I'm So Obsessed With Secondo Using My Dove As A Pet Name For His Love Because To Him It Represent A Sort

one more? | cardinal copia x gn!reader

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

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

Masterlist – Ao3 link

✦ ✧ ✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“One more, then you will let me go?”

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

“Isn’t greed a virtue?”

“I think you are mixing that up, no?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

Once you stop thinking about queer people's labels as strict indications of what's in their pants and who they do/don't bed and instead view queer people's labels as how they interact with the world, you'll find that you'll get along with queer people better and treat them better, I think.

Wdym I'm 5,000 words into part 3 of Confessional and no one has bumped uglies yet?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN??!?!?!?!??!?!!!!!?!?!?!??!?!

this is a PSA for fic writers who haven't updated in a while :

there are fics out there I'm subscribed to that have gone double digit months without updating.

rest assured the moment those babies catapult an AO3 email my way i'm dropping from the face of the earth to sink my teeth into them

i'll wait, and so will your readers

This is the face I make when you like and reblog my fics

The Count

PART ONE: THE DARE (ao3 link)

vampireCopia x Reader

tags & warnings: NSFW, MDNI, horror themes, vampire violence, blood, (eventual) smut. seriously, part one is as tame as it will be.

special thanks to @ramblingoak for the constant support and cheerleading of the vampire man. 💖

A dark and stormy night. What a bullshit cliché to befall a Satanic abbey that took up residence in an old gothic castle. But there it was, lightning and thunder swirling around the building with a wind that howled a low, unholy sound. It would have been fine if the storm hadn’t knocked the power out, but now without the flashlights, you and the others couldn’t see more than a few inches from your face.

Boredom had spread through the abbey like plague rats almost immediately after you arrived, biting at everyone until they were all infected enough to sneak out. The others said it would be fine, that they did this all the time, and if you just stuck with them you wouldn’t get into any trouble.

That probably would have been true if Sister Debra hadn’t suggested Truth or Dare.

Tired of hearing the same old ghost stories about the Count of the Castle, Debra took it upon herself to lead the others through her dull version of the game. The usual things came up quickly and after a half hour no one was left un-kissed and several of the Sisters admitted to having crushes on the same hot priest. You held your flashlight between your teeth as you picked at your cuticles, uninterested in who was more worthy to bed the unholy man.

“I’ve got one,” Sister Debra shouted over the others, her lips curling into a devilish smile. “For the new girl.”

You’d only been at the abbey a few short weeks, but it was long enough for Sister Debra to decide you were a threat. She had clawed her way to the top of the proverbial pyramid and for whatever reason, she’d laced every word she’d thrown at you with venom. It was a useless, one-sided power struggle that you had no intention of engaging in, but she had been pushing your buttons all evening.

“What is it now, Debra?” you asked with a sigh.

“I dare you to check out a book from the library—”

“Seriously?”

“—in the East Wing.” Her statement was punctuated by a well-timed crack of thunder.

The Sisters immediately stopped their chatter. Behind you, someone dropped their flashlight and let it roll heavily across the old wooden floor. The girls looked back and forth between you and Debra, waiting to see who would strike first. Rules were rules, but as far as you were concerned Debra could fuck off.

“Alright Debra,” you agreed as you slid off your perch. “Game on.”

“Wait, Sister—”

“She said she’d do it,” Debra snapped harshly. “So let her do it.”

And that was how you ended up on the second floor of the forbidden East Wing. Fucking Debra.

The first floor hadn’t revealed much, mostly old furniture still wearing covers to protect from the fibers from detritus and natural light, and a handful of nude statues that were suspiciously free from dust. There were paintings too, impressionist landscapes and oil portraits of the same man, all recently cleaned. If this wing was forbidden, you wondered who would be brave enough to accept the position of shining, you squinted hard in the darkness, Count Copia’s things.

Legend was, Count Copia was the one who had converted the other side of the castle to an abbey to prove his devotion to the church. No one could say when or why this had really happened and the few times you’d tried to ask, you’d been shut down quickly. But the Sisters were quick to share their stories behind the clergy’s back. You heard several tales about the Count, most notably that the Count was once a holy man, a story that was often whispered in the dark while the Sister were supposed to be sleeping. If he was, you’d never seen his devotion on display during mass.

