custom, but you’d stayed up as long as you were able. Drifting off at some unholy hour with the bedside lamp still on and your book lying on your chest. Not that you’d really been reading. Your mind had been elsewhere and you were sure you’d read the same paragraph a dozen times, still not absorbing a single word.

And now it was morning. The only signs that he’d been there at all were your book, page marked, set on the bedside table, the lamp turned off, and the way his side of the bedding hand been thrown back when he’d gotten up. If he’d touched you at all, it wasn’t enough to wake you. The sun outside was shining, the birds were singing, and a warm breeze drifted through the window, but the none of it could change the cold from the empty place he should have been. Or the lump in your throat threatening to choke you.

For days you had tried. Been the Good Girl he wanted, met his hard stare with sweet smiles, tried everything you knew he liked best to coax him out of the foul mood that had descended and refused to loosen its grip. But nothing had worked. Last night was just one more thing that stung more than you could bear. There wasn’t even the sound of the shower that you’d become accustomed to waking up to. The bathroom was dark, the steam already faded, his paints carefully replaced in their drawer. His robes were gone too. For a long time you pace, trying to calm your breathing, to stop your heart from pounding until it feels like it will burst from your chest.

Crying won’t help. It won’t fix this.

No, this needs a new approach. You shower and dress, picking your clothes out carefully. Items he gifted you. Not the dresses that hug your curves or the tops cut to let him admire your chest. No, the ones he chose for your comfort, not his own lust. The ones that say more than any of the others that he loves you. The soft black sweater that feels like a warm embrace. The leggings you know he thinks are silly but that he is content knowing you are happy in. The simple flats that barely make a sound on the stone tiles and will let you get through the day without your feet aching from the usual heels.

You start down the hall to his office bravely enough, but the closer the door gets, the more the worry settles into your gut. Writhing like a pot of eels. It won’t do. He’ll smell the fear on you. You’ll never get anything if he thinks he can simply dismiss you. And if that happens… if he really does send you away so flatly… what more is there? Pack your things and slink back to your old dorm with your tail between your legs. Never meet his gaze again. Break your vows entirely and run. No. No, this is worth fighting for. Bury your worry and steel yourself. Show him you won’t be so easily set aside.

You knock three times firmly and wait. Finally his voice calls for you to enter, muffled by the thick wood of the heavy door. You enter without looking directly at him, turning to close the door behind you first. When you do look at him, he stares with that same cold expression he’s worn for days. An edge of impatience in his eyes.

Secondo.

His perfectly pressed robes and his carefully applied paints. Sitting straight and tall in his chair. The full weight and majesty of his office radiating from him like the very fires of Hell itself. And you’ve never seen him look more miserable.

“You were gone when I woke up.” It’s not a question or a plea for an answer. Just a flat statement of facts.

“You were asleep when I got in.” His deep voice is as cold as his stare.

“I waited up. I thought you weren’t coming home at all.”

“There is work to attend to. Then and now. If you’ve come to pout over things beyond my control, I can save us both the time and tell you it will change nothing. You knew my work from the start. It should be no surprise now.” His tone sounds more like being scolded by a teacher than words from the man you love.

“I haven’t come to pout.” You say sharply.

His brow creeps up. Just a hair. “Is that so? Then what?”

No more need to force that confidence. Something in his dismissive tone fans an anger that has been building. Every day this mood continues. Every day he won’t tell you what’s wrong. Every day he stays distant. It’s been building and with five words, it explodes into an inferno.

You walk over to his desk, the huge, dark wooden thing that it is. Every bit as imposing as Papa himself. With one hand, you swipe his carefully placed things to one side, ignoring his growl of frustration, and climb up on to the desktop. Sitting directly on his papers. Crossing your legs and staring at him defiantly.

“You are testing my patience.” He says dangerously through gritted teeth. But you don’t move. Just staring back at him. “Scendere dalla scrivania.”

“No.” You snap.

The shock of the disobedience breaks through his scowl for half a second and even that feels like victory.

“You would disobey?” He says, incredulously. Scowl settling right back in place, mouth twisting with anger. “Is this how a good girl behaves?”

“Is this how a Papa behaves?” You fire right back, anger burning hot. “You want your good girl? Well I want my Papa. So, you tell me, what is it to be? Shall we both be left wanting or will you let go of your damned pride and talk to me?”

Secondo pushes back his chair and stands. He’s never more imposing than when he draws himself up to his full height, with his robes and his paints. It’s almost enough to make you back down. Almost. He growls in frustration and looks like he might drag you off the desk whether you agree to move or not. Never, not once, has he ever laid a hand on you in anger. But you’ve never fought him like this either.

