A Giggly Bitch by Nature

he is a nervous wreck, as we know, so he really struggles to admit his feelings to the person of interest. when he does, he’s got this super elaborate plan— he’s going to give them flowers, a card, the whole deal. but this plan falls flat when he becomes so nervous that he drops the bouquet from his trembling, sweaty hands, and crumpled the card because he was gripping it so tightly.

“oh shit.”

so, he has to settle for a slightly less elaborate (and more embarrassing) confession.

“i, er— i like you.”

the silence that follows his confession is nearly deafening. not because you don’t reciprocate, but because the entire scene that has laid itself out in front of you was almost too endearing for words.

when you admit that you like him, too, he gets so damn giddy. you’d mistake him for a literal child for about two minutes, until he calms himself down and asks if you’d like to date him. to which, you respond with “yes.”

he takes you out on nice strolls, and definitely takes you to cemeteries for picnics. the ghouls often tease him about his infatuation with you, which he gets embarrassed about.

seeing you during rituals cheering him on and singing his lyrics with him drives him crazy. the first thing he wants to do when he finds you after the show is scoop you up and kiss you, and carry you off to the nearest bedroom. anywhere will do, really, as long as it’s just the two of you. copia is not an exhibitionist.

you two are very happy together and he is very considerate. literally worships his partner. <3

But he wouldn’t hold his breath. Nor would he hope for them to come.

The oven beeped. Copia finished spreading the sliced baguette onto the baking sheet, which was already brushed with olive oil. He glanced at his watch before slipping on his oven mitt; he should have just enough time to finish up. Tomatoes were already cubed, drizzled with olive oil, and seasoned. All he had to do was scoop them on top once the baguettes were toasted. He slid them into the oven and waited.

You will be home soon.

Copia flushed at the thought of you. His fingers pattered on the counter as he waited for the oven. He was frequently taken back to how the two of you met, almost bewildered that he stumbled into something so special.

The start of that day was a blur. Hard decisions were made about what shoes to wear. Even harder was trying to force himself out the door and into the world. The thought that he would have to face it someday prodded him along to get it over with.

And he was glad.

The entire Main Street of this small town was decked out in horror decor, vendors, and attendees. People were dressed up! It reminded him of… well, you know. But, back then, he was never able to exist amidst the celebration. He was always herded around for sound check, for make-up, costume changes, and other decisions. And even if he wanted to break away, there had been people looking for him. Hoping for a glance of him, for some interaction.

The mystique was incorporated into the band's overall architecture.

Now, he could bask in the liveliness of a crowd and not worry about being recognized. Copia pondered a stained glass ghost at one of the vendor tables for far too long before he decided he needed to buy it. He nodded with a smile to those dressed up as monsters and extras from the film, exchanging quick, easy hellos as he strolled to the theater.

“Healthfully AIR CONDITIONED!”

The banner that rigid beneath the marquee. Just like the movie, he noted. His ticket was scanned, and he was inside, taking in the state of refurbishment. There were grand balcony boxes that looked lost to time, brand-new seats in the main orchestra area, and recently restored old molding in the walls.

Once upon a time, he performed in places like this.

Copia shuffled into a seat that wasn’t reserved for him. No handler hovering over him, no security insisting he keep his head down—just him and an audience that smelled like popcorn and stiff July air.

The screening itself was already a celebration. People called out to friends across the rows, and every familiar shot on the screen earned whoops like the town was greeting an old neighbor. Laughter rolled easy and loud, and when something worth cheering happened, it didn’t feel forced but automatic, like the whole place had practiced over the years.

Copia’s grin spread in the dark. He wasn’t the spectacle. He wasn’t the thing everyone watched.

He was a member.

Part of it again.

After the film was the main event—the “Run Out”. He gathered with the rest of the crowd, anxious energy buzzing through him. There was some general instruction given: act scared, flail your arms, and have fun.

Copia shuffled toward the back, wanting to avoid the photographers stationed out front of the theater. He lingered in the shadow of the lobby lights, half-hoping the crowd would surge around him and make him anonymous for a moment. It was ridiculous, he knew. The whole point of tonight was to be seen again, to test whether being perceived still thrilled more than it hurt.

When the doors burst open and the event began, he let himself get swept into it anyway. He ran with the others, overplaying the terror like he’d been instructed—arms windmilling, shoulders hunched, fleeing in terror. It felt good, embarrassingly so. The old muscle memory of performance snapped into place.

Mid-flail, he saw you.

