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leah-halliwell92 · 3 months

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my royal roomie (part 2)

Fandom: Aquaman

Pairing: Orm Marius x Reader

part 1:

https://www.tumblr.com/gimme-a-man-after-midnight/693273500438429696/my-royal-roomie-pt-1?source=share

Summary: After a few days of living under your roof, Orm gets to know the little surface dweller he's been stuck with. With time, a stormy night, and a bottle of wine, the prince learns that he has more in common with you than he may think.

Word Count: 4,000+

Warnings: female reader, slow burn, light cursing, mentions of past emotional abuse, divorced parents!reader, dead parent, comic lore inaccuracies, floral inaccuracies??

Author's Note:

hi y'all! here's the full part 2 i've been working on for some time! thanks for the support on the last one and again, so sorry for the late continuation :/ i hope this story is to your liking! happy reading!

After the first one-on-one conversation you had in the living room, Orm didn't come out of the guest bedroom for days. You’d see flashes of platinum blonde out of the corner of your eye, just barely missing him by a few seconds whenever you’d be in the kitchen or outside of his door. You had made many offers through the red painted oak of his room to go grocery shopping together or take him on a tour of the town, but all of your efforts were met with a stern "No thank you." You had lost any hope you had of forming some kind of connection with the Atlantean for a while, cutting your losses by quietly resigning to a parallel existence. What you didn’t expect was the mutual understanding you two would come to on one fateful stormy Friday night, much like the one that brought him to your doorstep.

***

Heavy traffic from the drive home, a full message inbox on your telephone, and the burnt attempt at roast chicken sitting on your oven rack had you nursing a glass bottle of wine by the living room window. Bad days were normal for anybody, but it didn’t make them easier to deal with on your own - the added stress of the stranger living in your space didn’t help either. You had been living a quiet life ever since you moved back to the sleepy town some years ago, taking up very little space and leaving minimal traces of yourself. Whether it was out of caution or cowardice, you weren’t sure yet. Either way, that silence had brought you comfort at a time where your thoughts were too loud, but now with another person occupying your space the quiet was becoming suffocating.

Orm wasn’t by any means a bad roommate - he kept to himself, he didn’t make much noise, and he even managed to wash his dishes whenever he knew you weren’t in the kitchen - but he was a man.The last time you had lived with a man, the end of its course felt similar to how you two were living now, and maybe that’s why it was bothering you so much. Tip-toeing around the Atlantean made you feel uneasy in your own home, a situation you were all too familiar with. Typically at this time in the night you would be cooking up some plan to urge the man out of his guest room, but after the day you had, you didn’t have the heart to try.

Once you took your final gulp of wine, wiping at the sides of your mouth with the back of your hand, you trudged away from the raging display outside of your window. The dishes could be a tomorrow problem, you thought to yourself as you were leaving your kitchen counter behind. You had only made it a few paces out of the living room before your body was overcome with chills, making you draw your blanket tighter around you. The draft through the house was unmistakable, confusing you thoroughly due to you always making sure the doors and windows were shut before bed. As you stepped deeper into the house, you realized the distinct breeze was coming from the direction of the guest bedroom. You had made it a point to allow Orm his space, but your brain was stirring with reasons for what he could possibly be doing in there - most of them unsavory.

With a deep breath and a tight fist holding your blanket, you gently rapped at the door.

“Hey, Orm?”

No response. You knock again.

“I don’t mean to bother, but I’m feeling a bit of a breeze through the house and I can tell it’s coming from here, so I just want to see if everything is alri-”

The door suddenly opened a crack, revealing half of Orm’s face which was already more than you had seen in days.

“If you don’t mean to bother, then don’t.”

The curt response, although expected, has you taken aback. Already seeing the Atlantean retreat from the spot again, you hold the door in its place in effort to keep his attention.

“Look, I know you wanna be alone, but I can’t help wondering why a cold ass breeze is coming from your room, so I just want to see what’s going on. Please, it’s freezing right now.” You do your best to keep control of your tone, not wanting to let on just how much the cold was getting to you - giving the prince another reason to look down on humans wasn’t on your agenda for the night.

Almost as if he commanded the storm, the lightning cracked loudly outside as Orm swung his door open, revealing his full disheveled state to you. You jolted in place, practically leaping a step back in defense at the swift move.

“What’s going on is the stench of your burnt dinner was practically singeing my nostrils. I opened a window in hopes that I could find some relief, because clearly you surface dwellers have no trouble polluting not only the ocean, but your precious breathing air as well! I have little care for how cold your fragile body may get, so I suggest you retire to your room at once and leave me be.”

There was a gap in the yelling match conversation, almost as if the blond was waiting for you to bite back at his harsh words, but the glazed look in your eyes and parted lips made it evident to the Atlantean that your mind was elsewhere. Orm followed your gaze, noticing that it was locked onto the maroon sweater he was adorning, looking at it with equal parts surprise and melancholy. His enhanced hearing picked up on a hitch in your breath and chattering of your teeth, confirming to him that you were clearly shaken.

After the long silence, you mousily spoke.

“I didn’t leave that sweater out for you.”

The arbitrary words silenced Orm, his expression turning to one of confusion as he looked down at the knit fabric on his chest.

“...where did you find it?”

Your voice didn’t change in volume when you made your inquiry, but your tone was somber. The candid emotion made the Atlantean clear his throat awkwardly, unsure of how to handle such vulnerability from his host. You couldn’t even fully appreciate how much messier Orm looked in comparison to when he first arrived - looking like a 90s wet dream with his ungelled hair, clenched jaw, and broad shoulders peeking out of his loose fitting clothes. No, it was the clothes that were holding your attention hostage.

“It was deep in the wooden wardrobe of my room…the garb you set out for me wasn’t suitable for the storm,” Orm says, arms crossed in a defensive manner as he anticipates your response.

A part of you wanted to laugh at his retort, the corner of your lips quirking up for a millisecond before melting back into the numb expression you had prior.

“Are you going to ask me to change? Because I don’t see why I should relent,” the blond goads, pulling a haughty expression that comes all too naturally.

Orm wasn’t sure himself why he wanted to urge a response from you - why he wanted to learn more about this sweater that was clearly jumbling up your thoughts enough to render you so silent. He tried to chalk it up to plain boredom, tried to reason with himself that all his time in self-isolation was making him yearn for more. Still, even with those excuses lined up to justify his actions, he couldn’t explain why seeing the down-turned expression on your lips felt so unnerving. This woman in front of him now was like a shell in comparison to the buoyant, eccentric character he had been previously introduced to - and for some bizarre reason he didn’t like it.

Your thought process, on the other hand, was going in a completely different route. The glaringly red knit in your line of sight brought back too many memories that you had made efforts to bury. The cursed sweater in combination with the Atlantean prince’s snark makes your breath quicken and your mind wander to the whisper of a past life that still takes up space in your home. You couldn’t decipher if your shivering was coming from Orm’s open window or from your body trying to eject all of the feelings evoked from seeing that damn sweater.

“I-I…you…you shouldn’t-” you shakily exhale, your eyes surveying around your surroundings to try and focus on literally anything else. You backstep, hoping that physically running away from the situation will do you good, but your eyes lining up with the red-clad chest and the sound of the booming thunder makes you falter. Your hand clutches at your chest, the white knuckled grip on your blanket alerting your roommate.

The prince's body calls to action, making Orm take an instinctive step forward, reaching out as if to try and steady you.

“What is happening with you? Why are you so high-strung? Do humans go into cardiac arrest so easily?”

You couldn’t hear his stern questioning, your mind flitting to images of firm fists slammed against tables and nights spent alone, buried deep under your covers in the hopes of being swallowed by the sheets. It was like the space in your lungs was being taken up by a vice grip, and your ability to think - to form a simple thought that didn’t make your heart hurt - was completely ripped away from you. Even after four years, the memories of him still have so much power over you in a way that’s paralyzing.

“I-I just - I need - I need to breathe!”

With that final exclamation, you scurried away from the Atlantean, quickly making it back to your room before slamming the door shut behind you. Orm was left stunned outside of his door, his eyes trained in the direction of your room down the hall.

What the hell just happened?

***

Arthur was done - so done.

The newly crowned Atlantean king had so much on his plate already, what with his upcoming engagement underway and him having an entire kingdom to look after. While he did appreciate his little brother feeling comfortable enough to call him at such an ungodly hour, the words the blond uttered made him want to pull his hair out.

“I think I broke her - your human.”

“Bro, what?”

It was too fucking early for this.

“Don’t call me - agh, nevermind - something’s wrong with your human and I’m not sure how to approach the situation. Is this really an environment you believe me to find enrichment from? My host is clearly on the brink of some sort of breakdown and I-”

“Wow, I never took you for someone that was so easily shaken, brother.”

Arthur’s poorly timed quip makes Orm stare back at the projection call with a blank face.

“First off, she’s not my human, she’s her own person. Second, what did you even do? She’s not one to just collapse on her own - although she is a serial overthinker and could definitely talk herself to an early grave...”

Orm, frustrated with his half-brother’s lack of support, rolls his eyes over the call.

“Okay, okay, but seriously. Something must’ve set her off or triggered her to react in a way. You sure you didn’t do anything?”

“All I did was answer the door when she knocked. When she saw me at the entrance, she saw the sweater I was wearing and was overcome with emotion. That’s hardly my fault.”

Orm can see Arthur’s brows furrow in thought at the information, almost as if he’s assessing whether he’s been given the whole story or not.

“Well…where’d you get the sweater?”

“I hardly think that matters-”

“Just answer the question, bro-”

An exasperated grunt leaves Orm as he grips at the sheets beneath him in an attempt to contain himself. A part of him regretted bringing up the matter at all, communication with his half-brother being much too awkward to bear.

“I got it from the wooden wardrobe inside of my chambers! It was much more practical to wear than the flimsy garb-”

“Shit,” Arthur cuts him off, the hologram shifting as the man rubs at his eyes. “The wooden wardrobe with vines on the sides?”

It was Orm’s turn to be taken aback, unsure of how he knew the detail from off the top of his head.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

A muffled sigh comes from Arthur’s end, the image changing again as the king shuffles out of bed quietly to not disturb a sleeping Mera.

“Listen, dude. It’s not my place to speak on her business like this, but all I can say is that the wardrobe - that room - holds a lot of memories that are painful for her. I know you didn’t mean to bring them up, but that wardrobe is off limits. Just try and apologize for now, but don’t pry.”

“But why should I-”

“Orm, seriously! I get it, you don’t like being there - that you’ve spent every day in your room ever since I dropped you off, but she’s been trying. She’s been doing everything she can to get you out of your shell and you’re not giving back anything. There has to be some give here, and that can start with you saying sorry.”

Orm was surprised by the fact that Arthur knew of his daily whereabouts already, undoubtedly asking you for updates on him. However, what surprised him the most was that even though you have seemingly complained to his half brother, you never once suggested kicking him out - never demanded he leave your house and have Atlantis deal with him. You truly were a peculiar little thing.

“...fine. But don’t expect me to continue such niceties with her.”

A belly laugh could be heard from over the call, surely out of amusement for the prince's unwavering coldness.

“Good. Now hang up, you disrupted my beauty sleep.”

With a scoff, Orm presses on the green gem of his wristlet and heads off to the direction of your room.

***

When Orm knocks on your door, he expects a big fuss - bouts of yelling, arguing, or cursing that’ll leave his highly sensitive ears ringing. What he doesn’t expect is everyone of his knocks being met with silence - deafening silence now that the storm has subsided.

“Hello?”

The prince feels weirdly small waiting by your door for your answer, having no clue what he’ll be met with on the other side of him. (It also gives him some insight on how you must feel every time you knock on his door to chat, although he’d never admit to having similarities with you,)

“Are you ignoring me?”

More silence.

“Oh, enough of this childishness.”