It's not like he would’ve been hard to spot.

There was other less friendly talk about Sisters who had misbehaved or ventured too close to the East Wing and vanished without a trace. A whole host of ghost stories meant to keep you obedient. If a Sister happened to be shuffled around to another convent? Well, that was just the cover up. If a Sister fell ill or failed to return from town? Another victim of the Count.

Sometimes it happened too quickly, and the speculation overruled the facts. Had she seen the Count? Did he make her disappear? It was the hot gossip when you’d arrived. Whoever had moved on from the castle and made room for you was surely as good as dead. You never believed one way or the other.

Whatever the Count was doing was his own business. Until now, you hadn’t really considered him to be real at all.

In your search for the library, you’d come across a massive stone staircase curving up the belly of a turret. It beckoned you upstairs, growing darker with every turn. What was another dare to you anyway? Heavy rain pelted the windows that framed the grand staircase, the sound covering your footfalls as you moved up. Your feet made quick work of the stairs, finding taking them two at a time to be much easier to navigate as you propelled yourself forward into the uncharted parts of the castle.

You swept the flashlight over the landing, trying to inspect which direction might lead toward a library. The castle did not give up its secrets so easily and you were forced to charge ahead. Halfway down the hall, your light caught a massive set of double doors—twice your height and intricately carved. The doors were heavy, groaning loudly as you pushed through them.

The smell of dust, paper, and old leather hit you hard as you stepped inside. You – 1, Debra – 0.

Unlike the other rooms, it looked like no one had been in the library in years. Well stocked shelves line nearly every stretch of the layout, but every surface was coated in thick dust and cobwebs. You pulled the collar of your t-shirt over your face like a makeshift mask and pointed your flashlight into the room.

This was it. All you had to do was grab the first available book you could find, make a mad dash back to the dorms, and Debra would be forced to shut the fuck up for the rest of the night. You were unsure if the prize was worth the risk, but you’d come this far.

You quickly scanned the room, waving your flashlight over the surfaces once more. There, next to what appeared to be a full suit of armor holding a sword, sat a small table. Atop the table was a leatherbound volume on top just waiting to be snatched up. You crept forward, flashes of lightning reaching areas of the room that your flashlight couldn’t. With your fingers outstretched you reached for the book.

A crack of thunder ripped through the castle, violently shaking the leaded windows of the library. But it wasn’t the thunder that made you yelp and fling yourself backward. You collided with the knight, the back of your hand splitting open as it connected with the sword. Your flashlight went the other direction, flipping uselessly through the air until it landed across the room and exploded on impact. Fuck. Blood began beading to the surface of your fresh cut as a small, brown rat squeaked at you from the table.

You climbed back to your feet and shooed the rat away, shaking your head at your own ridiculousness. It dove off the table with another adorable squeak, its little legs carrying it away faster than you thought possible. Now unguarded, you fetched the book from the table and squinted in the darkness to find the exit.

A streak of lightning burned across the sky, illuminating the room enough to make out the doorway and the odd shape shadowed beneath it. Was someone standing there? Had you hit your head? Surely your eyes were just playing tricks on you. First the rat and now a phantom? The storm was really starting to fuck with you.

You shifted to your left; arm outstretched as you felt for the cold stone of the castle walls. It was too dark to see more than a couple of inches, but maybe you could feel your way back to where you’d seen the door.

Another bolt sparked across the sky and this time you knew you’d seen someone. Your stomach sank as your heart jumped into your throat. No one was supposed to be in the East Wing, least of all you, but you didn’t think anyone else would be here. A smaller flash revealed the shape of a man, closer now.

You swallowed hard. This was not good.

Your eyes struggled to adjust to the near constant pulse of lightning happening around you, but you knew he couldn’t be anyone else. The Count began to shift between the bursts of light, moving in a haunting, almost undetectable way. You broke into a run, heading in the direction of the double doors. You didn’t want to tackle an old man, but you would if you had to.

He let you run past him, not bothering to try to stop you as you bolted past and spilled into the hall. You were sure you could outrun him, legs and lungs burning as you went, but you could hear the tap of his behind you with every slow step he took. His pace didn’t change—that the tap, tap, tap was almost relentlessly steady—but somehow, he was now in front of you.