Instead you slide off the desk and stand in front of him. Hardly a threat. Standing barely taller than his shoulder. “Fine. Have it your own way.” It’s difficult to be so angry while looking up at someone, but you manage it. “I won’t bother you any further. When my Papa returns, please tell him I’ve missed him terribly. But you, whoever you are, you are no Papa of mine.”

Turning to make your exit, already preparing for the weight of the door to slam it properly, his hand grabs your arm. His grip is like iron and pulling away is useless. You still turn back sharply, ready to fight him even harder. But instead his expression has lost its edge. Replaced by something tired and lost.

“Fermare.” It’s not an order but a request. A plea. “Ti prego... non andartene.”

Your own anger fades, worry rising up to fill the void. “Allora parlami. Per favore.”

He lets go of your arm and sinks back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are a stubborn and wilful thing, Amore.”

“You knew that before you ever took me into your bed. Did you really think that would change now just because it’s inconvenient?” You offer him your hand and it’s a relief when he takes it. Softly kissing each of your fingers.

“Sono sicuro che non cambierà mai. E sono felice. Amavo questo di te allora e lo adoro adesso.” It’s the softest his voice has been since the darkness consumed him.

Satanas, you could cry. Finally seeing a glimpse of him through the fog. The man you fell in love with. The man beyond his serious expression and strict adherence to his schedule, who’s sermons boomed off of the stone walls and made even the bravest Sisters take a step back. The man who could speak so sweetly, who’s caresses were always so gentle, who’s warmth would envelope you to keep you safe from anything that might threaten to harm you.

Instead, you settle yourself in his lap. Wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his chest. Feeling his steady breathing and the beat of his heart. Waiting until you can trust your voice to speak. “Secondo, amore mio, ti prego... dimmi cosa c'è che non va. Dimmi come posso aiutarti. È una tortura vederti così. Per stare senza di te. Mi spezza il cuore.”

For a long moment he doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t move. Part of you worries that if you look up at him, it will be that hard, cruel face again. Until he sighs and wraps his arms around you, hugging you close. He kisses the top of your head and sits in silence a moment longer. “… Forgive me, Amore. Forgive me. I have been a fool and unforgivably cruel. You don’t deserve that.” He says finally. His voice is so soft, it almost doesn’t sound like him at all. “… and I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t say that.” You hug him a little tighter, trying to protect him from his own words. “Don’t ever say that. It’s not true and you know it.”

“Do I?” He says, but the exhaustion takes the bite out of it.

“Of course you do.” Looking up at him, the dark clouds finally parting. Leaving behind a man who looks like he needs to sleep a month and to be treated with all the gentleness and care in the world. “Sono tuo, amore mio. Solo il vostro. Adesso e per sempre.”

“Me?” He asks, an unfamiliar uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Or Papa?”

You look at him curiously, worried, and suddenly very aware that there are piece of information you are missing. He is Papa. His duty, his paints, his robes, all of it. It’s simply a part of him. But without those things? Of course you love him. The private version you get all to yourself, when he can relax and let go. Even a little. When he can shed the mask he wears for the world and be vulnerable and honest.

“You, Secondo. You are the man I love. Papa is your title, your job, your duty. Secondo is the man who holds me at night to keep the bad dreams away, who comforts me when I am hurting, who makes me smile when I am sad. Secondo has my heart and soul.” You reach up to cup his cheek and he doesn’t pull away. Instead pressing into your touch.

“… You wanted your Papa back.” He doesn’t meet your eyes. Hell’s teeth, he’s never been like this before. So withdrawn and hurt he can’t bear to look at you.

Your own angry words ring in your ears and the guilt claws at the back of your throat. You know what you said, why you said it. But, if this is what lies at the heart of his worries, you can hear how it must have sounded. “Secondo…” any apology you can think of sounds so hollow and inadequate. “I meant you… really, I did. I should never have said those things. Never. I… was so angry… and hurt… and I was trying to hurt you. Please, my love, please forgive me. I’m so sorry. I thought I was losing you, that you were finished with me, that… that I’d failed you. And what do I do? I come in here to attack you. Try to push you away. Make you end it if it’s over.” Fool, fool, stupid, useless, stubborn fool. You curse yourself. “It’s not my Papa I need. Not the paints or the robes or the office or any of it. It’s my Secondo I can’t live without.”

His gloved finger hooks under your chin, tilting your face up toward his, and he kisses you. Deeply. Not rushed or demanding. The sort of kiss that melts you every time. Crushing yourself against his chest and losing yourself in the unshakable certainty that there is nowhere in the universe you are more safe or more loved. Living in that moment of the most familiar comforts, the things that feel like home. The smell of his cologne, the weight of his arms holding you close, even the bitter taste of his espresso still lingering on his lips.

“È l'uomo che voglio essere per te. Sempre.” He says, barely a whisper, lips brushing against yours.