Not at the front, where the photographers waited with hungry flashes, but off to the side, just beyond their orbit. You were watching the chaos with bright eyes, your shoulders shaking as you laughed. Not laughing at him, he realized in the same heartbeat his chest tightened, but laughing with the moment, with the sheer joy of everyone being silly together.

His gaze caught on yours and held. Something warm and electric slid through him, the familiar give-and-take from audience member to performer, the silent question of are you seeing this, are you seeing me? He couldn’t resist. He exaggerated one last dramatic stumble right toward your line of sight, and he threw you a quick, shameless little grin.

You laughed harder.

His ears went hot. His heart did something stupid and hopeful.

The momentum continued. You exchanged numbers, went on a few dates that eventually evolved into something more. The former Papa was surprised how easily it came to him, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized how much he could thrive when the pressure was off.

Copia could be himself without the constant fear for his life. He could focus on what made him happy instead of what the Ministry deemed important.

You made him happy, so he was focusing on you.

Now, he was standing in the kitchen, making you a bruschetta snack for when you came home from work. It had been less than a year, but he lived with you. Copia didn’t have a job; he didn’t need one, as he squirreled away more than enough from his Ministry days. He cooked, he cleaned, and he played video games all day.

He wasn’t a chef by any means.

The baguette slices came out a little too dark at the edges, because of course they did. He stared at them as if he looked hard enough, they might un-toast themselves, then hurried to rationalize: crispy is good. Crispy is charming. He piled the tomatoes on anyway, trying to make each piece look intentional. A little mound here. A little less there.

The lock clicked.

His head snapped up so fast he nearly dropped the spoon. Then you were there, stepping inside with that sleepiness in your eyes you wore after work, shoes scuffing against the mat as you kicked them off.

“Hi! Ehm, hello-“ Copia scurried out of the kitchen to meet you. His lips found your cheek and, unable to help himself, stole two more kisses from your lips. “I have a snack for you!”

“Ooo, a snack? Chef Cardi strikes again, huh?” You smiled, and maybe he melted just a tad.

He practically bounced back into the kitchen, gesturing for you to follow. It was only a few steps to the kitchen.

“Okay, okay, sit—no, stand, you can stand—just, look.” He offered you one with a little flourish. He couldn’t ever let the performer in him go.

You took a bite.

Copia held still, breath held tight in his chest.

“Mmm,” you hummed, and then, because you were you, you smiled around the second bite. “It’s super good, as always.”

His mouth turned into the dopey kind of grin he couldn’t seem to stop doing lately. It was quickly dashed by the unopened balsamic bottle on the counter.

“Dio mio,” he breathed, eyes going wide. “I forgot the drizzle.”

“You drizzle,” you told him, brushing your fingers along his arm as you passed. “I’ll go get comfy.”

You disappeared upstairs, and Copia finally let himself exhale. He tipped the balsamic over the bruschetta with exaggerated care, thin dark ribbons striping each piece. He adjusted a few tomatoes like they were misbehaving.

While he was at it, he opened the fridge and pulled out the pasta salad he’d made earlier. It was one of those recipes he’d found online that promised “foolproof” in the first paragraph. Nofancy knife skills, no obscure ingredients, no “simmer until it feels right.” Boil, drain, chop, mix. Even he could manage that.

It was cold and bright and tangy, the kind of thing that practically couldn’t be ruined unless you set it on fire. Copia set it on the coffee table with two forks. He stared at it, pleased in a quiet, ridiculous way, then hovered closer to the stairs for a moment, listening for you.

When you came back down, you looked like a dream built out of softness. Cozy clothes, hair slightly mussed, that post-work heaviness finally shedding off your shoulders.

Copia thought, not for the first time, about how much he’d changed without even trying.

At the Ministry, comfort had always been something he had to steal. When he wasn’t on duty, he’d fall into his maroon sweatsuit like armor turned inside out but his room had never felt like a place meant for resting. The mattress on the floor was too stiff, the air too cold, and even the quiet didn’t belong to him; it was borrowed, monitored, temporary.

Here, the soft things were allowed to stay.

He had sweatsuits now in colors he’d never bothered with before. Today it was navy blue, the fabric worn in at the knees from how often he curled up and forgot the world existed.

Blankets were everywhere. Draped over the couch like a nest, piled in corners, folded over the armrests for easy grabbing—your doing, mostly. You were the Queen of Cozy, and he’d learned at your side that comfort wasn’t indulgence. It was a way of living. A way of breathing.

He watched you cross the room and felt something simple and immense settle in his chest.

This was what home could be.

“Okay,” he said, patting the couch like it was the most important seat in the house. “Come. I made it better. With the drizzle. And there is pasta salad, too.”