You failed to stop in time, your head bouncing off the Count’s chest like he was made of stone. The book landed with a heavy thud at his feet as you tumbled backward. He stepped over it, unnoticed as he advanced on you.

“Are you trying to steal from me?” his voice low, accent thick. “That’s not very nice, dolce.”

“No, I—uh—” you fumbled through the words, scrambling backward as you tried to climb to your feet. Your hands clawed at the floor, finding no purchase in the hardwood to raise yourself up. Even if you could, he’d be right back on top of you. In the darkness of the hallway, you could still catch his eyes fixed on you—one burning stark white against the shadows. “I—”

“You—you—you,” he mocked as he leaned over you, the cane slamming down near your hand. “What was so important to you, hmm? What have you come to try to take from me?”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—ah!” Before you could begin to argue, his fists closed around your collar. He hauled you up roughly and set you against the wall like you were nothing. What the fuck?

He flashed you a smile that was completely devoid of kindness as he pinned you against the wall with the end of his cane. He held you there as he leaned down and plucked the book from the floor. “German Folktales, dolce?” he asked, voice thick with disbelief. “Is that really why you snuck all the way up here?”

“Please,” you pleaded, writhing under the cane. “I won’t—”

“But you did, cara,” he teased, his voice low as he traced a gloved finger over your jaw. “The proof is right here, I’m afraid.”

“Please, I wasn’t stealing,” you finally explained, a single tear rolling down your cheek. If you made it out of this, you swore were going to kill Sister Debra yourself. “It was just a stupid dare.”

He leaned in closer, his lips near the shell of your ear. “A dare? This is a game to you, dolce?”

The castle shuddered around you as the power blinked back to life. One by one, the lightbulbs in the sconces lining the hall flickered, illuminating The Count in a strange, dim glow. You were finally able to get a good look at the man who had caught you in his castle. He wasn’t unlike his portrait, his features sharp and handsome. His face was framed by carefully carved sideburns and a meticulously tamed mustache, but his hair was slightly out of place and his skin was much paler than the portrait’s. He boldly highlighted his eyes by smearing thick dark circles around them, making the white even more noticeable.

He was dressed in a black suit, each piece tightly fitted to perfectly hug the curve of his body. A thick, black velvet cape rested over his square shoulders, fastened together by an elegant bat shaped brooch of diamonds and rubies housed in white gold. He certainly dressed like a Count, from which century was debatable.

He slowly lowered the cane, its handle catching slightly on the collar he’d stretched out by tossing you around. Another smile was offered, a flash of sharp white teeth as he drank you in.

“Cat got your tongue, dolce?” he purred. “You were so brave before.”

You closed your eyes, trying to ignore the way his words cut right through you. “I—"

“Oh, dolce,” he whispered before he slid away from you. “I’m Count Copia,” he said as he took your hand and dipped into a little bow. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. He looked up, eyes connecting with yours as he tasted blood in his kiss. “Dolce, you’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing. I just fell—oh!”

His tongue darted out, carefully swiping over the cut on your hand. The Count let your blood flow over it, red smearing over pink as he hungrily licked it back into his mouth. You brain began to short circuit, vision going fuzzy as he lathed over your wound a second time, torturously slow as he savored each drop. As he drew his tongue back into his mouth, his eyes rolled back in his head and the sound that left him was obscene. A low, guttural moan rose from his chest, so lascivious you were sure it had to be the same noise he made while finishing himself off. As scared as you were, that sound went right through you, stoking a fire between your legs.

He smiled at the small whimper you made, a subtle softness blooming behind his eyes as they locked on yours. It betrayed the sharp edge of his teeth. “Enjoy the book, dolce.”

(part two) (part three)

write bad fanfic. write mediocre fanfic. write fanfic that a thousand people before you have already written. write niche fanfic. write fanfic that only a few people will read or understand. write fanfic just for you. write fanfic just for a friend. write ocs. write self-inserts. the fact that you’re taking the time and energy to put your ideas into the world is amazing and people who shame you for it need to find better ways to spend their time.

Here Comes The Sun (Luleå 2011)

Mia Arancia || Fluff || Primo x gn!Reader

Tl;dr: Sharing fruit as a love language and Primo deserves a break from gardening in the summer.