With a deep breath in, Orm turns the knob of your door and lets himself into your room. He’s met with colorful tapestries embellishing the walls, big rugs covering the hardwood floor, and twinkling lights surrounding the bed frame. The scene that you set for yourself in your room makes Orm think about his home - the way that the colorful bioluminescence would sparkle throughout his kingdom.

When the initial first impression of your room wears off, he notices there is no one in the bed. No squirming presence under the sheets or anyone sitting on top of the bed to give him a stern talking to. Where did you go?

The blond takes a tentative step inside, stepping over the fuzzy carpets to keep from disturbing their arrangement. When he walks past the bed frame and closer to the window, he sees a lump of a human wearing a large blanket over their shoulders and some type of bulky headgear that covers your ears and emits sound. You were completely enthralled by the scene outside of the window that you hardly notice Orm stepping up next to you.

A sudden hand on your shoulder has you jolting upward with a yelp, your hand instinctively slapping away at the intruder before you turn to look at where they came from.

“Jesus fucking christ!”

Orm gets into his own defensive position as you scramble to press your back against the wall, looking at you as if you were a trembling animal.

“My god, woman!”

“What are you doing in here you scared me half to-”

“I knocked but there was no answer so I-”

“Oh, so you decided to just welcome yourself in?”

Orm purses his lips in frustration, not thrilled at being met with the uproar he had originally expected. You sigh to yourself in disbelief, willing yourself to be quiet since there would be no productive conversation if you two kept yelling at each other.

“Next time just take the hint that I’m busy if I don’t answer, okay? You can’t just barge in here when you want, it’s not cool…”

The Atlantean has some sense to feel a shred of shame when you speak, although your words are hardly convincing when your eyes don’t turn in his direction for even a second. You look so timid standing there in your corner with the blanket consuming you completely - not at all like the spitfire that called him an “asshole” and warned him not to “test her.” (He secretly felt some relief in your loud exchange mere moments ago, because it meant that version of you was still there.)

“I…I apologize for intruding.”

Your head whips up to finally meet the man’s piercing blues, your mouth left slightly agape at an actual apology leaving the arrogant Atlantean’s lips.

“Uh…it’s okay...although, try not to do it again.”

Another moment of awkward silence passes.

“So…why’d you come in here?”

You ask this question as you take a seat back on the floor, resuming your position of staring out of the window only this time without your headphones. You pat the spot next to you on the floor, urging Orm to sit next to you. With a small eye roll, the blond begrudgingly joins you on your multi-colored carpet, opting to rest his arms against his knees as means to shield himself from you.

“I came here to apologize, not just for barging in, but for what happened earlier. I shouldn’t have gone through the wardrobe without your permission even if I needed different clothes. I should’ve asked you instead of rifling through your belongings on my own accord.”

His apology, although rehearsed, seems genuine enough for your shoulders to relax. Your eyes follow the droplets of rain slowly trickling down the glass of your window, racking your brain for the right thing to say.

“It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, I just…I haven’t revisited the memories that room brings in a long time. You putting on that sweater unearthed them today, and it got me bad. See, I was having a shit day already what with keeping up with the shop, and then an accident causing traffic on the way home, and the wine that I usually like being out of stock-”

Your rambling gets cut off by a soft chuckle coming from the man next to you, a sound that seems so uncharacteristically happy for his usual demeanor. The corners of your mouth perk up in disbelief, the expression making Orm quickly look away from you.

“Huh. So that’s what your laugh sounds like. It’s nice…”

Orm didn’t understand why he reacted in such a way, you weren’t saying anything particularly funny…

…It’s just the way your eyes became so animated as you spoke more, your hands gesturing stronger as you explained further - it was amusing to him. So different from the usual company he keeps, always firmly placed brows and crossed arms from the high council members he consulted. Even the Atlantean women, although much more pleasant company, were more regal in comparison to his surface dweller host. However, what you did have in common with those women was your tenacity. Even with his cold attitude towards you, your kindness was unwavering - a few times a day, without fail, you’d knock on his door with the promise of food and semi-entertaining company. He’s starting to regret only agreeing to the food.

God, he must be going stir crazy.

“What is it about the sweater that made you react in such a way?”

This was when you noticed that Orm was no longer wearing the offending material, choosing to wear the simping cotton T shirt you had given him. It may have been nothing - a simple delusion on your part - but the weight on your chest felt lighter at the idea that the Atlantean took it off to bring you comfort.

“It - uh,” you stuttered, “it belonged to my ex-boyfriend. All of the stuff in that wardrobe did, actually. We painted the vines on the side of it together…”

Orm’s arms flexed tighter around his knees at your words. He didn’t know how to respond, feeling significantly awkward due to adorning your ex lover’s clothing, so he decided to just shut up and let you continue.

“When I was 14 my parents got divorced. My mom wanted so badly to make it work, but my dad didn’t like his life here in Amnesty Bay - a part of me felt like he also didn’t like his life with us in general. I mean, he never had a problem making his grievances known, so…”

Now, this was something the blond was familiar with - uncomfortable family dynamics. The realities of his parents’ marriage were never shielded from him growing up - he often witnessed the brutality of his father whenever his mother, Atlanna, would make her opposing opinions known. He often felt conflicted about which side to take - the one of least resistance that prioritized the well-being of his people or the one that looked out for the well-being of everyone, Atlanteans and surface dwellers alike. Hearing you now, speak your piece on your own upbringing, comforted him in a way he didn’t expect.

“The divorce was messy. Lots of nights spent being pulled in every direction, but with no real place to find peace. After everything settled, my dad ended up moving to New York while my mom remained here. They agreed that for the school year I’d stay with my mom, so she’d have some help at the flower shop, but I’d visit him on major holidays…”

The blanket around you suddenly feels too thin, a chill running over you as you recount your tale. You take a sneaky glance over your shoulder to check if the blond was still listening, and you were surprised (and delighted) to find that his steadfast gaze was at the side of your face.

“...At some point during my years at university, my mom stopped asking me to visit - demanded that I only live with my dad when I was out of school. You can imagine Arthur had his qualms about that…”

You chuckled to yourself at the memory of a young Arthur blowing up your home phone upon hearing the news.

“It would only be for the same visiting time as before, so there wasn’t much fuss on my dad’s end, but my relationship with him had become so different after the divorce that it wasn’t ideal. It…It hurt to hear my mom reject me like that.”

Orm’s mind flashes back to the rain soaked figure of his mother, presenting herself to be siding with his half-brother after his defeat. The sting of her counteraction still lingers in his chest.

“When I had started dating my ex during my third year, I found out the reason my mom was keeping me from home - she got sick…cancer. All of the overworking to pay the bills, lack of support, and the hereditary traits…she got really sick. I guess she didn’t want me to see her in so much pain…”

Orm watches as you turn away to stubbornly wipe at your face, a sniffle coming from your direction. He hadn’t expected you to willingly speak on your background when he asked about the sweater, but a part of him felt guilty for being the cause of your current distress.

“When she died, I moved back here to look after the house and take over the shop…but my ex had moved in with me. Darren.”

More tears fell from your cheeks at the same speed as the rain running down your window.

“Darren offered to help me with the business, help me get on my feet. A part of me knew that he was going to hate the life we were starting together based on talks we had about the future, but I ignored it all when my grief became the only thing I felt for a long time. He always wanted more - more than our little town, more than the flower shop…so when an opportunity presented itself to have a life on his own, he took it. Just like my dad did…”

Orm’s heart drops at the end of your retelling, knowing the feeling of rejection and abandonment all too well. His father would be rolling in his grave if he knew what feelings this little surface dweller was stirring in him. The gap between the Atlanteans and the humans was closing in his mind, and Orm wasn’t sure if he cared to stop it. All he wanted at this moment was to stop you from crying.

“I’m sorry for putting on the sweater…and for being an ungracious guest these past few days. I’ve been a real dick.”

You can’t help but guffaw at his choice of words, using your fist to mask the unsightly sound as a cough.

“That’s not a very princely thing to say…”

Orm’s head tilts back as he snickers, feeling slightly proud of himself for inciting a better mood in you.

Ah, that laugh again, you think as you admire how ethereal the man looks in his relaxed state.

“Perhaps my brother is to blame for my much more…colorful vernacular.”

“Perhaps,” you hum in agreement, “or you’re just not as much of a dick as I previously thought…sorry for coming on so strong that first day.”

Orm’s blue eyes shine at you with something unfamiliar - different to the cold, distant stare you were first met with. You find yourself wishing to always be at the receiving end of his kind eyes.

Orm clears his throat before uttering, “No need to be…I was the one that misjudged you before ever seeing you.”

A silence falls over you two, a comforting one built between new comrades. Your (e/c) gaze meets his as the storm calms outside of your window, signaling the start of a new chapter for you and your royal roommate.

#orm marius x reader #orm marius x you #orm marius #orm x reader #aquaman imagine #orm marius imagine #orm marius fanfiction #aquaman fanfiction #arthur curry #dceu

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leah-halliwell92 · 4 months

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Yall this made my day!!

Creatures of Habit ~ Terzo x Plus Size f!reader

Summary: Every week was the same; the same Sunday routine you'd had for as long as you could remember, lost in the pages of books that sported characters of women like yourself, finding that perfect balance between acquired and self love. But soon come the winter months, and along with it, a strange new face that became a part of your routine. A man, whose self-worth reflected that of your own, forced into seclusion, hiding from the humiliation of forced retirement.

You find yourself enraptured by the mysterious man, and somehow, allowing him to become a part of your very own weekly ritual...

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI Word Count: 12k

Warnings: Insecurities, self-loathing, fingering, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v sex, body worship

Also available on AO3

A/N: Hey everyone! Special thank you to @her-satanic-wiles as always for beta reading, and special dedication to @angellayercake - I hope this will be all up in your Papa T feels. Also, I've been recommended to create a ko-fi, where you can leave me a little tip if you enjoy my work and support me in my writing journey. There's, of course, not pressure at all, but if you would like to leave me a small tip you can do so here: https://ko-fi.com/darulah

Happy reading, heathens! 🖤

You loved Sundays. Truly, one of the most peaceful days of the week. You liked your routine, and with the stress of 9-5 each and every week, you absolutely needed your Sunday routine.

Saturdays were for life admin; the boring, the mundane tasks you needed to get through to keep life ticking away as it should. Housework, finances, errands – that kind of thing. And social events too, of course. Catching up with friends or family.

But not on Sundays. Sundays were your day, each and every one exactly the same. By 9am, you had left your apartment and would walk through the local park at a leisurely pace, reconnecting to the world around you, grounding yourself after the stresses of the week behind you. Although only 20 minutes, the walk was ample time to relax your mind. Even if not, what was another lap around the park to you on a Sunday? And at the other end of the park was a café - your café. Except, it wasn’t really yours of course, but in fact owned by a rather lovely little Danish lady – not old, but not young. She knew you well by now, slotting into your life as part of your Sunday routine. Katrine never had to ask for your order, or when you wanted a refill. Your Sundays ran like clockwork, to the point that Katrine was usually already making your first coffee of the day by the time you wondered in each week.

This week had been no different, strolling into the café at around 9:25am and waving at Katrine as you approached the order point.

“Good morning, dear!” she called over her shoulder as she steamed the milk for your latte. “Good morning, Kat!” you called back with a smile. The same greeting, each and every week. Just part of that clockwork. As she fiddled with the machine to make your coffee and put your order through the till, you chatted about the previous week as you usually would. But she knew not to keep you too long, you came here for your peace, and she was never one to disturb that peace.

With your latte in hand, you took a seat in your corner – the same corner you had sat in since you had first discovered this tiny little café. Katrine had noted it as your favourite spot and created a little “reserved” card just for your Sunday routine.

This was always the spot – a table with two high-back chesterfield armchairs, vintage brown leather worn on the seat and edges of the arm rests. The chairs angled toward the large bay window; the sill covered in potted flowers kept alive even through the coldest of months.