“Sei sempre stato tu, amore mio. Dal primo momento che ti ho visto.” You bump your nose softly against his and kiss him again.

Secondo sighs and rests his forehead against your. His eyes slide shut and, for a long time, you both sit in silence. Breathing as one. Finding the first real comfort you’ve both had in too long. Letting go of the anger and frustration and hurt. Finally feeling safe, if even for a moment.

He breaks the silence first. “Amore…”

The hesitation weighs so heavily, it threatens to crush you both.

“They are talking of… replacing me. Stripping me of my office… my title.” His shoulders slump.

“Nomina di un nuovo Papa.”

Smudged Mirrors

|| Tl;dr Morning routine softness with Secondo. :) This is just an older work from my ao3 that I thought I would bring over here!

There are many terrible things in this world. The shrill blare of an alarm clock ripping you from your dreams among the worst offenders. Waking to find that the bed has already gone empty and cold, another. The entire room felt quiet and solemn as if it too was mourning the absence of your beloved. The thick blankets quickly grew too cold to be comfortable any longer and remnants of sleep still clung to your senses as you slowly sat up with a renewed dedication to seek out a new source of warmth.

The scent of spiced soap and a lingering mist from the shower wafted through the partially open bathroom door, a testament to Secondo’s stubborn refusal to sleep in on nearly any day. It was a gentle reminder of the countless mornings when you had woken up together, the sound of falling water mingling with laughter and shared tenderness.

After attempting to gather your thoughts, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and made your way towards the bathroom, the rhythmic sound of falling water growing louder with each step. The antique wooden wardrobe looked untouched as you passed by it. You paused to pull out Secondo’s Papal robes and the cassock he often preferred to wear underneath before folding them neatly on the bed and continuing on. Upon pushing the door open, you were met with the sight of steam billowing around the room, cloaking the space in a misty haze.

“I may be aging but I’m not deaf yet. I can still hear your attempts to sneak up on me, amore mio.” Even with his back turned towards you, you could hear the smirk in his voice despite his stern tone. Water droplets still dribbled over his skin as he moved while the steam swirled around him, seemingly dancing in tune with a silent melody.

“I would’ve thought all those concerts would’ve done you in.”

Secondo paid no mind to your witty comment, instead continuing on as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all.

“Were you sleeping well? You didn’t budge when I got up.”

“I was. That is until I was left alone in the arctic cold of silk sheets.” Your retort came with maybe a little more sass than necessary as you lifted yourself to sit on the counter.

Secondo hummed softly, the deep rumble building in his chest as he leaned over to thread his fingers through your messy bed head.

“Hmmm. I suspect you’ll survive, you appear plenty lively to me.” His words were muffled against your hair as he pressed a kiss on the top of your head. For once you decided to remain quiet when you felt him smile against you.

After a few silent minutes, Secondo pulled away to return to his routine and you quickly grew bored. You twisted around, leaning in closer to the water covered mirror and reached a hand out to draw a shape against its reflective surface. Only after you had placed your initials next to a small heart were you interrupted.

“Those stay there, you know. Smudges, after the fog is gone.” He grumbled softly before swiping a razor against his cheek once more. His eyes only flickered to you before refocusing on the task of shaving. The dedication to precision and attention to detail were always present, even in the simplest of moments. A roll of your eyes was the only reaction you gave in to. Secondo had always been much more of a perfectionist, although it was admittedly respectable.

Pulling back from the mirror, you gracefully slipped off your perch on the counter and moved closer to him, pressing a kiss against each freshly shaven cheek. The morning routine had become a dance between the two of you, a choreography of sweet gestures and affectionate exchanges.

“Are you absolutely sure you need to go to work? And so early?” It was the same familiar question you asked him at least once a week, and that tiny sliver of hope in your voice that the ever so serious older man would take off work remained every time.

“Si, I am entirely sure. Has my answer ever changed?” Secondo’s unfaltering response only prompts you to lean back against his shoulder and clasp your hands to your chest, feigning being fatally wounded. There is a sigh at your dramatics, a kiss pressed against your temple before being waved off once more.

“You have your own work to attend to, piantagrane. Go.” You finally accepted being shooed off after a few more lingering kisses, good byes murmured softly in each other's ears before leaving the former Papa be to finish getting ready for the day yourself.

By the time you had returned to the bathroom with the intention of using up all the remaining hot water for yourself, Secondo was gone from the room. As to be expected, but still disappointing. While setting your own towels down atop the granite counter, you couldn’t help but to glance back at the small smears you had earlier left along the surface of the mirror. Papa was right, the fog had dissipated and left behind streaks of smudging. Except now it was impossible to ignore the small, cursive initials ‘S.E’ that had appeared opposite of your own.