This is my first time posting writing on tumblr, I apologize if my formatting is a little clumsy <3

In the enchanting nature of the Ministry’s garden, the rows of greenery were bathed in the golden hues of the rapidly approaching end of the day and appeared as otherworldly as ever. Primo could be seen standing in the middle of his growing vegetables, looking reminiscent of a scarecrow as he marveled over what must’ve been long hours of work, remaining motionless as he stood exactly where you had hoped to find him.

Primo simply observed your leisure stroll as you made your way closer and arched an eyebrow curiously. His gaze flickered between your approaching figure and the horizon, questioning the unexpected visit. Nonetheless, the sight of you beckoning him from the other side of the garden with an eager wave only piqued his interest further. Knowing your penchant for mischief and mystery, a smile tugged at his face when you approached.

Drawing closer to Primo, you tilted your head, studying his countenance intently. His voice, though calm and composed, carried a note of playful suspicion.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" He inquired with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "You're up to something, aren't you, mio dolcezzo?"

You shook your head, your faux serious expression suddenly shifting into a wide grin. "No, no," you responded, your voice laden with a faux sense of urgency. "This is a matter of very serious business, my dear. C’mere." With a playful flourish, you waggled your fingers and extended a hand in a hopeful invitation.

Once your fingers had interlaced together, the two of you ventured further into the back corners of the garden. Eventually, your steps came to a halt, leading you to a secluded alcove adorned by a magnificent orange tree. Its branches gracefully bowed under the weight of growing fruit imbued with the warm hues of a setting sun. Primo’s eyes sparkled with delight as his gaze swept over the nearly picturesque scene before him, his eyes moving from the lush emerald leaves to your face. A smile played upon his lips as he clasped your hands in his own, your fingers entwined like an unbreakable bond.

“Ah, you’ve led me to the orange tree,” he whispered, a blend of curiosity and surprise clearly evident in his words. A confused chuckle escaped him.

“I had planned on harvesting these in a few days time.” he admitted with a hint of amusement.

Before he could continue, you drew his attention to a particularly low-hanging branch which bent under the weight of a perfectly ripe orange. Excitement brimmed in your voice as you pointed it out, the already wrinkled sleeve of his shirt crumpled further in your fist in attempt to pull his body closer to the branch in question.

“But look! This one is ripe today.”

Leaning over your shoulder, Papa reached up to gracefully pluck the orange from its branch. A glimmer of admiration danced in your eyes as you watched his movements, amazed by the confidence held in the simple swing of his arm as he brought it back down to open his palm in a proposal.

“Are you suggesting we share our first orange of the harvest?” He gently turned the fruit in his hand, inspecting the dip where the gentle curve of a leather peel met the wooden stem. The time spent considering what he had asked was closer to a day dream rather than a debate on your actual answer, artificial hesitation induced by an overactive imagination. After a few moments your distraction was cut short by the feel of firm, pitted rind being pressed into your palm. “We must eat it together, of course," His expression beamed with a sense of pride as he spoke, eagerly presenting you with the literal fruit of his labor as a treasure to be cherished, shared.

“I’ve always thought oranges are best when split with someone else.” It was hard to resist a smile while agreeing and holding the orange up to the light to study it for yourself. Sitting down in the grass under the tree, there’s a comforting wave of tranquility as you lean back against the textured bark before pushing a fingernail against the rough skin of the fruit and slowly beginning to pull it apart. Primo slowly sits down next to you with a soft sigh as his muscles stretch, your shoulders bumping together sending a rush of electricity through your veins even after all the time you’d spent together.

"You know, you're quite good at peeling these things," he mentions quietly as he studies your movements. "How do you do it so effortlessly?" He asks curiously, raising a brow. You laugh in response, the sound twinkling like wind chimes in the light breeze as you held out a slice of the orange to Primo.

“Lots of practice. Oranges are my favorite.”

"Orange peeling is a rather unique skill to practice," The grin that shines on his face could easily beat out the brilliance of the sun when he reaches out to take the section of fruit.

“You can peel it so easily and swiftly," He continues with a hint of admiration in his voice.

“You always make the simplest of things most interesting. Thank you for offering your skills to me, mia arancia." His attempts to butter you up make you laugh, scooting closer to him in order to duck under his arm despite the summer heat that still lingered in the air.