Today, the glass had frosted over, only just beginning to thaw as the café heated up thanks to a gorgeous little gas fireplace in the centre of the back wall. However, it could do nothing to shake the chill on the air outside of the confines of these four walls. The grass in the park was a pale green still as you looked out, coated in frost. The trees at this time of year were bare, their branches shaking in the breeze just as you did from the temperature. Only the evergreen bushes that lined the fences of the park kept their colour, barely touched by the frost.

This view was nothing particularly special, but it allowed you a window of tranquillity that few people passed in front of at all. You felt like this little café was your own cosy little nook hidden away in the middle of the bustle of your city.

And now that you were comfortable, you could reach into your worn-out little satchel bag, and pull out this week’s book; ‘Out’ by Natsuo Kirino. You had been assured by its reviews that it was an incredible, yet scathing tale of a woman pushed to murder by her husband and forced to ask for help by her female colleagues to cover it up.

It was the latest in a long line of Japanese novels you had found yourself interested in lately, the first being recommended by your ‘Good Reads’ account for being relatively similar to your usual genres, but the more literature you read from Japan, the more you fell in love with it – just how detailed and dark it could be, with the essence of a beautiful culture so far from your own sprinkled between the lines.

Your clockwork morning was unfolding just as it always had, right down to the last detail. But still to come was the final part of your routine; the part that, in fact, wasn’t your routine at all - it was his.

At around 9:45am, the bell above the café door jingled its sweet little ring, followed by footsteps on the hardwood flooring heading up towards the counter where Kat greeted the customer. You, as usual, looked up through your eyelashes and over the top of your book to see broad shoulders in a thick, black wool coat. You smiled to yourself, your eyes following him as he collected his coffee and headed to the chairs in front of the fireplace, the same worn-leather chesterfield chairs as you were sat on in your window spot.

He set down his briefcase, made of flimsy but well-kept leather, unhooking the flap to reach in and pull out his own book - some dusty old book with no artwork, just a tatty forest green material with a tiny gold title you couldn’t make out. He reached back in and lifted a glasses case, only to put on some large and clearly aged round glasses on the end of his nose before he settled down with his coffee mug in one hand, and his tatty old book in another.

As a self-proclaimed people watcher, it wasn’t unusual for you to notice things about people from a distance, particularly those you saw on a regular basis. And much like the rest of your Sundays, this has become part of your routine; ogling the strange handsome man whose routine appeared the same for yours, except 45 minutes later.

You couldn’t help yourself... He looked like such a well-dressed, educated man – always in some kind of dark jewel-toned shirt, black slacks and some sort of waistcoat. The leather gloves he wore out int he cold were never removed, no matter how long he sat by the fire. He had this dark aura about him, a brooding peacefulness yet, a look of melancholy settled on his brow. His hair – as black as the darkest night – rarely fell out of place, combed and slicked back. Sometimes as he was reading, you’d spot the odd piece falling over his forehead. To you, that was all the more enticing.

It wasn’t just you who noticed him. Despite his well-kept appearance and his good looks, this was a man who turned heads. And from what you could tell, it wasn’t always for the best reasons; at least, if the skull paint he adorned across his face and the striking white iris in his right eye were anything to go by. Of course, you had noticed that first when he’d strolled into the café one morning all those weeks ago. But the more you observed this man, the less his paints and mismatched eyes seemed to matter in comparison to the rest of his features and little quirks. You often had to remind yourself that you knew absolutely nothing about the strange, handsome man in your Sunday routine.

And so, your morning continued much the same as it always did. Kat knew that somewhere around 10:30 you’d be ready for another coffee and a slice of her cake of the day – red velvet today, soft and light with a few strawberries on the side, just because. You never had to ask anymore, she just brought it over and you’d pay as you left later that morning.

You’d keep reading your book, your eyes occasionally drifting over the top of your page to the mystery man just to make sure he was still there, and all was right with the world and your Sunday routine. Sometimes you would catch yourself smiling, your eyes softening as you laid eyes on him looking so wonderfully cosy in front of that fire. Silly of you, really, to smile over the mere sight of a man you’d built up in your head to be the personification of a dreamboat.

At around 11:30 you’d pack your book away into your purse, and head up to the counter to pay your outstanding tab. He’d still be there, of course, enjoying his book on his third coffee – normal for him, you thought. This Sunday had been no different, and so you had your quick chat with Kat at the counter and made the 20-minute walk back to your apartment to continue your Sunday in the comfort of your own home, readying yourself for another week of drivelous work.

You loved your Sunday morning routine; it was simple, peaceful and frankly your favourite part of the week. Simply, it was you time, your very own ‘self-care Sunday’.

Already, you couldn’t wait for next week.

Last Sunday's frost had been replaced with a blanket of fresh snow, only around four inches thick, but enough to make your morning walk far more beautiful and scenic. 20 minutes turns to 40 as your strolled around the park a little slower, stopping to take photographs of the pretty landscape in front of you. The frozen pond, the dusted trees, the frozen berries on the ends of the branches; the snow always made this part of the city look so quaint, just like the movies.

As you wondered into your café later than usual, Kat called her usual “Good morning, dear!” and of course, you replied much the same. You noted that she hadn’t begun to make your latte when you walked in. Of course you never just expected her service the moment she saw you, but pair that with the wonderfully beaming grin on her face as she stared at you with suggestion in her eyes, you couldn’t help but wonder what it was that was different.

You squinted your eyes, tilting your head at her and looking around the room for any differences to the café - none, that you could see with a quick glance. “Kat, what on earth is that grin for?” you accused in a playful warning tone. She shrugged and leaned forward on her elbows, resting her chin on her palms. She raised her eyebrows suggestively and continued to stare into your eyes, grin unmoving.

You looked around again, slower this time, and amongst the few regulars dotted about with the Sunday morning papers or tapping away at a laptop, the first abnormality you noticed was that the mystery man was already here. Unusual, you thought. But then, you were later today than usual. Still, he looked plenty settled when now, at 9:45am, he should be just walking through the door.

Of course, he looked as dreamy as ever, opting for a deep purple shirt under his waistcoat today, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He still wore a scarf draped loosely around his neck, in a purple that matched his shirt and complimented the usual black coat hanging off the back of the chair. The book in his hand was as old as the last, except a red material on the hardback cover this week.

Before you could let yourself dwell too long on him, you continued sweeping the café for any more abnormalities that had surfaced that Kat may have been grinning wildly at. No new ornaments, no new artwork hung on the walls, nothing of the sort. But then, as you looked towards your window seat with the little reserved card on the table, you noticed a steaming coffee mug, and a slice of carrot cake on the table. You turned back to Kat with a triumphant smile, as if you’d caught her out. “Ah, are you doing table service now? Kat, you don’t have to do that!” you smiled at her, digging into your satchel for your purse, ready to pay for the items already. “No no, it’s taken care of. And uh, I didn’t do that.” Her grin never left her face, and it only led to more confusion on your end. “Well, then... Who?” you asked, bewildered. There was a feeling in the pit of your stomach, like butterflies that hadn’t taken flight yet but were just figuring out they had wings. Part of you hoped, but dare not hope too much...

Kat’s eyes drifted to the left, over to the very person you had hoped for. And he sat there, just quietly minding his own business as if he hadn’t been incredibly kind out of nowhere to you. “Oh, don’t be daft, you’re pranking me,” you chuckled, and Kat stood upright in mock offense, hand on her heart and jaw on the floor. “How dare you, I would never!” she protested as if auditioning for a school play. “He - you know, the strange man I see you watching over the top of your book every bloody week - came in early today, and he looked around for you. When he didn’t see you, he asked if you were coming today.” “I assumed you were but just got caught up in one of your little fantasy worlds in the snow – I know your mind gets distracted by pretty things. Hence, the way your eyes dart over to him every so often. I’m more observant than you think, dear...” You shook your head at the new information as if it would help filter it through the cracks in your brain to help you understand them quicker. “Wait, he asked for me?” you asked, backtracking as if you didn’t follow.

“I told him you were probably plodding around the park in the snow, and you’d be here soon. He smiled at that. I’m sure he found it adorable. Anyway... he asked to pre-order your usual drink, and he remembered you get a slice of my cake later too, so he bought you that with it. He’s noticed you, dear, just like you’ve noticed him...”

You turned your head to look in his direction and caught the tail end of a glimpse of his own at you. It would seem that he saw your head turning, and quickly jolted back to his book.

Now, you aren’t sure what had possessed you in that moment, or where the confidence suddenly came from, but you didn’t exactly think about it either... You simply found yourself wondering over to your little reserved table, picking up the coffee and cake and walking over to the spare armchair opposite the man at the fireplace.

He pretended he hadn’t seen you coming, until you gently placed down the coffee and cake, then your satchel back onto the seat and removed your coat to sling over the back of your own chair. Without a single word exchanged, you picked up your bag, sat down and pulled your book out.

The only communication between you was the eye contact as you settled into the seat and opened your book, offering him a small smile of appreciation. Nerves had set in when your eyes met, suddenly realising what you were doing and thinking ‘my god, ______, this is too bold...’ But he shared your smile, and never pushed you to say anything at all to him. And so, in only slightly awkward silence, the pair of you continued your routine. He went back to his book, and you began to delve back into yours. And whilst the frosty silence was uncomfortable at first, it quickly relaxed – whether from the heat of the fireplace, the warmth of your coffee, or perhaps just the warmth of the mystery man’s gesture, it began to thaw.

It wasn’t until Kat brought over your supplement coffees and made a face at you over his shoulder that said, “TALK TO HIM!” that you thought perhaps you actually should. Despite the absolute terror in your chest that threatened to squeeze your lungs into dust, you should at least introduce yourself, and see where the conversation took you... The pair of you leaned in to take a sip of your own fresh coffees at the same time, eyes meeting across the table between you. He smiled sweetly at you, and your cheeks instinctively tugged at your features in response. As he sat back to get comfortable once again, you took your chance.

“M-my name is _______, by the way,” you stuttered a little. He looked back up at you, almost as if he were shocked to hear you speak for the first time. He didn’t say anything back, the shock lasting just a second too long... “Y’know... Just in case you were wondering,” you nervously babbled. “Oh, sí, sí...” he shook himself out of his surprise and sat upright again. “Hi, ______. I’m glad I finally know that, I’ve wondered for a little while.” He scratched the back of his neck without thinking, holding his book in the other hand with one finger spliced between the pages as a bookmark. The silence settled again whilst you soaked in his thick Italian accent that made him all the more mysterious and simultaneously tried to cope with the fact that the mysterious coffee shop guy said he’d wanted to know your name ‘for a little while’...

“So, uh... May I know yours? Or do I have to guess?” you joked – a cliché attempt at clearing some of the shyness. “Oh, merda, yes... It’s uh, it’s Terzo,” he bumbled, “Although I’m realising now it may have been more fun to have you try and guess that,” he laughed. “We could have been here a while...” you joined his soft laughter. “I wouldn’t mind a while with you, I think,” he smiled. Very smooth. A now comfortable silence settled over the two of you, a playful smirk playing at his lips as you chewed on the inside of your cheek, as if that would do anything to quell the blush that began to rush on the outside of them.

“Are you warm?” he asked gently, leaning forwards in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees and get a closer look at you, book dangling in one hand casually, kept open still by one finger at the page he’d stopped reading on.

“N-no, why?”

“You just look a little... pink,” he teased. Naturally your hand flew to your cheeks, patting at them lightly testing the temperature of your skin. You were warm, but the word for it was more ‘flushed’. That had been his doing.

“M-must be the fire...” you stuttered, diverting your eyes from his and looking towards the logs burning beside you both.

“Hmm,” he hums, sitting back against the high-back leather of his chair, opening his book onto the page he’d kept since first taking a sip of his coffee. “Must be.”

