#copia x reader

one of Primo’s big hands cradling your face, surprisingly strong, but it’s not his touch that keeps you from looking away—it’s the intensity in his eyes. uncanny and ageless, unblinking as he looks down at you. you’re pinned to the spot, even as he moves, hips rocking with shallow thrusts as he works himself deeper and deeper into you. you’re writhing beneath him, panting like an animal, clenching around him as you adjust to his size—and he just gazes at you like you’re all that exists. “let me in,” he says on an undertone, voice thick and husky, “and let go.” and when he finally bottoms out, you arch, throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes shut. with the hand he’s been holding your face with, he taps your cheek—three quick taps—and you quickly look back at him. he sighs and says, “just like that, anima mia. keep your eyes on me.” and you do.

a calm, “look at me,” from Secondo, spoken low and controlled and hot. and it’s hard—it’s so hard—when he hasn’t stopped moving, when his fingers are biting into the meat of your thighs as he pins you open for him. he always looks at you like you’re a puzzle he needs to figure out, like he’s trying to develop the ability to read your mind, and it paralyzes you. it’s like everything disappears—the walls around you, the floor beneath you. you’re just floating in an abyss and all you know is how full you are. but you force yourself to keep your eyes on his, even as you feel your climax building in you, hotter and tighter. he watches. and his mouth quirks up at the corners, pleased. “bene.” a single word. you might have imagined it, but it’s enough to push you over the edge. and a rough hand finds your chin so he can keep you from hiding as you come.

Terzo has his fingers twisted into your hair, but not harshly—merely deliberate. he combs his fingers through your hair, tilting your head back up so you can blink up at him. “there you are,” he says with a smirk, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I want you to watch while I take you apart.” his other hand splays flat against your abdomen, pressing down like he wants to feel how deep he is. the pressure makes you whimper, but his grasp tightens in your hair just slightly—so you catch yourself before your eyes try to squeeze shut. his lips curl up into a satisfied grin. “tell me what you’re feeling, amore. let me hear it.” but as you open your mouth, he angles his next thrust and brushes the spot inside of you that makes your veins flood with electricity. all you can do is cry out his name—which he answers with a rasped out laugh, though the way his breath hitches tells you he’s not unaffected.

holding your hands in his, fingers laced with yours, Copia leans in to nuzzle you, bumping your nose with his, uttering a rasped little plea of, “'look at me… please.” and when you do, dragging your eyes open so you can meet his gaze, you see it. like a switch flipping. and his hips start snapping against yours faster, a vein in his neck popping, his face and chest flushed a delicious shade of red. he’s thanking you, telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel around him. your eyes flutter closed at the next ripple of pleasure, and he says your name like it hurts. your eyes pop open again. focus on him again. and he says, “sì, sì—you’re mine. All mine. my perfect—” his words cut off, turning into a deep groan as his rhythm falters and he comes unexpectedly, with no warning. but the night is young….

Primo: He no longer gets the erections from his youth (he'll sometimes say he used them all up in the 70s and 80s if he's in the mood to joke about it) and frankly the idea of expending energy on seduction or lovemaking, or much human contact at all, feels like a waste of what precious time he has left. Not to say he's immune to the touch of a soft, young thing who takes interest. Once you've gotten past his grouchy exterior, he's more than happy to dust off the knowledge of decades in the worship of sin and prove that he still has what it takes to rock your world. As far as receiving goes, he's less likely to allow that unless he's quite sure you will not have your feelings hurt when does little more than swell in your eager hand. He enjoys the affection just the same, as long as you do. He might be convinced to try some sort of enhancement if you really wanted him to, but he's pretty old-fashioned and ultimately knowing that you're satisfied is his only concern.