"We'll have to share one each day, sì?" He suggests while biting into the orange slice, the sweet juice dribbling on his chin and smearing along the black lines of his face paint that was already distorted by the sweat of the day.

“I would like that very much. It’ll remind you to take a break, too.” You tease Primo playfully. Despite being retired, he still insists upon spending long days tending to his plants, rare to take a rest without being prompted. The thought of meeting every day for something so small simmered in your mind, the tender domesticity of being near one another for no real reason other than to exist. Together.

“Did you know there’s a lot of poetry about sharing oranges with your loved ones?” You ask suddenly as you pop a slice of the juicy fruit into your mouth and continue to peel the opposite side.

"I didn't know that," he admits. "About the poetry." He pauses for a moment. "What does it say?" He asks quietly while he lays his head atop yours, content to watch your fingers move swiftly to continue separating the sections.

“It’s all symbolic of sharing your life and love in a gentle way. A simple act of service can carry great meaning, you see?”

Pure contentment bubbles in your chest as you feel Papa shift closer to you and the feather light flutter of his lips pressing a kiss against your shoulder is enough to make you wonder if you have ever truly felt this peaceful before. You hold up another piece of the fruit close to his face in offering as you explain further.

“To love someone enough to cherish the mundane. I’ll read you some.”

And so you sat together until long after the horizon imitated the color of the fruit passed between between your hands, repeating lines of prose while sharing an orange or three with the sweet nectar sticky between your fingers and lips.

“[..] They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.

This is peace and contentment. It's new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all the jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you. I'm glad I exist.”

-The Orange, Wendy Cope, 1992

Watermelon Kisses | Secondo x Reader

Content / Warnings: papa emeritus ii x reader, sfw, 3.2k words, secondo angst, hurt/comfort, tw violent imagery (mild)

Author’s Note: thank you to @sirlsplayland for commissioning me!

commission info

What starts as visiting you in the gardens under the guise of seeing his brother turns into much more turns into a lesson on healing for Secondo. Also watermelon becomes a metaphor.

“Dolcezza, would you like some help?”

You startle as your fingertips barely brush the bottom of the apple you are trying to reach, tipping back from your ladder in a terrifying moment in time, eyes widening and hands thrown forwards grasping at nothing. Your heart is in your throat as you let out a soft shriek. Before you can fully lose your footing however, you are saved by large hands encasing your waist, steadying you with a low rumble from its owner. 

“Careful there, wouldn’t want you to take a tumble, si?” Secondo’s hands stay on your waist, a safety net in case you tip again. Your cheeks turn a peachy pink, but not from working under the sun all day. Heart drumming in your chest, you try to distract yourself from the hyper awareness of his touch.

“Papa! You scared me,” you breathed in and let him help you down from the ladder. Your legs are a bit shaky from the scare and his hands stay firm holding you– something you once again try not to think too hard about. 

“Ah, sorry fragolina mia. It was not my intention to do so.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, so you reward him with a sunny smile. Your clothes are dirt stained and rumpled with your sleeves rolled up high, a complete opposite to Secondo’s pristinely pressed robes and untouched papal paint.

He was a frequent visitor to the garden these days; you’re not sure what exactly had pulled such an interest but in passing Primo has expressed a relief for the increased visitation from his brother. 

“I was worried about him for a while,” he tells you over weed pulling from the herb garden, “I think being Papa changed him as it did with I but worse. He’s still trying to figure out what to do with himself now that the Ministry is no longer– what is the saying? Breathing down his neck?”

“Oh,” you go silent, turning over Primo’s words in your head like a puzzle. Secondo didn’t seem like he didn’t know what he was doing; he was often far confident in himself so it was a surprise to you to hear so.

“Obviously do not tell him what I tell you,” Primo hums as he wipes his brow. It was midday and the sun showed no relent in beating down on the two of you as you worked. “To most he is just a bitter old man in retirement, si? But he is… more sensitive than you would think.”

“With no disrespect Papa, but why are you telling me this?” You worry your bottom lip, not sure why Primo is being so loose-lipped today– more so than usual. Though he wouldn’t admit it, the Papa did have a love for indulging in the ministry’s latest hot gossip, but this was much more than just this week's tea. This was his personal life.

