Long Ago, Yet Too Close To Forever

That won’t do. You shouldn’t be thinking clearly enough to feel concern. He kisses your clit and ah, there, that whimper, that’s what he wants. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at something deep within him.

He rolls the tip of his tongue back and forth over your clit, delighting in the sensation. Such a tiny thing, and already it has you tensing and trying not to writhe. “Copia—mmm!—not that I don’t love this, but you’ve gotta get ready—”

“I am, amore.” He winks at you. “I must have a good dinner before the ritual, no?” Before you can say a word he’s devouring you again, and your only replies are sweet little sounds. You’re trying so hard to be quiet in case anyone’s passing by in the hall, but he doesn’t care. Let them hear.

Maybe the next guy can take his place on stage, but Copia’s quite sure no one will ever take his place here. He knows every nook and cranny of you, all the precious bits of flesh that feel so divine on his tongue and all the ways to touch them that light your nerves on fire. He knows how to draw it out long and languid, and how to have you pleading through frantic gasps.

Tonight it’s the latter. If this is his last chance he’s going to leave you with something you’ll never forget, a hunger no one else will ever be able to sate. Perhaps it’s cruel of him, but he needs this. He needs to make at least one indelible mark somewhere, and the surest place is you.

He plunges his tongue as deep as it will go, using a gloved finger to rub torturous circles on your clit. “Copia!” you whine, so needy, and oh it thrills him. “Copia, please, oh god!” He growls, and you moan, and he feels your body tightening, hips twitching, ever closer to the precipice. A little more, just a little more. He hears the clock ticking, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but you.

When you come, it’s with a sharp cry and a flood on his tongue. He drinks every drop as your thighs tremble around his ears. If he’s going to die tonight, this is the flavor he wants lingering in his mouth when the lights go down.

You say his name again, that pleading tone that twists his heart, and even though he needed to finish painting his face five minutes ago he takes another minute just to hold you. He needs to engrave this in his mind, the warmth and weight of you in his arms. It’ll never be enough.

***

What a fucking night it’s been.

He asked you to watch the show from the barricade, this once. Made up a story about wanting to see your face while he sang, wanting to finally Cirice you instead of a fan. And yeah, that was true, but it wasn’t why.

If you were out among the fans then you wouldn’t be backstage when Imperator’s ghouls came for him. He’d made Phil promise that if the worst should happen he’d get you out safely, make sure you never made it backstage. No throwing yourself in harm’s way, no seeing him murdered. Your last image of him would be triumphant after a glorious ritual, not a pathetic body on the floor.

But that’s not how the night goes. It’s Imperator’s lifeless body on the floor. Imperator throwing him for a loop yet again. He grieves his mother and wants to rage at the woman who just can’t stop fucking with him, even from beyond the grave.

Somehow he thinks to text you: I’ll be here a while, don’t wait up. Ti amo tesoro xoxo

You reply: You were fantastic as always! I’ll see you at the hotel. Love you rock star 😘

You don’t know. For a little longer he’s still Papa, not Papa-with-an-asterisk.

There’s too much to be done, and too little of it that he can do. It’s been an age and no time at all when he walks into the hotel room and sees your face, and he knows you know. Someone else must have messaged you. Silly of him to think they wouldn’t.

“Copia, sweetheart…” You pull him into the tightest hug he’s ever felt. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Ti amo,” he murmurs, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You smell like a concert, sweat and smoke and makeup and the last hint of your favorite scent clinging to your skin.

“I love you, too.” You’re petting his hair again, that soft way you do when he needs comfort, and he thinks he’ll fall apart if you keep going.

He steers you back toward the bed, tugs you down to sit with him. “Amore, ti prego.”

“Anything.” You mean it, he can tell. “Anything you need, anything at all.”

With a growl, he attacks the zipper of your jeans, warmth sparking when you squeak in surprise. But even though you didn’t expect this, you don’t stop him from tugging them off. “Copia, what are you—oh!”

Your thighs are hot in his hands, your scent only stronger after dancing all night. He bows his head to breathe you in. This. This is what he lived for, this is what will sustain him through whatever comes next. You, and your love, and this reassurance that it’s real.

He keeps his mouth gentle and slow. There’s no ticking clock now. Just you and the way your body responds to him, so soft and wet and welcoming. You want him, you need him, and if he doesn’t come in his pants you’ll have him.

But first he’ll have you. The first meal of the rest of his life.

He doesn’t know how long he feasts, or how many times you come. He just knows how his name sounds when you’re utterly wrung out, and that’s how you’re saying it now. He knows the feeling of your hands as you cling to him, pulling him on top of you, fingers digging in as he finally presses into you.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell you all of it. What he’d feared, what changes might be coming. But tonight, it doesn’t matter whether he’s Papa or not. There’s a hunger only Copia can sate.