This is my main cluster of a blog!!! See below for side blogs I may have reblogged you from 🤗💜
My Side Blogs:
🫎Northern Exposure side blog @morning-cicely 🫎
🦇Batman side blog @thebatcave45 🦇
🩸True Blood side blog @sookiesux45 🩸
My Writing:
Eric Northman thots/ Little Bites 🩸
Beetlejuice Masterlist 🪲🧃
My Writing Over The Years From Fandoms Below (currently can't find and need to organize)
Fics Written For/BC Of Me/My Ask not by me
Your Eyes Only (a Papa Perpetua Ghost fic)
A Papa Perpetua Comfort fic
✨Interests/Fandoms✨
Anything Macabre /Pedro Pascal /Oscar Isaac /Midnight Mass/Hamish Linklater /True Blood /Alexander Skarsgård /Beetlejuice /Batman 89/ Batman Returns/ Michael Keaton/ Eddie Munson/ The band Ghost/ Papa V Perpetua so many it's just ridiculous
I decided not to change my script, though. I went back and reread the first draft, and… well, I think it's good. It's mine anyway. You know, what I like to write.
In spite of every one of the Papas being the consummate performer, their exhibitionism is typically reserved for unholy rituals or satanic rites.
But something about you makes them need to have you immediately, wherever you are, and they all have their favorite locations where you might get caught....
.
Of course Primo's favorite spots to show you his affections are within his beloved gardens. Something about being surrounded by nature, feeling the combined connection with the earth and his lover making him feel more primal, virile even beyond the ravages of time. There are plenty of stone monuments and seating scattered throughout, perfect for him to bend you over and take you from behind, one of the few positions his stiff old bones will still allow for any length of time. He pulls out just in time to spill his seed to the ground at his feet, a sacred offering to the gods below. But he'll still push through the overstimulation to press his punishing length back into you, driven by the need to feel you quiver around him one more time, your own release joining his. What better way to worship the Dark One and thank Mother Nature for her blessings?
From the moment Secondo's gloved fingers graze your hand at the bar, the chase is on. Every touch, every glance, designed to pull you into his orbit. The way his strong hands cup the curve of your back, his hot whiskey-scented breath on the spot just below your ear as he guides you around the dancefloor. From the first moment he sets his sights on you, it's a carefully choreographed dance, and when he dips and spins you into the nearest dark corner, you're powerless. He manages to get just enough of your clothing out of the way, pushing your underwear to the side to burry his cock in your inviting hole. It's rushed and messy, and it makes your head spin the way he pins you to the wall and ruts into you until he feels your body shudder through your climax. He redresses you quickly and efficiently when he's done, leaving you overflowing with his cum, clothes stained with your combined juices for all to see. They may not witness what you do in the dark, but they will certainly know what you've done.
Terzo's idea of 'roughing it' is fucking you without a mirror on the ceiling above your bed. But ever with the flair for the dramatic, he's not above a clandestine encounter in the box seats at the opera or the ballet. It always starts with stolen kisses and teasing touches, but before you know it he's coaxing you into his lap, impaling you on his thick shaft and guiding the torturously slow rolls of your hips, all the while gripping your hair tightly and commanding you to keep your attention on the stage. He keeps you teetering on the edge, somehow making sure you reach your crescendo with the swell of the music so you can cry out freely. Other times, when he's feeling more wicked, he gets you there at the most inconvenient times, in moments of virtual silence, praising you when you're shaking with the strain of cumming without making a sound, scolding you when your best efforts fail. Shame on you, amore. Disturbing the concentrations of the audience and performers with your obscene sounds. You've been escorted out of more theaters by irate ushers than you'd like to admit.
Copia's time as a Cardinal was often spent with long hours in the library, deep in research and meticulously planning his ambitious rise to power. It was one of the few spots in the Ministry that he could truly find solace and concentration. A safe space in an environment that seemed bent on his failure and demise. Even now he gravitates to the quiet safety of secluded corners and worn leather arm chairs, letting the hours drift by lost in his thoughts. You find him there most evenings, jaw tensed and eyes fatigued as he nudges his glasses aside to massage the bridge of his nose. He doesn't put up much resistance when you ease the book from his hands and lower yourself to straddle his lap, whispering words of praise and affection as you pepper his tired face with soft kisses. The heat builds between you quickly, without your even realizing it. Necking and cuddling turns to tongue-tangling and needy grinding before you can even register where you are, that anyone could walk in on you at any moment. Too lost in each other to care you both moan at the sensation of damp fabric chaffing against sensitive flesh, chasing more friction, more pressure. You feel his body tense and shudder, a weak almost pained whimper escaping his painted lips as he empties into the sleek pants of his suit and you follow close behind, burying your face in the crook of his neck in an attempt to stifle your own cries of ecstasy. Soaked and sated you cling to each other in the comfortable silence. And mentally you remind yourself that you really need to stash a change of clothes amongst the bookshelves if this continues to be a habit.
Unlike the rest of the Emeritus clan, Perpetua's erotic experiences before coming to the Ministry have been fairly sheltered and reserved. And since his arrival he's been almost constantly either in rehearsal, in the recording studio, or on tour, which has left little time for him to get his footing amongst the Congregation, nor to indulge as much in sins of the flesh as would befit his position. But you're his weakness, having gained his trust early on, mutual attraction penetrating his usual shyness. Nowadays you can barely keep your hands off each other and every new arena or venue you enter is a fresh opportunity to find a tucked-away spot to tear into each other. But sometimes the need is too strong, too fast, and you find yourself bent over a speaker backstage, or nestled within the beams and staircases of a piece of scenery. Fighting through nervous giggles, finally scattering when you hear approaching footsteps. You reunite in his dressing room, doubled over with laughter and kissing frantically, locking the door firmly behind you so you can make love properly.
BONUS:
Who do you think started the fucking-on-the-altar during Black Mass thing? Though Sister finally put an end to that after Nihil fell and broke his hip.