You held your book back to you as if you were reading yourself, but your eyes were watching him as he settled back into whatever fictional world you had brought him from. A short, yet sweet conversation that both satisfied a curiosity in you and yet, left you with a tingling desire to hear more.

Realising soon you wouldn’t be getting a whole lot more conversation out of him, you settled back into your chair comfortably too, finding yourself a little too distracted with internal questions to really focus on your pages. How many times you had to reread the lines; you’d lost count. Your eyes would drift over the top of your pages too often, taking him in.

Truly, he looked like a main character in his own novel; the dark love interest to a stunning protagonist. Any interest in yourself baffled you. You certainly didn’t feel like the worthy protagonist in whatever dynamic this was. Whilst you were sure his actions today were that of a man flirting with you, staring at him made it harder and harder to believe he was being anything other than friendly.

Pushing the self-deprecating thoughts aside, you forced yourself to focus back on your book. It wouldn’t do to dwell on that part of you... the part that was unsure when any man would show an interest in you, the part that thought situations like these only happened in the pages you’d read.

No, instead it would be better to just see how this played out. No hoping, no questioning, no imagining – just allowing whatever this was to play out.

As the chapters of your book progressed, so did the time. Comfortable silence remained, save for the crackle of the logs on the fire that Terzo would replace as the flames died down to a simmer every so often.

After a while, Terzo cleared his throat and sat up, putting his ancient book down on the table next to his empty coffee cup. Your eyes darted up from the words on the page, too easily distracted from the ‘focus’ you were in. His eyes met yours, before they flickered to the clock hanging above the counter where Kat stood, towel drying mugs to within an inch of their life.

“I suppose my time for today is almost up?” he asked. When you looked at the clock it was almost 11:30am; usually, you’d be heading home right about now, as per your routine.

“Well, um... yes, I usually get going around now, don’t I?” you chuckled with nerves, realising that this man knew your routine. He’d been watching, remembering things about you. When you’d usually arrive, where you’d always sit, your regular coffee order, the cake you’d usually have and now, the time you’d usually get up to leave and continue your day.

“Well, then may I ask... would you like to do this again next week? Or does this spot here not even begin to compare to the picturesque spot by the window?” His expression seemed hopeful, like he’d love nothing more to spend another morning reading in silence next to you. It sent a pang of butterflies through from your heart to your stomach.

“Well, I do like my spot...” you teased, looking over your shoulder to the empty chair by the window. When you looked back, Terzo’s eyebrows had knitted together and he was looking down at his hands, fiddling with the end of the scarf draped around his neck. He looked like he was mentally kicking himself, and although you didn’t know for sure, he was.

Maybe he should have spoken to you more, actually held up his end of the conversation for longer, asked more about you. Maybe he should have asked about your book or shown an interest in your life outside of your Sundays.

You scrambled, wishing you hadn’t tried to joke. “B-but I like it here too, I mean... I liked today. It was nice. Comfortable...” you shut your eyes and shook your head at yourself, figuring you sounded like a bumbling idiot and had overstepped. Comfortable? What the hell was that?

His gaze rose to yours again, and he smiled. “Same time next week then?”

His smile was infectious, spreading across your face and forcing your cheeks into small round globes that Terzo found exceptionally cute.

“Same time next week,” you beamed. “Although perhaps my usual time instead. I was distracted this morning,” you laughed.

“Oh?” he urged you to continue, curious to hear what had kept you.

“The snow... I walk through the park to get here, and it was too beautiful for a passing stroll,” you shrugged.

“Understood,” he nodded, finding you cuter with every sentence you uttered. “Well, how about this; whoever arrives first next week, coffee’s on them?”

It felt like a challenge, as if he wanted to beat you here so he would be the one to treat you. But you couldn’t let that happen – not when he had paid for today’s drinks and cakes. You made a mental note to be a little earlier than usual as you accepted his little wager.

He picked his book up, slotting it into his briefcase beside his chair as he stood.

“Well then, _______,” he reached for his coat, quick to pass you yours as you stood with him. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Sure,” your smile widened impossibly as he said he goodbye, waving to Kat behind the counter as he walked out.

You stood there, coat in your hands staring at the empty space he’d just walked through with that ridiculous grin on your face. Kat caught your eye then, folding her arms across her chest and smirking at you, catching you in your embarrassingly giddy state of shock. You caught yourself, and rolled your eyes as you threw your coat on, shoved your book in your bag and left the café, sure to tell Kat not to say a word as you passed her.

You’d have to watch that – you could not be caught slipping that way again.

Sure enough, the following week you had met Terzo again. And despite your best efforts, he had beaten you to the café, your coffee and slice of cake already waiting for you despite being ten minutes earlier than you normally would be. He knew you would try to beat him there...

After remarking how unfair that was, the pair of you settled down with your books once again and read in comfortable silence for a while. But this week, Terzo had planned to engage in actual conversation. He wanted to get to know you, to learn more about the mysterious coffee shop woman whose routine rarely wavered.

And so, around an hour into your morning together, he set his book down, and picked up his coffee, settling back and watching you with a warm gaze as he sipped his drink. On high alert as it was due to the mere presence of him, you noticed almost immediately, and lowered your book to your lap.

“Finished already?” you asked.

“No, no... I was just thinking; I’m sat here with a gorgeous woman who, by choice, has joined me for a second time and yet I’m coming across as if I’m more interested in some dusty old book than her. That doesn’t sit right with me...” he mused, brows knitting together as he took another sip.

He seemed calm, collected and very composed for someone who had just confidently told you that you were gorgeous. And you appeared the same on the outside too, but inside? Oh, you were screaming. He thought what?!

“Well, uh...” you sat upright, slotting your bookmark into your open pages and laying your book on the table. “What do you propose we do about that?” you asked, coyly.

Terzo thought for a moment, acting as if he were deep in thought. “I think... we should talk,” he concluded with more than a hint of sarcasm. You giggled at him and sat back with your coffee in hand.

“I think that’s a fine suggestion.”

“Bene . Well then, _______,” he started in a faux pompous accent, making you laugh into your coffee cup, “tell me something about your life outside of your Sunday routine.”

You smiled at that, reminded once again that he had paid enough attention to you to know that exact routine. Not only that, but he was interested in the person you were on every other day of the week, too.

It was incredible how easily you flowed into a conversation, the two of you sharing small details about your lives and getting to know each other.

You told each other about the books you were into, and the books you were currently reading. You learned he was reading Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’ currently, from the old second-hand bookstore on the edge of town. That explained why all the books he brought with him were so tatty and rarely had anything more than a tiny little gold embellished title on the spine.

When you spoke of your jobs, you came to learn that he was in fact retired, having been a leader at his church and a touring musician – he'd left out the details of his devotion to Lucifer and the forceful removal from his position by the hand of Sister Imperator for being too ‘unserious’ until you had pressed a little further, asking about his paints.

You had surprised him, taking in the information without a hint of judgement on your face. But as a lover of dark things and an open-minded person, he was never in danger of judgment from you. In fact, you found his life to be an intriguing one, and his practises within the satanic church to reflect your own beliefs of equality and freedom.

Before you were aware, you had been talking for almost two hours, the clock reading nearly 12:15pm.

“Oh merda , I’ve kept you!” he curses when he realises the time.

“No, no! You haven’t at all – I’d only be going back to an empty flat, you’re in no danger of messing up a schedule,” you assured.

“You, uh... don’t live with anyone then? Not a roommate, or a friend, or... maybe a... boyfriend?” he danced around the subject, shy and asking with the underlying question of ‘are you single?’

You couldn’t help finding his sudden nerves quite cute, pesky little butterflies intruding on your stomach.

“No; no roommates, friends or boyfriends,” you specifically lingered on the word with a smirk, enunciating to really drive the point home. “Just me.” Terzo smiled knowingly, quick to catch on that you were indeed flirting back like he had hoped.

“Good,” he smiled, his lips twisting into a shy pout as he looked down at his hands, nodding. With that, you found a little confidence in you, a voice telling you to be bold.

“Why is that good, Terzo?” you asked, leaning forward onto your hands as your elbows rested on your knees.

His expression turned to one of horror; not at you, but at himself for being so obviously into you. He scrambled for words, stuttering over syllables that made no sense as he tried his best to come up with some form of cover.

You found Terzo quite funny. One moment, he’d be this confident guy, flirting away but the second you turned the tables just a little and flirted boldly back at him? The man was a mess. It was as if the lack of control over the situation ignited a panic – judging by what he’d told you of his ‘forced retirement’, you weren’t surprised that relinquishing control was difficult on him.

“Relax,” you giggled. “I’d probably think it was ‘good’ if you were to tell me you weren’t involved with anybody too, so...”

His gaze snapped up to yours then, stopped in his train of thought by the notion you might be excited to find out he was single.

“W-well, I’m not... Involved with anyone, I mean...” he stuttered.

You lifted your coffee cup to your lips with your eyes on him, and just as you were about to take a sip, you utter a small “good” with a smile. He watched the rim of the cup intently as you raised it to your lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he found himself wondering what those lips might feel like to touch, to kiss...

“So...” he shook himself from his thoughts, attempting to steer the conversation away from whatever this suggestive atmosphere was, “what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

You put the coffee mug back down on the table and sat back, deep in thought.

“I was going to go to that little bookstore just off the high street. This one,” you lifted the book from the table and slapped it back on the wood, “is almost over now, so I could do with a new one.” Terzo nodded in acknowledgement. And then, you had the bright idea of...

“If you’re not busy... you’re welcome to join me? Maybe you can recommend something?”

The smile that spread across his gorgeous face could have made puppies howl in delight.

“I’d really like that,” he accepted. And so, the pair of you finished the remnants of your drinks and packed away your books. Terzo reached for your coat before you could grab it, holding it open for you to slot your arms into like a gentleman, smoothing it out across your shoulders whilst you straightened the collar. It was the first time he had touched you since you met, and whilst it wasn’t skin-to-skin contact, there was a dull electric charge that simmered through your back, leaving behind a craving for more of him – whatever you could get.

As the two of you left, you waved to Kat – whose face had been moulded into the most sickly-sweet grin the whole time you had been together in the café - and Terzo held his arm out for you to take at the elbow.

The walk to the bookstore was a short one, just a pleasant romp through the park and around the block to a side street just off the high street, like you had said. Terzo had never been there before; had no idea it even existed but this is what he loved about this part of town – the small artisan stores and cafés with personality that held the best hidden gems within. To himself, he thought about the best hidden gem he’d found in one of these little hidden artisans; you .

The pair of you spent nearly 40 minutes in that bloody shop; browsing, talking about books you had both read, recommending books to one another... He knew of some wonderful Italian novels you simply had to try out, and you took him to the corner of the store where the older books were with lesser-known titles that he might enjoy.

“The more you recommend to me, the more curious I become about you,” he smiled as he opened the first page of the hardback he’d picked up in that very corner of the store.

“What do you mean?” you asked, scanning the shelves.

“Well, your taste in books is stellar, from what I’ve seen so far. But I have to wonder what’s on your shelves. The books that you, and you alone know about. The stories you hold close to your heart and don’t pass on because you’re so connected to them. You can learn a lot about a person by looking at their bookshelf,” he smiled down at you, “I’d like to learn more about you, sometime.”

Your knees wavered, threatening to weaken and collapse you into a glob of putty on the floor. If that was a come on, it was the sweetest you had ever experienced. And he was so right... The books on your shelves at home were those that you couldn’t bear to part with. Each of them felt like a piece of you.

“W-well... I mean, I’m not busy today. At all. You’d be welcome to walk me home. Maybe take a look...” You couldn’t look him in the eye as you spoke, running your fingers along the shelf you were browsing. But his silence was unnerving, each second passing without a response inducing more anxiety.

After a couple of seconds too long you couldn’t stand it and looked over your shoulder at him. Any and all anxiety that had built washed away instantly, his glowing smile simply melting it away.