Primo chuckles a little and turns from his gardening to look at you, “Little one, I may be old but I am not senile enough to not see the gaze you give my fratello when he is not looking.” 

“Papa!” You squeak, hands flying to your mouth at the interruption but Primo only laughs. 

“Have no fear, your secret is safe with me.” Red faced, you turn back to your own weeding, trying not to aggressively tear up the garden beds as you will the heat from your cheeks to subside. 

The ripe apple you’ve been trying to pluck from its throne on the branches above leers at you mockingly and you frown at it. Secondo looks at you for a moment before wordlessly mounting the ladder himself, easily lifting himself within reach in seconds and picking the fruit without fanfare. When he gets down, he hands the apple to you with a little smirk, one that makes your heart do a little loopity-loop. “You seemed to be having trouble getting that one. Fortunately I am not as vertically challenged as you.” 

You swear if you did not love this man as you did, you’d show him just how short you are by being perfect punching level to his crotch but alas you do love this dumb man so you resist and merely scowl at him instead as you begrudgingly take the apple from him. 

He is not perturbed by this at all, in fact he found it endearing and frankly kind of adorable. He was often teasing you like this for your reaction, loving how you seem to pout or sulk at him with glares only to melt into a smile seconds later when he asks about the garden or your work. 

“Tell me dolcezza, is apple picking the only task on the agenda today?” Secondo asks, peering over at the small basket of apples you had accumulated so far. You shake your head.

“Primo told me to meet him back at the melon patch after I’m done. We’re supposed to be planting new seeds today.” 

“I see– I shall accompany you over then, si? I am here to see my fratello after all.” He takes the basket from you like a gentleman, and you almost protest until he offers you his arm. “It would be rude of me to make you carry such a heavy basket.”

You hold back the response of pointing out that the basket hardly weighed much at all in favor of taking his arm. You earn a grin in response and you both make your way back to Primo for the next task. 

Primo is sorting through a box of seeds as you return. When he looks up to see the two of you together, his eyes seem to twinkle brighter. “Ah, sorella, fratello. Just in time to plant the watermelons.” 

You let go of Secondo’s arm to eagerly kneel next to Primo by the intended patch for planting. Secondo hangs back– though he misses your presence by his side. You turn your head to look up at him. He’s wearing a neutral look on his face, as though he’s a little at the loss of what to do now that he’s here. He could hardly pull Primo away for a conversation now, but it would also be awkward to just walk away from the two of you without an excuse.

Just as he was brainstorming one, you interrupt his thoughts, staring at him with keen eyes as Primo’s words echo in your head; a reminder. 

“He’s still trying to figure out what to do with himself now that the Ministry is no longer– what is the saying? Breathing down his neck?”

“Papa Secondo?” His attention turns to you, sitting in the dirt with your cheeks rosy from the heat. A tentative smile is offered to him as you ask, “Would you like to plant watermelons with us?”

At first he flounders– something he rarely does. Usually he oozes confidence and dominance in every move he makes, every word he speaks. Now however, he is being offered to… garden? But that was Primo’s thing. Just like how Terzo’s thing was cooking and Copia’s thing was rats. He didn’t have a thing like them– but he couldn’t just come and take Primo’s, right?

“Ah, yes fratello, why don’t you come join us?” His older brother’s eyes are kind, his smile encouraging and suddenly Secondo is eight years old again. Anxious with a thrumming beat in his heart as Primo takes his little hand.

“Listen to me, fratellino. Father is wrong, you are capable of growth. You will nurture the ministry and bathe in its glory one day. I know it. They will love you.” 

And love him they did– but there was a fluke. Or at first he had considered it a fluke that they would only ever love Papa, but after the first few years of retirement, he now understands that Secondo just wasn’t the same. It was Papa who could grow passion in the hearts of many, Papa who stood in the spotlight to deliver the dark lord’s message, to speak his word.

“I… I don’t think that’s a good idea, si?” He chuckles a little to disguise his hesitation, “They would wither away within a few weeks, best leave the gardening to the two of you.”

He moves to leave but you decide that you are having none of it. You stand, stumbling forwards to grab Secondo’s hand. You keep him there, an anchor. He looks caught off guard, mismatched eyes wide as he blinks at you. “Che cosa–?”