You settled beside him, taking another piece of bruschetta and making a delighted sound that made his stomach flip with pride. You reached for the pasta salad too, because of course you did—because you always tried everything he made as it mattered.

Copia watched you eat as if it were the most intimate thing in the world.

He fed you another bite, just because he could, and your fingers brushed his as you took it. He pretended he wasn’t affected, but his ears were already hot.

“Thanks, honey.”

Copia nearly purred. He scooted closer and draped an arm around you with the careful confidence of someone who’d finally learned he was allowed to be gentle. You leaned into him immediately, fitting against his side like a piece of a puzzle.

He tucked his face into your hair for a second, just breathing you in, letting himself have this.

The world could wait.

For now, there was the couch.

There was you, warm and cozy and real.

The wine had seemed like a good idea at the time. He needed something to relax and if he was taking a sip, he wasn't complaining. Secondo had provided for the soiree as he usually did and, upon realising you were on babysitting duty, offered to upgrade Copia's supply from his 'good shit' to his 'extra good shit'. You had thanked him profusely but before Copia had even finished the second glass of his upgraded wine, you had started to realise Secondo hadn't exactly done you a kindness.

Rather than being responsible for a surly, belligerent teenager, you were now in charge of an irritable toddler fighting sleep. You had to practically drag him out of the abbey as he threatened to pull you on to the dance floor, managing to knock over a chair in the process.

"But they finally started to play some good music," he slurs as you hoist his arm around your shoulder. "Not that shit fucking V si… urghh." He's briefly interrupted by the urge to vomit, but after a taking a breath he seems to have it under control for now.

Given that he begins to cooperate and stumbles willingly towards his room, you don't think it would be conducive to mention the song was in fact one of V's. Instead, you give a non-committal grunt and focus on making sure he doesn't trip over his own feet.

By the time you make it to his room, he has thankfully given up completely on being combative. Helping him out of his shoes and guiding him to bed is scored only by grateful mumbling and cheerful humming of his new favourite song.

"Clothes. Off."

"Hmmm, it got you in the mood too?" Copia wiggles his eyebrows before falling back on to the mattress. He starts tugging at his shirt and fights unsuccessfully with the fabric.

You leave him to struggle for a few minutes while grabbing some water. Turning off the tap, you hear him burst into song once again: "Love rockets…. BAdadadadadadadadahhhhhh!" And by the time you come back and set the water on his bedside table, he has managed to undress and shuffle himself towards his pillows.

He grabs the glass to take a drink, but mostly misses his mouth and spills the water all over himself. You reach out to try and wipe him down but he purrs as your fingers stroke over his chest and he pulls you on to the bed.

"No, Copia. Sleep." Your words are stern but he definitely notices you very deliberately averting your eyes which only encourages him.

"You're staying," he mumbles.

"Yes. Just to make sure you don't choke or hurt yourself."

"Wellllllllll, either way you are overdressed I think. Clothes. Very uncomfortable."

You roll your eyes, but his antics feel more amusing now than irritating. "I'll find one of your shirts to sleep in."

"Don't have any." You ignore him and begin to search a nearby dresser. "And it's verrrry hot in here." You glare at him but it only makes him laugh and, looking at him now starfished on the bed, it is contagious.

Either because of the wine you had drank, or the sheer amount Copia had drank rubbing off on you, you find yourself considering it and agreeing startlingly fast. What would be the harm in humouring him? With a performative sigh, you start to undress.

"You showed me yours, I'll show you mine," you half sing as your clothes pool at your feet.

"Hmm, exact— oh! Like the song! Very good, heh."

You crawl in beside him and you have to admit the cool sheets feel nice against your skin. As does his hand on your hip. Even though his breath tastes like he's swallowed an entire vineyard, you find yourself quite happy to stay close. His lips look so soft. Had you noticed that before?It's the only thing you can look at now as you gently stroke the top of his head. The way they part slightly when he breathes out, the way—

Your thoughts are interrupted by loud snoring. His eyes have fallen shut and his body is limp, half-holding you with his arm sagging over your waist. You watch him for a few minutes, staying still in order to not disturb him. Definitely not for any other reason. Once you're sure that is sleeping deeply, you carefully leave his grasp and try to manoeuvre him under the sheet. Despite some light mumbling, he doesn't wake and you pretend not to be a little disappointed.

Taglist: @gh0ul-dinner @copiasslut @burichu @kosem-sultan167 @unholyguleh @zealoushound @anomalousghost @mmonstranceclock @sleepy-ghuleh <3