“I’m not busy, either,” he spoke gently, as if he were worried he’d startle you and retract your invitation.

You had to turn away from his gaze, a blush creeping onto your cheeks you didn’t need him to see. Instead, you focussed on the books in front of you. But you could feel his gaze still on you, his interest in the bookstore long since waned. All he was truly interested in this whole time was you.

But you both played along, picking out a couple of books to take away with you and add to your reading lists. The tension between you both was evident as you guided him to your apartment, again only a few streets away. Conversation was sparce, whittled down to just small talk about the weather, the area, how lovely Terzo thought this part of town was and how he’d never explored much past the café.

But once at your apartment, it felt like the atmosphere grew thicker. It had been far too long since you had let someone new into your personal space, and to make matters worse, you were well aware that he was going to look through your bookshelf, picking out the most vulnerable parts of you from each of the novels you’d collected.

For all you knew, he could turn and run for the hills once he realised how absolutely enamoured with romance you were, or how you collected books with protagonists as self-deprecating as you were to yourself. What if all he saw was a shelf full of your greatest insecurities?

Inside, you shook off your coats, hanging them on the little rack you had installed for yourself by your front door. You wandered into the living room, rabbiting on about how the apartment was a steal because you rented from your aunt's cousin’s dog’s neighbour and rent control kept it low since you’d been here for years, saving a deposit to hopefully buy it from your landlady at some point in the future. Terzo simply nodded along, muttering compliments about how neatly kept it was, yet how it still looked lived in, with personality.

“And uh, over here’s my collection,” you pointed nervously, tugging on the sleeves of your knitted sweater to cover your hands, toying with the material as Terzo wondered over with interest. You followed behind, sitting on the arm of the couch that ended next to your bookcase whilst he had a browse. “See, I knew you had stellar taste,” he smirked as he looked at you, quickly picking a book out to read the blurb on the back cover.

“Can I get you a tea? Or coffee? Or, I have... water, soft drinks, some fruit juice, I think? Might be too early to crack out any wine...” you joked, uncomfortable and rambling to fill the silence. “Perhaps a little,” he chuckled, “tea would actually be lovely, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all! I’ll just, um...” you pointed behind you in the general direction of the kitchen and scampered off to brew the tea.

In your living room, Terzo kept browsing your shelves, pulling book after book to read the blurbs of those he didn’t recognise. Of course, he put each back in its respective place before pulling the next.

With each book he checked out, he began to put together a clearer picture of the woman he’d seen every Sunday for the past few months. He could tell that you were a romantic, someone who enjoyed a timeless love story. He could tell that you were a feminist, enjoying tales of both strong and flawed women who achieved whatever they set their sights on. He could tell you liked the odd crime novel, and deduced you enjoyed a thrill.

But the most common trope he found amongst your shelves, was that of an insecure woman meeting the man of her dreams, and learning to love herself as she slowly fell in love with him. He held a book in his hands of this exact trope – perhaps the fourth he had come across – and it dawned on him.

You were that insecure woman, hoping she could find someone who could teach her how to love her flaws.

He turned with the book in hand, seeing you potter about the kitchen through the archway separating the rooms. Suddenly, he felt like he had stumbled upon a part of you he hadn’t noticed before. He put your moments of shyness down to him being a new part of your life, but he saw it now. Just like in your books, you couldn’t believe that someone was at all interested in you. It wasn’t shyness at all – they were moments where you were putting your guard back up, moments when you thought you were slipping and saying too much.

But oh, if you knew how highly he truly thought of you already. He saw no flaws in you, nothing that needed guarding, nothing that needed hiding. He saw a beautiful woman, noticed you the very first day he’d found his new favourite reading spot. He saw a smart woman, always reading something new each and every week. He saw you... And whilst he was sure he wasn’t the ‘perfect man’ that your protagonist deserved, he was already enamoured with you enough to try his best to be.

“Sugar and milk?” you called from the kitchen, knocking him out of his thoughts. “Two, and yes please!” he called back. Only a moment later, you wondered back into the living room with two mugs in hand. Passing him his tea, you saw the book in his other hand and felt the blood drain from your face. You said nothing about it, trying not to entertain the idea that he might have formed an opinion of you based on that book, or any of the others like it you owned.

“So uh, which of these is your favourite?” he asks, taking a step back and gesturing towards the bookcase. You placed your tea on the coffee table, too scolding to drink from yet anyway, and picked out a random crime novel you had read a few months ago. “This one,” you lied. He looked at it in your hand for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows together like he’d been disappointed in your answer.

“No, it’s not,” he deadpanned. “I mean, I’m sure it’s good, but... I can’t imagine it holds much personal value other than being a good thriller. I meant, which one of these speaks to you the most?”

The way he saw through you truly knocked you back, surprise washing over your face. He’d caught you in your lie, which to you meant that he already had a good idea of which books truly held a special place on your shelf. Lying again would now be pointless – you knew now that he could read you. So, you’d tell the truth, and have to hope for the best...

“It’s, uh... it’s the one in your hand, actually,” you shrugged, turning to put the crime book back.

“What do you love about it?” he asked – why did he have to ask?

You turned back to him, now realising you were between him and the bookcase, only a foot or so away from each other. Terzo placed his tea down on the coffee table next to yours and held the book up to read the blurb over again, as if he hadn’t just moments before you’d walked into the room.

“I guess I can relate... The woman in this one is quite insecure about herself, mostly her looks, and it’s just... it’s a really beautiful story about a woman learning to love herself, and let others love her. I suppose, I hope one day I can do the same,” you explained, never daring to look in his eyes, staring solely at the book in his hand.

If you had looked up, you’d have seen the softness in his features. All you had done was confirmed what he already thought he knew, and in turn cemented his interest in being that guy for you.

Terzo didn’t say a word, instead reaching past you to put the book back in its place, taking a step towards you to reach. To your surprise, he didn’t step back. Instead, his fingertips grazed the knitted wool you’d pulled over your hands at your sides.

“I don’t know what your insecurities are,” he began softly, “but just know, I see no flaws in you yet.”

You let yourself look up at his face, your eyes locking with his.

“Yet,” you repeated, “there’s still time...” You looked down, a sadness washing over you as you thought over those nagging little insecurities that you were hung up on... your body, with its wide hips, large stomach and thick thighs. Your acne scarring from your younger years that only time could heal. Your issues with intimacy that stemmed from past relationships, and the panic attacks that would sometimes bubble at the surface when you got close to any man since.

These things were part of you, things that you believed flawed you and held you back.

Terzo sensed your sadness, lifting a finger to underneath your chin and guiding your gaze back up to his. His eyes searched yours for a moment, and he looked sad for you, like he wished he could take away every negative thought you’d had about yourself.

“You truly have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” he asked. Tears welled in your waterline. You wanted to believe him so badly, he looked so honest. “Would you like to know the real reason I came back to that café every Sunday?” You knew what he was going to say, a tear spilling down your cheek. “In the hope that maybe you would be there. And then it took me all those weeks to finally do something, because I had no idea how to approach a woman like you.”

He lifted his head, shaking it with a chuckle, laughing at himself. “Forgive me, I haven’t had much self-confidence as of late. I’m not great at the whole ‘courting’ thing...”

“You’re better than you think you are...” you whimpered, wiping the stray tear away. He smiled down at you, his hand cupping the cheek you’d wiped, grazing his thumb over it for good measure.

In that moment, all you could think about was kissing him. Despite his affirmations though, you couldn’t get past the insecurities and let yourself be the first to make that move. Your eyes flitted down towards his lips, and you so wished you had the guts...

Not that you needed to. He could read your body language... He felt the way you pressed into his hand, the way you swayed a little closer to him. He saw how you looked down at his lips, catching your eyes when they met his again.

And so, he leaned in for you, gently pressing his lips to yours.

Any residual chill that lingered in your apartment after spending the day empty vanished in an instant, warmth rising from the pit of your stomach to flood and spread through the rest of your body. Your hands, still covered by the ends of your sleeves raised themselves to his chest, pressing in fists against him, the rest of you following and taking a step into him.

As you had imagined, his lips felt pillow-soft against your own, moving against yours with gentle precision. You couldn’t help how you were so drawn to him, and he couldn't help the way he was drawn to you either.

Your lips parted from each other, and yet neither of you moved away from the other, enjoying the close proximity as you mulled over the feeling of warmth and security you had felt from just one, simple first kiss. He pressed his forehead against yours, sighing as the hand still on your cheek stroked its thumb over the softness there.

“Well, that was just about as perfect as I had imagined...” he whispered, smiling to himself.

“I would have to agree,” you replied, lifting your gaze to look him in the eye, forcing a wider smile to both of your lips.

“Does that mean you wouldn’t mind if I did it again?” he asked. You didn’t have it in you to even bother trying to let anticipation build before you answered with a small shake of your head.

He needed no more confirmation, planting his lips to yours once more with a new confidence that had been barely sparking within the first kiss. Now, he knew where you stood. He knew where he stood. There was no risk of reading your signals wrong, of you not wanting him the way he wanted you.

His added confidence translated to a more passionate, stronger kiss. The hand on your check slid to your neck, and around to the back to hold you to him. Your fists on his chest gripped onto his waistcoat. Before long, his tongue was gently sweeping your bottom lip, both of you lost in your own little paradise.

The warmth from the pit of your stomach was beginning to burn hot, setting your whole body on fire – especially where his free hand had found your hip and had instinctively tightened its grip in a handful of flesh and clothing. Never before had you been so lost in a moment, so absolutely enamoured with another person. If that heat was anything to go by, you were so sure of how far you were willing to go for him today, and how much you were willing to give him if that was what he wanted.

But he pulled away, somewhat reluctantly by the way his brow creased, and he stepped half a step back, hands still in place. Panic shot through you – had you done something wrong? Did he not really want this?

“A-are you alright?” you asked, already wishing you hadn’t as you imagined every possible answer he could have – none of them good.

“I’m so sorry, I...” he shook his head a little, “if I don’t stop now, I think I'll go too far, amore ...”

So, he didn’t want to push you, hm? Didn’t want to corner you, or make you feel like you should do anything? But, had he ever stopped to think that maybe you were feeling much the same as he was? Of course not – because that was Terzo’s insecurity bubbling to the surface. The fear you would reject him, or that he had misread your signals. And so, all you could think to do was give him clearer signals.

You stepped into him again, closing the small distance he had made between you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pressing yourself into his chest as his arms rest comfortably around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“And what if I want that?” you asked in a hushed voice. He blinked twice at you, blankly staring as he calculated in his head exactly what you meant. Clearer, ______... “ I want you, Terzo.”

That seemed to do the trick.

His lips were on yours in a heartbeat, both of you pulling desperately on the other to get the contact you craved. A rush of electricity raced through your veins; goosebumps left on the surface in its wake. You couldn’t get enough of each other, refusing air itself in favour of his kisses instead.

You took a step back, pulling him with you in the direction of the couch behind you. He wordlessly followed, neither one of you breaking your hold on the other. You stopped when you felt the back of your heal hit the edge of the couch, remaining standing for just a little longer with the intention of removing his first layer of clothing...

Your hands slid from his shoulders to the buttons of his waistcoat, popping them open one by one. He rushed to pull off his gloves and shimmy out of the waistcoat, helping you with the smaller buttons of his shirt and pulling it off him too.

Of course, the bastard had to be this gorgeous statuesque man, didn’t he? With his broad shoulders, the small pudge of stomach and the expanse of dark Italian chest hair sculpting him from his defined pecks to the hem of his slacks. He was not so defined you could pick up each of his abs with chopsticks, but enough to know that this man valued his strength and his health alongside a decent helping of divine foods.

And it terrified you.

What would he think when he saw you? Sitting somewhere on the line between mid and plus sized, it was no secret you were of a more Rubenesque figure. It hadn’t yet deterred him, you told yourself, but you had dressed yourself to hide your body, not to flaunt. In the nude, your insecurities would rear their ugly head. Were your hips too wide? Your breasts too big or languid? Did you have too many acne scars or wobbly parts?