“And why do you think that?” You demand to know. “Why would they wither?”

“Eh,” he laughs a little nervously but doesn’t yank his hand away. Perhaps it’s because he visits the gardens so often to see the sunlight reflected in your smile each day, perhaps it’s because you seem so genuinely pleased to see him each time. “I am not so good at the whole uh,” he gestures his hand a little, “the whole growing thing.”

“That is not true, fratello. The ministry has seen a significant rise in numbers since your papacy.” Primo points out. You almost miss it, but a flash of pain crosses Secondo’s expression before anger bubbles to the surface.

“Cazzo di merda, that was Papa, not me.” He bites bitterly and suddenly it’s a little clearer to you. Why he hangs around the ministry like a ghost, why he never seems to mingle much after retirement as much as he did as Papa. Most siblings were too afraid to approach him or invite him to do things. You can see now how it’s affected him. His hands have balled into fists but you are not afraid.

“And Secondo is Papa. You are not two different things, you don’t have to be.” You tug his wrist towards you and he follows like a lost lamb, a little speechless at your outburst. “I’ll prove it to you.”

You tug him down to his knees next to you and start pointing out which spots were the ideal places to put watermelon seeds and how far they should be sown apart. He is silent the whole time, eyes fixated on the dirt in front of him, but he does seem to be listening.

Together under Primo’s careful instruction, you begin planting several rows of watermelon together and by the time you’ve finished watering the last seed, Secondo has begun to make conversation and act like himself again. 

He looks doubtful at the patch as the three of you stand together. He doesn’t have to say anything for you to know what’s racing through his mind. You hesitate for a moment, unsure if it would be crossing a line, before taking his dirt-stained hands in yours. “They will grow, Papa, just watch.” 

——————

Spring passes and soon summer encroaches upon the ministry. Secondo’s visits are no longer visits now, as he comes to the garden each day to inspect the watermelon patch and water it with you. He’s apprehensive the first few weeks, but as little buds begin to sprout from the earth, you can see his apprehension turn to excitement. It’s rather cute, you think to yourself, as he proudly points out the strongest looking stems. 

When it comes time to thin the patch out and leave the strongest plants, he’s too attached for you to just toss the weak ones out. Instead, you ask Primo if Secondo can have a little spot of his own in the garden– and of course Primo was more than happy to get one set up for the two of you. He transplants the watermelon in his own patch with the most care you’ve seen. His robes are ruffled and stained from kneeling and sitting in the dirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s too busy making sure his baby watermelons are spaced out enough for them to grow properly and not disturb each other. 

“There’s a chance they might not survive transplanting,” you warn him gently. You don’t want to discourage him, but you also don’t want to get his hopes up. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to be deterred and your heart warms as he insists that no, they’ll make it. He’ll make sure they do.

When the first flower blooms, you think he’s going to cry, but he hugs you instead and you hug him back just as tightly. “They’re growing, dolcezza, look! They’re growing!” You nod and let him point out all the sprouting buds and from the corner of your eye, you see Primo watching with a smile.

Two months blow by quickly and soon they begin to transform into fruit and grow fat and wide. You spend a whole afternoon with Secondo and Primo discussing watermelon recipes. Primo suggests maybe putting it on bruschetta and Secondo looks thoroughly scandalized at the suggestion.

In the third month, they’re almost ripe enough to pick and Secondo becomes almost intolerable. The first thing he asks you each day is ‘are they ready’ and all he wants to do is stare at them and patrol for pests that may harm his watermelon children.

——————

It happens overnight and by the time the ghouls in the area were alerted the damage had already been done. Primo is there first thing in the morning and you come running to a stop in front of him, eyes wide as he looks at you with sad eyes. 

Behind him, the garden is in bad shape. Flowerbeds trampled, the tomatoes are barely intact, the cages keeping their shape bent and twisted like angry thorns. The main watermelon patch is almost entirely upturned, smashed melons in a burial ground. 

Worse, however, stands Secondo’s watermelon patch in the very back of the garden. It had not escaped the destruction and there wasn’t a single one left. The rinds smashed and tore bare. Ripped apart, the red insides staining the dirt like blood.

“A bunch of porco di dio church kids from the catholic one down the road,” Primo explains with a tight voice. “At least once a year there’s a group of dumb preteens who think they’re tough enough to sneak into the ‘evil satanic cult church’ and wreck shit.”