Secondo: In spite of his advanced age, he still gets aggressive hard-ons when he wants to (and occasionally when he doesn't, though that's rarer nowadays). But a lifetime of focusing on training himself to go all night long has left him often to have to take drastic measures to be able to cum himself, even after you're spent and practically begging for mercy. Combine that with the occasional effects of whiskey-dick, and he can be...a lot of work. So as much as he has a reputation for being dominant, even consensually sadistic, his basic desires are actually pretty tame and he won't let himself get too close to you until he's sure you'll believe him when he tells you he doesn't need to finish to be satisfied, that you won't take it personally. He's not an uncrackable safe, though and the right lover will figure out the surefire ways to make him lose control even if he'd rather die than admit them.

Terzo: Charismatic and confident, he's a seducer of cheering throngs and would-be bed-fellows alike. A below-average height gentleman with perfectly average equipment, and arguably above average skill. No one who's enjoyed his company in the carnal sense has ever been left unsatisfied, or without wanting more. But deep-down he's a hopeless romantic, though that's a part of himself he rarely let's anyone see. If you seek to woo this Papa you're going to have to prove to him that you don't just want him for his body, or his image, for the fulfillment of sexual desires he promises (and will absolutely deliver on), or the prestige and bragging rights that would bring...but to stimulate each other's minds as much as your bodies. Nothing excites him more intellectually or sexually than someone who can take charge and take him out of his own head. The moral is...it's easier for him to share his bed than share his true self, and you're more likely to see his boner than his heart.

Copia: If you were to ask him...his erections are consistent and satisfying. No trouble getting it up. No trouble keeping it up. But in reality he does have a weakness (or at least, what he would consider a weakness). He will cum almost as soon as he's inside you. He'll try closing his eyes and thinking about video games, biting the inside of his mouth, pinching himself until he bleeds. He's even prayed to the Dark Lord and dabbled in a bit of ritual sacrifice in an attempt to gain a sense of control. But it makes no difference...you just feel TOO DAMN GOOD. You make his mind go totally blank of anything but your wet heat hugging tight around him. Consequently, he'll spend as much time as possible on foreplay, teasing you, edging you, making you cum over and over so that by the time he gets to what could be considered the main event, you're barely functional. And what he lacks in stamina he'll more than make up for in adoration, showering you with affection and making you feel like the only person in his world, like he would literally die without you.

Perpetua: Whether you think he's a full-on creature of the night or just a weird little guy, he's...huge. Not dangerously so, but definitely enough for a new partner to be intimidated and more than a little nervous. He's eager to learn, desperate to please you, but inexperienced himself and pretty self-conscious about it (mostly because more than one partner in the past has gotten as far as seeing him in all his glory and excused themselves rather unceremoniously), so he needs you to be patient with him. Go slow and give him lots of gentle instruction and enthusiastic praise, and he will move heaven, hell, and earth to leave you satisfied. In spite of his shaky confidence, he's not shy about communication and will ask you lots of questions...what you like, how it feels. You will never experience someone more loyal and devoted once you coax him out of his shell, once he knows you really do want him. And if you can physically handle him...he. will. ruin. you.

Later on, the photos show Copia—at his graduation, then in various clerical robes as he rose through the ranks of the Ministry. He tries to flip through these pages faster but you stop him by resting your fingers on his, even as his cheeks turn a soft rosy color and his top lip trembles. He's always been handsome, soft brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache à la Vincent Price, freckled all over and with a deceptively shy expression. Some of the pictures show his true character though, the silly laughs, tongue sticking out, peace signs and action hero poses.

As the quality of the pictures increases so does the resemblance to the man turning the page. Photos of his early days as a Cardinal, the unmistakable make-up, the biretta, only his face looks younger, more even and boyish, hinting at mischief. Eventually you find him in some of the clothes he's still wearing today, his old room that you've first met him in, still filled with the objects of his youth only now in higher resolution. There are mismatched pictures of Sister he must have added later, both of her youth and after her return to the Ministry. It's easier to spot their resemblence when they're side by side, mother and son.

Then his face in the photos suddenly changes, new features, new make-up, and even though there are a handful pages left Copia urgently closes the album. His smile is strained as he rests his gloved hand on the cover, as if to absorb who he used to be. He's still the same man and yet he is nothing like those past versions of himself.