No, you wouldn’t allow this to come between you and him the way you had in the past. You fought the feelings of nervousness away viciously. No stranger to a panic attack, you refused to let it ruin such a phenomenal moment.

Terzo didn’t rush back into a kiss this time, gently taking your hands in his and bringing them back to his neck, wrapping them around him. As if he’d sensed a shift in your confidence, he slowed himself down for you.

“At your pace, okay?” he whispered, “We can pause at any time.” You nodded, grateful that he understood you. But you didn’t want to stop, you didn’t want to let your anxiety win.

Leaning up, you kissed him again, fingertips grazing across the bare skin along his neck, down to his collarbones and back again. He was so warm, soft to the touch and it had you losing yourself in him yet again.

You started to drag him down with you as you sat on the edge of the couch at an angle, scooting yourself back as he crawled over you with one knee up on the cushions between your thighs, and one hand on the far armrest. His kisses deepened, that visceral draw to be with each other growing and growing.

The hand that wasn’t holding him up lowered to the hem of your own wool sweatshirt, and he pulled back from your kiss for just a moment to ask if you would mind – to which you shook your head, ignoring the whispers of insecurity.

You let him lift the sweater, taking a deep breath in as he exposed your stomach to begin with, your breasts encased in a fairly ordinary bra, and past your shoulders as he pulled it over your head.

Terzo could see the way you held your breath, felt the way you tensed under him. It made his heart physically lurch in his chest – he wanted nothing more than for you to feel comfortable with him, to feel as beautiful as he saw you. Still, as you were exposed to him, he saw no flaws.

He dipped his head to kiss you again, dropping your sweater to the floor beside the couch. He was slow, soft in his movements. You felt yourself relax your muscle a little, letting him work his magic with his kiss as it travelled from your lips to your throat. He left little wet marks on you, swiping his tongue over the skin before moving another inch or so down, until he was leaving open mouthed kisses across your chest and the fullness of your breasts where they spilled over the top of your bra.

He took his time, admiring every glorious inch of you his lips could reach. He slowly pulled a bra strap down, moving his kisses to the area and mimicking the same on the other side. As he lowered his head to focus more so on the fullness of your breasts again, he felt your body tense and heard the little gasp that you let slip. Instantly he knew what you liked, and what you wanted.

Carefully he reached behind you to unclasp your bra, the cups naturally falling loose but still resting to cover your breasts. He peeled it from you slowly, as if he was trying not to startle you, or give you an opportunity to intervene if you so wished – but of course, you had no intention of stopping him.

His free hand that wasn’t balancing him above you traced its way from your collarbone to your breast before his palm enveloped you, gently squeezing as his lips dipped to take your nipple into his mouth.

You couldn’t help the sigh that emitted from you, the built-up tension in all of your muscles finally completely relaxing. As he swiped his tongue over the sensitive nerves of your bud, his other hand never stopped working, massaging your breast and rolling that other nipple between his fingertips every so often.

He groaned lowly himself, his long since erect manhood straining at his trousers to be set free. He loved how you felt beneath him, how you squirmed in pleasure and let soft moans out every so often. The first time you moaned his name, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly, until you did it again just moments later, arching your back a little at the same time. It sent a feral shockwave through him, now desperate for more of you; as much as he could have at once.

Without removing his lips from your breasts, alternating between the two now, he moved the two of you to be laying horizontal on the couch. Once there, he had both of his hands at his disposal, able to make light work of removing your shoes, socks, jeans and underwear to expose you fully to him.

Your heart pounded in your chest as his eyes scanned you slowly, watching as he seemed to become completely intoxicated at the sight before him. It made you shy, curling in on yourself and covering up your chest with your arms, your legs squeezed together.

But he looked you in the eye, smiled, and dipped his head for another passionate and loving kiss.

Every time you became self-conscious, Terzo would notice and take action. He knew how to bring you back to him, how to relax you and make you feel wanted. He had no interest in getting himself off for the sake of an orgasm, or powering through to get your first time together over with.

His focus was on you.

His kisses trailed down again, past the crease of your breasts, down to your stomach. His hands were all over your body, worshipping every full curve he could find. He paid particular attention to the little pouch of your stomach that he was able to grab little handfuls of, letting his teeth sink gently into the flesh before he moved on.

Your body ached for him, heat pooling between your legs where your juices gathered just out of reach for him. As if by magic, his kisses to the tops of your thighs seemed to reveal you to him, your legs opening of their own accord, desperate for more of him.

Terzo looked up at you for a moment, noting the expression on your face. You seemed like you were anticipating his next move, waiting patiently but the blush on your cheeks betrayed you – you wanted him so badly, you wanted his mouth on you.

He reached a hand up to yours by your side, threading his fingers with yours before he dipped his head down, pressing a kiss to your core and practically keening at the little whine you made above him. You were killing him.

You awakened something inside him, burying himself between your thighs and lapping hungrily at the glaze that had gathered there. He squeezed your hand as he tried to control himself, letting his lips and tongue do seemingly as they pleased.

Pleasure soared through your body, a moan rippling through your throat as he worked your clit with his tongue. Expertly, he dragged moan after moan from you, your body tensing and relaxing over and over as he devoured you like a man starved.

You were sure your hand would break his if you continued to squeeze it the way you had been, but he didn’t seem to mind – even less so when your free hand threaded into his hair and gripped tightly. The growl that came from him had vibrated against you, sending you closer and closer to the edge of reality.

“T-Terzo...I-” you groaned, unsure of whether you could hold off on him much longer. But you didn’t want it this way, you wanted him.

“ Cum, tesoro . It's okay,” he mumbled against you. You shook your head ferociously, dangling dangerously close now...

“Not... not like this...” you whined. He stopped immediately, frightened he had done something wrong, or you had changed your mind. It was almost comical, the look of concern on his face whilst the lower half of his jaw was glistening in your essence.

Your hand in his hair slid to his cheek, reassuring him. “Want you,” you admitted. “Want to cum with you.”

If his eyes could have turned black in the moment, they would have. The urge that rose within him was primal, his actions quick.

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and sat up, one knee between yours while his foot balanced him on the ground beside the couch. He crashed his lips to yours, a hint of your taste still on them still.

You didn’t want to keep him waiting any longer, aware he must be struggling with the tent he’d pitched and so you reached between you both, undoing his trousers and pushing them past his hips with his briefs. He did the rest for you, kicking off his shoes and removing the rest of his clothing.

He sat himself between your legs again, his generous length standing to attention against his stomach as he leaned in, another kiss knocking the wind out of you. The way he would go from feral to soft melted you, his desire for you but also your comfort so prevalent at every moment. You’d never slept with a man so thoughtful, so intuitive.

Wordlessly, he lined his hips up with yours, looking between you both before taking his fingers to run them through your folds and collect some of your juices. He stroked himself, coating his cock in you before taking his fingers and slowing beginning to push them inside you, testing what you could take right now.

You knew you had been turned on enough to take him, your body relaxing for him. Terzo could feel it too, especially by the way you clenched around his fingers when he found a little spongey patch as he curled them up. Your hips lifted from the couch, chasing the feeling.

Terzo smiled in triumph and slipped his fingers out, stroking them down his length once more for some added lubrication. Satisfied, he lined up his tip with your entrance, and slowly, he began to fill you.

Whilst your body had been ready for him, you basked in the feeling of him stretching you, slowly but surely until he was completely sheathed inside of you. He took a moment to steady himself, holding back to give you time if you needed it – but s hit, he was desperate.

You noticed the strain in his features and pulled him to you by the back of his neck, bringing him eye level and close enough for a deep kiss.

“I’m okay, Terzo. Please...” you breathed against his lips, and that was all the confirmation he needed to allow his hips to slowing start to piston into yours. He kept his forehead on yours, needing you as close as possible. This close, he never missed a single noise that you made; it may have broken his heart if he’d missed out on those little mewls, the sharp breaths, the whines.

With one hand keeping him from collapsing into you, his other held your thigh against his hip, fingers digging into the flesh as his movements became faster, harsher. You could hear the way his breaths became shorter, the grunts and groans of anguish as he tried to hold back, desperate to keep himself from finishing too soon. He was so focussed on you.

With every thrust, he was bringing you back to that tipping point, hitting the spot he had found with his fingers over and over again. You couldn’t help the moans that would escape, or the whispered expletives in his ear.

He lifted his head to press his lips to yours, a desperate kiss as his movements became more erratic. You were sure the grip he had on your thigh would bruise later, five little fingerprint sized bruises left in the supple flesh. But everything about this was so endearing, so absolutely natural and completely welcome.

Closer and closer you came to the edge, a knot tightening in your stomach. Terzo seemed to be struggling, the weight of his impending orgasm becoming too much to shoulder, not at all helped by the way your walls kept clenching around him.

“I’m... I’m close, Terzo,” you choked, the name falling naturally from your lips.

“Let go, tesoro . I’ve got you...” he reassured, the softness of his voice juxtaposing the new energy of each of his thrusts, hips now pistoning up towards the glorious spot inside you with more accuracy than before.

Before long, you fell over the edge... Your body tensed, head thrown back into the couch as your back arched against him, pushing your breasts to his bare chest.

“That’s it, amore ... Brava ragazza ,” he keened, alighting a new arousal in you and sending another jolt through you. He took note of how you responded to that, storing it away as useful information for later. “Did so well, tesoro ,” he praised.

It was only as you started to come back down that you released the moan that had been caught in your throat – and that was what sent Terzo over the edge.

His hips slowed to short and ragged thrusts as he spilled inside you, his head buried in the softness of your chest as you held him there, still reeling and sparking from your orgasm. He collapsed there, content in the comedown and the quiet that fell over you – just breathless chests rising and falling quickly together.

For a while, the pair of you stayed put, neither of you moving, just enjoying the feeling of being intertwined and completely relaxed.

Your mind wondered back over the events of the day, how gentlemanly he’d been, how kind and thoughtful. How he understood parts of you very quickly, how he took notice of things in order to make you feel more at ease, make you feel beautiful and wanted. He’d never once pressured you, pushed you, given you any reason to believe he didn’t absolutely adore every part of you.

“I should have bought you a coffee sooner,” he lamented, sighing into your chest. You giggled, fingertips playing with his hair at the nape of his neck absentmindedly.

“Perhaps,” you smiled.

“So many weeks you had the same damn routine... And I just sat there,” he laughed, feeling foolish. He had let his insecurities win, demoted from his status in the Ministry and shaken to his very core at the way he’d been humiliated until you. He’d only been looking for a quiet reprieve, a place to spend his Sunday mornings instead of having to sit through Black Mass held by his predecessor. He needed a place where he was unknown, where he could be himself and enjoy the calm of retirement.

And then, he’d found you.

“You know,” you began, sitting up a little and resting on your elbows, forcing him to sit up a little too, hovering just a few inches from you, “I’d be happy to implement you into my Sunday routine. You know, permanently...”

Terzo smiled so widely you thought his jaw might crack. “I’m sure I wouldn’t mind making a habit of this,” he flirted. “I could definitely get used to you in my life.”

Neither of you could hide the goofy smiles from your faces as you leaned in for another kiss – softer and sweeter than the ones shared previously. Terzo broke it up first, getting up with a groan at his stiff muscles and finding his way to your bathroom to grab a freshly dampened cloth to wipe you clean before you pulled your underwear back on, and his shirt that he gladly handed to you. He buttoned his own trousers back up, and sat down on the couch, beckoning you to come closer and snuggle into his side with his mug of tea in his other hand.

You did so willingly, enjoying the warmth of his bare chest and the security it gave you to be encased in his arms, knowing he hadn’t wanted to run away the second the clouds of lust had lifted.

In the quiet, he took a sip of his tea, and hummed in discontent. You looked up at him to see him grimace.