You’re upset and you know Secondo is going to be crushed. The three months of waiting… the promise you made him. It guiltily weighs over your head like a vice. “W-why?” You can’t wrap your head around it, “We never do shit to them, we don’t have anything to do with them.”

“Little one, here we are taught not to hate those different from us. It cannot be said the same for all religions. Some will teach that those different are wicked, that we deserve it. In their eyes, they are doing a service.” 

“But they aren’t–!” You cry. You open your mouth to protest more, but a strangled sound behind you makes you whip around. 

Secondo stands there, his papal paint not even applied for the day, looking like he’d run the entire way. He isn’t looking at either of you, instead his eyes focused on his watermelon patch. You see his throat bob as he swallows thickly. 

“Papa–” you begin, unsure how to comfort him, unsure how he’s going to take this.

“I heard what happened and came as fast as I… as I could.” He says numbly. His feet don’t want to move but he forces himself forwards to the carnage, his eyes darting around wildly at the bloodshed.

His eyes burn as he kneels down to touch one of the destroyed melons, hands come away slick from its juices, like blood. Trying to access the rest of the damage, he can see that there’s not a single one left. The plants themselves look rooted up as if they were pulled, some leaves already curling in on themselves and dying. Withering. Like he knew they would. 

Withering from his touch. He had thought… well. He didn’t know what he had thought. But for a moment, it was as if he could touch something and be okay again.

Secondo collapses to his knees with a muffled sob and you rush forwards, enveloping your arms around his shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry, Papa– I’m so sorry.”

——————

You don’t see Secondo the rest of the day, nor do you see him the day after. Primo said to give him some time but you are anxious. He had been so excited and lively the past few weeks and all of that was gone now. Even worse however, was that this proved a point to Secondo. That he was incapable without his Papacy.

The third day arises and you find yourself at his door, knocking and knocking and knocking until finally, he yanks the door open with an annoyed growl that dies when he sees who it is. He looks awful, like he hasn’t showered in a few days, or gotten out of bed at all. You know its more than likely that he hadn’t. 

“What are you doing here,” he asks quietly, “You’re usually working in the gardens at this hour.”

You take his hand, much like you did on that day you’d planted the watermelons together. “Come with me,” you demand. 

“Che cosa–?” he yelps as you drag him out of the room. He doesn’t know why he’s letting you, he could easily stop you or pull away. Perhaps there’s a part of him that hopes you stay even though he’s a ruined man.

He stiffens as you drag him to the gardens, and you soothe him. The garden’s been picked up and fixed as best as you and Primo could the last few days. There was still a lot of damage to mend, but the most important part was Secondo’s little patch. He is reluctant as you continue to pull him forwards until he sees the hint of green. “They missed one I think,” you explain to him. “See?” 

There, in the mess of upturned dirt and torn vines, is an untouched watermelon. Its stripes are unblemished and smooth as Secondo reaches for it with shaking hands. As soon as he makes contact, he falls to his knees with a little half laugh, half cry. He encases his large hands around it, feeling the smoothness of the rind. 

There’s a sniffle and another soft laugh. “Fragolina mia,” he says.

“Yes?” You ask.

“You forgot to take the sticker off, my dear.”

“Fuck– I’m sorry,” You immediately apologize, “Shit. It was a bad idea, I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” He stands, gently rolling the store-bought watermelon to the side so he can pull you into his arms. “It was a very sweet gesture, cara.” 

You return the hug, burying your face in his chest with relief, “I just… I didn’t want you to be sad.” You admit. “I know it wasn’t the best response but I didn’t know what else to do and–”

You are stopped with a kiss to your forehead and all thought seems to come to a stop, your brain disconnecting from your body. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your hair.

Once again you find your arms tightening around him. “I know it’s not the same, but it’ll still be good. And next year we can plant more!” 

There’s a pause and you hold your breath before Secondo nods, “Si, we can plant more next year.” 

A smile spreads across your face like sunlight being spun and you try to pull away so you can look at his face but he stops you.

“However, there is one condition, dolcezza.” You can almost hear the smirk in his voice and the second he asks, you know your answer is yes, “Go to dinner with me, si?”