“What is it?” you asked, concerned you’d made it wrong. “Tea’s gone cold...” he said, looking at his mug with a comically creased brow. “Oh, bugger...” you replied, making eye contact with Terzo, who was cheekily smirking down at you. The both of you spluttered out a laugh, giggling at the thought of the tea you’d completely abandoned for each other’s warmth instead.

“Perhaps we should save the hot beverages for Kat to make,” he laughed. “I think that’s a good idea,” you agreed, resting your head back to his chest and letting your eyes slips closed, just enjoying his company and already thinking to yourself about what next Sunday may bring...

A/N: If you enjoyed this fic, or any of my other works at all, then perhaps consider leaving me a little tip over on ko-fi. No pressure, I'm not charging you for my work - totally optional and down to reader discretion! 🖤

#the band ghost #ghost #ghost bc #ghost band #ghost the band #ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfic #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus iii smut #papa emeritus iii x reader

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leah-halliwell92 · 5 months

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STD Scares

Summary: HCs of how the Papas would react to potentially having an STD.

Warnings: Mentions of sexually transmitted diseases and vocabulary describing male genitalia.

Primo:

Though experimental, he had to keep himself grounded for the sake of raising his two brothers.

When he did have lovers he was careful and on top of his own care and health.

Had a pregnancy scare but nothing that resulted on being his.

Secondo:

Came back from Vegas with a strange itching and burning sensation.

Made a beeline for Primo in his garden in the hopes that he has a remedy for his...uh...ailment.

Primo looked more than a little uncomfortable at having to treat his brother's potential STD but helped.

On closer inspection, he discovered that it wasn't a real STD but a bad rash from the detergent used to wash his underwear.

Used Primo's remedy and worked like a charm.

Did not bother correcting Primo's assumption on it being an STD silently chuckling at having rattled his eldest brother's cage.

Terzo

Came home from a tour with the same symptoms as Secondo. Itching, burning, etc. but with just a little bit more...spice. This

The itching was different and more intense, and instead of being in a generalized location, it attacked the head of member like Pirranah.

He braves a visit to the medical wing and nearly has a meltdown believing he has some form of STD.

Breaths a sigh of relief when told that it is actually a yeast infection and it is easily treatable.

He is a special one this man, so goes to Primo for his home remedies.

Luckily these ones are not too hard to obtain.

Primo's last words to him were to not forget to clean his tool after each use.

Copia

Doesn't need to worry about such things.

Sister Lorena has been his partner in all things since his days as Cardinal.

Has brave his brothers' alongside Primo.

#ghost hcs #written for shits and giggles #poor primo #Poor Papa Primo #papa emeritus iv #copia #papa emeritus iii #papa secondo

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leah-halliwell92 · 5 months

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REBLOG if you have amazing, talented WRITER friends.

Because I certainly do, and I love every single one of them and their work.

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leah-halliwell92 · 5 months

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I think it's so funny that they work so hard to make Copia look spooky in promo art

And this is what he really looks like

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leah-halliwell92 · 5 months

Text

Unprompted ghost memes

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leah-halliwell92 · 5 months

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Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 7

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You slowly chip away at Elizabeth's diary. Copia takes you for a little break to clear your head.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Hey hi hello!! Thank you once again for your incredible patience with these chapters. You all are so very close to my heart and I cherish every single like/reblog/comment (I cry when people say nice things to me, help). That said... let me know your thoughts!!

Warnings: possible mention of anxiety (very brief), Sister Imperator being shady, mentions of ritual sex (no graphic depictions)

AO3 / 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

You live in limbo for a full week. “A few hours” of working in Copia’s office had turned into a full day and well into the night. Then one day turned to two, and two to four, and then you found yourself in his office without him asking, simply because it would save time.

The atmosphere between you and Copia during these days is oddly comfortable. You’ve always preferred to work alone, feeling that any noise or talking would be a distraction. Your translations would always turn out more eloquent and faithful to the original text when you could place yourself into the author’s headspace, and that requires near silence or, at most, the ambience of the room around you.

With Copia, though, you find that you’re able to focus even when there is noise or talking in the corridor outside his office. Part of you wants to believe that it’s just the change of scenery. His office is opulent, as the rest of the Abbey, but understated. The wall to the left of the door is lined with bookshelves filled with books and little relics or knick knacks. The desk you work at, which sits nestled in the back corner of the room, had been piled with papers and books which you’d helped him organize (a task which he insists he owes you a favor for), but now it houses your own materials. His desk is still fairly cluttered but since you’ve started spending the days in his company, he’s made a significant dent in the work.

He’d said that having a study buddy helps him stay on task. You’ve always thought you were the opposite, but perhaps you’d never found the right person. It’s as if Copia radiates this aura of calm and focus that you can inhale by just sitting in the same room as him. Your notes are clearer, you can decode letters faster, the Latin flows from your pen smoother.

That’s not to say you always stay on task.

There have been times when a little observation or comment turns to an hour-long conversation, or an invitation to the refectory for lunch turns into a walk through the gardens to take advantage of the warming weather. Or a little glance his way turns into watching him work, memorizing the pattern of his pen’s dragging across a signature line. Watching the little cowlick he tries so desperately to keep in place as it falls back over his forehead. Spotting a tiny smudge in his black paints and remembering how his face had looked, soaked in rain and bare and flushed at your touch.

Yes, you have been living in limbo between being Copia’s study buddy and being something more.

You know, he’d said. You must.

You do know. If the past week has shown you anything, it’s that you know, more surely than you’d expected to, that you’re dangerously close to falling in love with him and that every day you tip further and further over that cliff. The abyss below is deep and if you fall you have no chance of climbing back out.

Copia… Copia is already plummeting. There’s a pleasant heaviness that settles in his chest at the thought of you, increased tenfold at the sight of you. Just existing in the same space as you makes him content with how his life has been, like every moment he’d spent alone only led him to you. Oh, yes, Copia is hurtling downwards at terminal velocity and it’s a long way down.

Somewhere within the last few minutes, Copia noticed you’ve stopped writing. Your eyes stare blankly at the letter grid, one hand pointing to keep track and the other holding your pen a few inches off the notebook page. You must be lost in thought.

“Tesoro?” Copia calls gently. A small smile plays on his lips. He’d gone for the informal paints today after staying in his office far too late to complete some work the previous night, and not at all because you’d accidentally let slip that you like his freckles during a particularly sunny walk. “Where did you go just then?”

At the sound of his voice, your eyes flick up towards where he sits at his desk, watching you. You blink. “Mars, I think,” you say with a little laugh. “I’m stuck on this one phrase.”

Copia rises from his desk chair, stretching his arms above his head, and you try not to stare at the little sliver of skin exposed when his shirt rides up. “Would you like another pair of eyes on it?” He asks.

“Here,” you nod, pointing at the line in your notebook where you’d written the deciphered phrase in Latin. “Collige virgo rosas. Literally, ‘pick, girl, the roses’.”

“Ah, so… what is that phrase? ‘Stop and smell the roses’, yes?”

“Yes, exactly,” you say. “But in the context of this, it doesn’t make sense. She’s not talking about something good.”

Copia’s brows furrow as he rounds your desk and comes to stand beside your chair. He leans over to read what you’ve deciphered in your notebook. The words of Latin slide effortlessly off his tongue as he reads your work out loud, and not for the first time, you’re reminded of how smart he really is. Not that you ever doubted it—he’s proven time and time again through answering your questions about the Ministry’s history that he’s Papa for a reason—but it’s a quiet intelligence. The two of you could be joking about something entirely inconsequential and then suddenly he’s telling you about the theistic anti-religious undertones of the works of Marcus Aurelius and somehow he makes the transition make sense.

“Oh! I see,” Copia says with a jaunty little snap of his fingers. “Here. Further down, read this part.”

Your eyes follow his gloved finger down the page of your notebook to a passage you don’t quite remember deciphering. Using the letter grid is mindless now. After spending a week doing nothing but mapping and mapping and mapping every single letter in Elizabeth’s diary, you’ve learned how to let your mind drift just enough that the translation is still accurate but your mind is elsewhere.

In horto moribundo, elige rosas sanas, Elizabeth had written.

In a dying garden, choose healthy roses.

You continue to read the rest of the passage, and yes, now that first idiom makes more sense. It’s oddly… optimistic, for Elizabeth.

“Huh,” you say dumbly, suddenly all too aware of how close Copia is standing. “I don’t remember writing that at all.”

“Because you were on Mars,” Copia laughs. “Come back down to Earth and we can go for a walk, si? You seem to be, eh… zoning out.”

You smile at him. His eyes are already on yours. From this close you remember that, on top of his intelligence and kindness and wit and charm and empathy, he’s devastatingly handsome. And then you remember how you feel about this man, and how this man feels about you, and your heart kicks up a gear. There haven’t been any romantic declarations or passionate kisses, but every time you pass the romance section of the Library on your way to return Elizabeth’s diary to its lockbox at the end of the night, you’re tempted to borrow a book or two, just for the catharsis of it.

Carefully, you close the diary and wrap it in its linen to protect it while you’re away. Copia moves back to his desk and fishes his key out of the top drawer. “Let’s go to the front gardens today, cara mia,” he says.

“How come?” You ask as he opens his office door for you.

He shrugs. “It’s something different. And the sun is over there right now.”

He doesn’t mention the conversation he’d had with Terzo the night before. How he’d approached his brother, the master of romantic gestures and wooing, and asked how exactly he might tell someone he has feelings for them in a way that won’t leave anything in question. He doesn’t mention how Terzo had (embarrassingly) made him roleplay how his confession might go. He also doesn’t mention that, at Terzo’s suggestion, he’d gone to Primo to ask where the prettiest places in the Abbey gardens are, and Primo had told him that the front gardens are full of Japanese camellia bushes on their last leg of blooming for the Spring season. Copia doesn’t mention how, after that, Primo had lent him a well-loved copy of Linguaggio dei Fiori.

When you’re finished organizing your materials, Copia leads you out his office door with a warm hand placed on the small of your back. The touch, little as it is, makes you shiver.

“I haven’t been to this side of the Abbey,” you tell him. “Not since I arrived.”

Copia watches you as you speak. “The front of the Abbey is very, eh, overlooked. Most people prefer the back gardens because they are bigger. There is more to look at.”

He seems nervous, you notice. You can hear the creaking of his leather gloves as he wrings his hands behind his back. And despite his calm facade, his voice sounds… different. Not weaker, but less sure.

“Copia,” you say quietly. You always say his name with such softness and it makes his heart pound. “Are you alright?”

He smiles at you but it isn’t very believable. “Oh, yes, tesoro, I’m alright,” he says too quickly.

You tilt your head.

“Well…”

You can read him like a book, he knows. Fitting—you can read almost any book in the Abbey’s library, no matter the language, and you choose to read him. And he can read you, too. Like scholars with their manuscripts. Cheesy, he thinks. I’ve been talking to Terzo too much.

“It’s alright,” you say after a pause. “We can just walk, if you’d like. But you have my ear if you need it, or if you need some time—”

“No, no, I…” Copia gently takes your hand as if you’d drift off if he didn’t. “Please, walk with me. There are just… things on my mind, which I need to sort out.”

You squeeze his hand, relieved. “Okay. I’m with you.”

Sathanas. You’re with him. Copia breathes in and out again, shakily. You’re with him, it’s just you. Nothing to be nervous about.

It’s just… you.

You, who he’s about to bare his soul to. You who came into his life and who will stay for such a short time. All he has is a few months with you, and he’s been kicking himself for a week, trying to tell you that he can’t bear to waste any more time, not when you’re both well aware of the feelings you each hold. He can’t go another hour without knowing how it feels for you to know. He knows you know, of course, but you don’t know—

The hallway seems too long. Copia’s working himself into a spiral. His brain keeps telling him you’re as good as gone already. That if he tells you how he feels, you’ll reject him and he’ll lose you. But he’s going to lose you anyway, and he needs to know if he can have these few months with you or no time at all.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, he thinks. And sorry I could not travel both…

The two of you come to the front door of the Abbey. The old wood creaks when you push it open with your free hand, your other still holding Copia’s. You emerge outside and you hold the door open for him to follow after you. He gives you a small smile, not entirely present. Perhaps on Mars, visiting where you’d been.

The front of the Abbey is picturesque. You remember seeing it as you rode up the driveway that first afternoon. It had been so imposing then, gothic and ancient and huge compared to Marseille. These things are still true as you emerge into the sunny lawn, but in the sunbeams, with a breeze that holds only a little bit of bite compared to the air when you arrived, it begins to feel safe.

Your mind reels against the Abbey being a safe place. For your entire stay thus far, you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you don’t like it here, that you aren’t absolutely titillated by Elizabeth’s diary, that the massive Library doesn’t make your mouth water. This is just a temporary work placement, nothing more. Nothing can keep you attached. Not even Copia.

You almost have to laugh, because you know immediately that you’re lying to yourself. You’re already attached. The thought of leaving the Abbey burns in your gut, but the thought of leaving him almost makes you crumble.

You squeeze Copia’s hand. “Still with us?” You ask gently.

Your voice brings him back to this realm, but he’s already mostly through his mental recital of The Road Not Taken, and it’s better if he finishes it. It helps him breathe. Decide.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

“Yes,” Copia replies after a moment. “Still here. Sorry, cara mia.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be. Would it help to talk out loud?”

Copia turns his head and looks at you. All the words he’d practiced with Terzo are suddenly lost to him, nowhere to be found in his brain. Now he just sees you, feels your presence in his chest, and he knows he can’t use some rehearsed line with you. That’s not him. And more importantly, that’s not you.

The two of you walk along the blooming camellia bushes. You recognize them from the first time you’d walked in the back gardens with Copia. They’re the only flowers in bloom at this time of year, bright white and pale pink on a backdrop of evergreen. You wonder why more Siblings don’t spend time in the front gardens, especially at this time of year. The flowers are big and supple, if not just on the verge of wilting for the season, and the springtime breeze carries their sweet scent on a hint of warmth to come.

“Tesoro,” Copia begins, his voice soft and quiet, just for you. “I, eh… well, I wanted to… tell you that I, eh…”

You wait patiently. Your heart kicks and you think you might know what he’s trying to say, but you give him time. Neither of you have spoken the words out loud, and in your head, it exists only as the thing between you. The thing that is happening, the thing you feel.

Instead, Copia turns the subject. “I read about camellia flowers recently, you know,” he tells you. “Primo leant me his book, Linguaggio dei Fiori, the language of flowers—well, eh, you must already know that, of course, you are fluent…. Anyways, I was reading about camellia, and I learned that this kind is native to Japan, isn’t that interesting? They only bloom in late winter or early spring, and go dormant in the summer, but they don’t die because they are evergreen shrubs, which means—”

“Copia,” you interrupt gently, “breathe.”

“Right, yes…” He takes a deep breath and his shoulders drop. “What I mean to say is that these flowers will be gone soon, when the warm weather comes. I wanted to take you to see them before they were dormant.”

You stroll along the line of camellia bushes, observing the large blooms closely. The sun almost makes them glow against the dark green leaves. There are a few early bees gathering pollen for their stores, until it’s time for the summer flowers to blossom. You reach out to brush your fingertips against the outer petals of one pink flower, feeling the satiny texture and the dewdrops still clinging from the morning. “They’re beautiful,” you say softly.

“They remind me of you,” Copia replies.

Oh sweet Satan, you think, your heart suddenly pounding in your ears.

He continues after a brief pause. “In that book, Linguaggio dei Fiori, it said…” he clears his throat. “It said that camellia symbolize admiration and affection and desire.”

You look at him then, and he meets your gaze. Admiration and affection and desire.

“And longing, for someone who is far away.”

Copia steps closer to you. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, as if to tell you that it’s alright, he won’t ambush you, that these are those feelings and now he’s saying them out loud. Your eyes stay locked on his own, watching as his green eye grows more vibrant against the backdrop of the camellia bushes’ leaves. His other hand lightly runs down your arm to take yours.

“I’m not far away,” you whisper.

“No, you are not,” Copia says, and he’s close enough that his breath wisps over your face. You have to tilt your head up slightly to hold his gaze as you stand nearly chest-to-chest. “You are here, and the camellia are getting ready to close their flowers.”

“And when I go, they will bloom again.”

“Yes. And when they do, I will long for you, Camellina.”

Camellina. Little camellia. His flower, his blossom in the cold. Here until you’re not. “Copia…”

He reaches up and brushes a stray hair from your forehead, then traces his fingers down your cheek until he cups your jaw tenderly. “I don’t want to keep dancing around each other,” he tells you softly. “If we only have so much time, I don’t want to waste it.”

Your eyes flick back and forth between his own, and you’ve committed your own cardinal sin. You’ve gotten attached. So very attached. Incredibly, deeply attached, and you’re terrified, but Lucifer below, how can you be scared when he’s looking at you like that. Like he might already love you.

“No,” you say. “I don’t want to waste it, either.

“Then please, camellia mia, let me kiss you.”

He waits for just the slightest nod of your head before he draws you in and presses his lips to yours.

It’s really not a kiss at first, just a light brushing of lips together. He wants to know you’re sure that this is what you want. And when you don’t run, or disappear, or turn into a frog like some fairytale bastardization, he kisses you for real. Your lips fit together like they were cast from the same mold, built as the perfect opposite by Satan himself. He kisses you like you’re ethereal.

His hand on your jaw pulls you closer while his other hand slides around your back, and your own find his shoulders to keep yourself upright. He tastes like overly sweet coffee and whatever the refectory had served for breakfast and something else you can’t really place, but has the same distinctness as how he smells. The subtle oakiness of his cologne fills your nose as it sweetly bumps against his. His thumb gently pushes your jaw up, tilting your head to kiss you deeper at a better angle. You feel his tongue swipe along your bottom lip and you don’t even have to think before you let him in.

Your hands trail down from his shoulders to his chest and you press slightly, feeling the warmth of his body under his vest. You can feel the quick pounding of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips and you know from the thundering in your ears that yours is paced the same.

When he pulls away, it’s barely far enough to stop the embrace. With every slight movement, your lips brush together in the lightest touch possible, an echo of the kiss you’d just shared.

“Impie… seigneur des ténèbres en bas,” you breathe against his lips. It seems the only words that can escape you now are those thanking your Dark Lord for the man standing before you. What else can you say when Copia has just drained your brain of any coherent thought? “Embrasse-moi comme ça pour toujours.”

Copia laughs, the puff of air brushing against your lips and cheek. “I’ve broken her, I think,” he says. “She’s lost her English.”

You swallow and try to suppress the heat rising to your face. “I, uh… merde, I can hardly think. Maybe you did.”

“Is this a good thing, camellina?” Copia asks, his thumb brushing against your cheek. He’s still wearing his leather gloves but you wish that he’d take them off. You want to feel his palms against you.

“Oui—sì, er… yes,” you stumble.

Copia laughs again and presses another kiss to the apple of your cheek. “You know, I thought I was going to be the one tongue-tied,” he says with a little smirk. “But I’ve rehearsed this in my head about a million times, so perhaps the shock hasn’t set in yet.”

“Oh? It hasn’t?” You ask, finally coming back to your head. You lean up and kiss him again, simply because you can.

“N-no, not yet. Sathanas, do that again.”

You oblige, and kiss him once more. This time you linger, your fingers gripping the fabric of his vest and pulling slightly. You feel him smile into the kiss. He’s still smiling when you pull away. “I don’t think you ever finished your thought,” you say, remembering what he’d said before… all this.

“No, I did,” Copia tells you. “I had this whole speech planned, telling you how much I adore you, but I kind of… stumbled through it.”

You smile, imagining what his rehearsed speech might’ve been like, but it doesn’t feel right. You can’t imagine it going any other way than it did. “I adore you, too,” you say softly. “And your speech was perfect. Very you.”

“Awkward, long-winded, but somehow made sense?” Copia asks. He draws you into his side and takes your hand again, resuming your stroll through the front garden.

You laugh, and Lucifer below, it’s the sweetest thing Copia’s ever heard. “Exactly.”

Oh, this is bad. Maybe you would’ve gotten away with a mild heartbreak when you left if you hadn’t kissed him. But you had, and you know that when you leave you’ll be devastated. Kissing him, allowing yourself to finally feel the feelings you’ve been desperately pushing down since you first met him, is just digging yourself deeper into the hole you find yourself in.

But how comfortable and warm and perfect this hole is.

You remember the passage from Elizabeth’s diary you’d been having trouble with. In a dying garden, choose healthy roses. Find the good within the bad, the light in the dark.

When you spare a glance at Copia as the two of you continue strolling through the front gardens, you find that there’s a dimple on his cheek that hadn’t been there before, and little crinkles beside his eyes. He’s smiling. You smile too, and look forward again.

Pick, girl, the roses.

~~~

“You remember what we talked about, I’m sure?” Sister Imperator asks Secondo, who stands in her office rather against his will.

“Yes.”

“And you have kept it a secret?”

“Yes.”

He hasn’t.

No, in fact, he’d done the opposite of what Sister Imperator had asked him to do, just to slight her. He’d told you exactly how old Elizabeth’s diary is, and what he knows about Prime Movers. Although it seems like Sister Imperator knows more than he, if she’s so adamant about keeping it hidden.

“Good,” Sister nods. “We wouldn’t want some little French girl getting any ideas.”

Secondo huffs and looks out the window of Sister Imperator’s office.

There you are, walking hand-in-hand with his younger brother, looking quite cozy. From the second-floor vantage point, Secondo can tell the two of you are talking, but he can’t tell about what. The window is situated at Imperator’s back—she’d given herself the corner office, of course—so she can’t see what’s happening just under her nose. Secondo’s lips quirk up at the corner at the sight. From the little interaction he’s had with you, he knows you’re not some naive little French girl.

“Sister,” Secondo begins, “I do not understand what is so important about it that it has to stay a secret.”

Sister Imperator is irked. “Because it must,” she says, as if that’s a good explanation. “We can’t have just any Sibling with a womb vying for Papa’s attention because they heard a silly rumor. Not everything is full of sunshine and butterflies.”

“And what rumor is that?”

Sister sighs. “Being a Prime Mover is not glamorous, Secondo. The role is barbaric and dehumanizing, and I would not have any Siblings think otherwise.”

Secondo turns to leave with a huff. “I was hoping you would tell me something I did not already know.”

“Ask your father,” Sister Imperator says, and perches her reading glasses on the tip of her nose in dismissal.

~~~

March 29

I woke up in Papa’s bed this morning, alone. I do not fool myself when I say I had not hoped differently.

Mother says the ritual went well. She says the candelabras in the garden chapel stayed burning all night, a sign of approval from the Dark One. She says that candles lit from the fire of burning ritual bedsheets will burn until the sun takes over, but I think it is just because the candles were large and extra care was taken to ensure the chapel is not drafty.

He was very gentle. He was very… skilled with his hands and mouth. He treated me like a lover when we were alone in the chapel. It was as if the ritual bed was my own, and all I could focus on was how I felt and how he felt. Whispered words and praises and caresses on my skin. He was human for those moments. He became Papa once more when the knocker sounded.

Mother said to be glad that he was gentle at all. She said, ‘pick, girl, the roses.’

I want to believe that Papa hates this as much as I. He seems kind. Perhaps a man obligated by faith into such a demeaning practice, but kind nonetheless. I want to believe he cares for me in some regard. If not now, I hope he will grow to, as we will be spending much time together. But he was kind, and he was gentle. In a dying garden, choose healthy roses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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