forgot I had a heart condition and took the hottest shower known to man while thinking of older men to which made me disassociate until I realized that I wasnt breathing properly, there was ringing in my ears, my chest was heavy from severe palpitations, and my heart was trying to squeeze itself just to beat properly.
I blame older men for existing. it was their fault.
A long time ago, someone dropped a note in my inbox. In that note, they said they'd had a dream. A naughty dream. About Papa Secondo and his gloves. They then, dangerously, asked me to elaborate on that.
And, dearest friends and readers, elaborate I did.
And then it got completely out of hand and it turned into 10k words of Secondo and his gloves and haunted houses and Dracula and Nosferatu easter eggs all over creation and like, dirty, dirty things.
So like, do with this what you will. To my dearest Secondo's Leather Gloves, anon. If you're still out there. This is for you ❤️
You were just simply a congregant.
Well, not just or simply, Papa Terzo would probably say. You are fearfully and wonderfully made in the light of Satan! A great witch of your time!
Still, you are just that: a local witch that found a bit of peace, camaraderie and routine in the Satanic Church down the street. Emeritus Abbey, to the unknowing, was just another church on the drive through town. Guarded by a stone and iron fence, bordered by thick woods. Across the street is a coffee shop, a bookstore, a little organic market; all of it frequented by the inhabitants of the Emeritus Abbey and the neighborhood surrounding it. It was not unusual to see a Sibling picking up a cappuccino or a Papa - sometimes in his robes - pushing a shopping cart down the aisles of the grocery.
You live a few blocks down from the abbey, in a little apartment over an esoteric shop. Even here, It’s not unusual to see a Sibling or two, or even one of the ghouls, in the shop as you pass through, poking around the decks of tarot cards and bowls of crystals in the shop, purchasing oils or candles or herbs for their rituals. The local coven meets here, once or twice a month. There’s potlucks on Sabbats before the parties at the abbey. You work from home. You shop at the market across from the church, you get coffee and peruse books. You read at the little park kitty-corner from your apartment. Life is, perhaps, a bit uneventful; but for an almost-solitary witch you are immeasurably content. You go to mass on Saturday nights and sometimes, the Wednesday evening sermons. Sometimes you even go to the parties; years ago, Dewdrop called you fresh meat. And though his amber eyes were, on occasion, off putting, you had fun while he dragged you to this ritual or that party. Sometimes you dragged him home. Sometimes he brought friends; your social, private and bedroom life was certainly not lacking. Now he calls you marinated and tenderized. You practice your craft. You work. You read your books. As a congregant, you’re allowed to borrow from the abbey library. You take advantage of the invitation to practice your craft in the crypts or the woods, if you require. The abbey and its acreage are ripe with magic and welcome - safe - for all. You can even go to confession or speak to a Papa privately, though you’ve had no need.
The thought sends shivers down your spine.
You’ve always loved spooky things. And men. Large men. But the combination of those two things, in the Emeritus brothers, makes you uneasy. They are spooky. And they are big. They radiate power and magic and you enjoy their sermons, watching them work. You like their band. But, you enjoy it from a distance. Happily.
Tonight, at the midnight mass, is no different.
You wave at Dewdrop who wiggles his fingers at you from across the chapel; honey eyes gleaming. He makes his way over to you and gives you a too tight, too hot hug. “You look hot tonight.”
“I bet you tell all the girls at mass that.”
He shrugs and you slap his arm. It earns you a wink and a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to Papa Primo’s bed tonight.” He whispers, heat pulsing off of him in excited waves. “Look at them.” He nods to Papa Primo and his wife, sitting in the front pew, talking quietly, smiling. “I am going to be the meat in that sandwich tonight. A spicy Dewstrami, if you will.”
You look at him, grinning. “What is it with you and meat?”
He leans in and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I love meat.” He grabs a fistful of your ass and gives it a shake. You swat at him but, he’s already gone, giggling into the crowded pews. You sit in your usual spot: Papas - like Primo and his beloved - along with the highest clergy members fill in the front rows. They smile and nod, shake hands and hug - greeting their black-and-white clad flock of Siblings and plebeian congregants with equal enthusiasm. As the hour draws near, the Papas find their habitual seats. Siblings of the highest ranks sit behind them, hard work and dark dedication affording them the second-best seats in the house. Behind them, a few - but not many - rows of pews are filled with congregants like you. Witches, satanists, pagans - the disobedient, nonconforming few that aren’t Siblings. Behind you, the rest of the Siblings and ghouls fill in the dark, wooden pews and curved balcony above you.
The organ begins to play and everyone finds their places but you do not sit. The organ lets out a long, low tune to signal us to begin the introit. As the first words are raised, voices echoing off the high ceiling and stained glass windows, harmonizing with the organ, the Papa leading the sermon enters.
Praise Morningstar from Whom all blessings flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him in Hell, you infernal host
Praise Papa, Son and Unholy Ghost
Papa Emeritus the Second glides down the aisle with an otherworldly grace. His mitre and crozier make him even taller than he already is. Imposing. His silks billow around him. His chasuble sways and the warm, familiar scent of incense finds you; his thurible swings in time with his slow, elegant pace. You settle into an ease that you feel only at the abbey. When Papa Secondo passes, your eyes meet and your heart jumps to my throat. Your body stiffens; your shoulders tighten. All at once you feel yourself pale and flush; a heat blooms across your chest and ice shivers down your spine. His eyes linger on you for far longer than is appropriate; piercing far more than your gaze. He holds that look until he passes and you exhale. He scales the dais and, in front of the altar, turns. You are only granted a few moments reprieve before his eyes fall on you for a breath longer. His glare, his attention, is altogether frightening and thrilling and sensual. His strong brow scowls over his mismatched eyes; he is unreadable. Still, you stare right back. Regal, roman nose over pursed lips; heat spreads through your center, you quiver at the thought of that mouth on you, that nose pressed hard against you. Finally, he closes his eyes - you heave a sigh in relief - and raises his hands, joining in with his congregation in the second, final part of the hymn.
Praise Lucifer for whom we disobey
Praise him for his light, on this day
Praise Him in, you infernal host
Praise Papa, Son and unholy ghost
“Please,” Papa lowers his hands and bows his head. “Join me in prayer.” He pauses a moment while you follow his motions; hands clasped, heads bowed in reverence. “Hail Satan.”
The chapel responds in unison. “Hail Satan.”
Papa continues. “Lord of Darkness. King of Hell. Ruler of Earth and God of this World.”
“Ave Satanas.” You respond, once more.
“We gather in your name this eve of unholy mass; your beloved and righteous creatures. Guide us to our true selves. Illuminate us, in your light, so that we may rise above doubt and insecurity. Teach us to walk beside you with pride and dignity. Show us that we are worthy of love and respect. Show us our greatness so that we may live our lives in your glory.” He is silent then, for a few more moments. His voice echoes in your mind, or the chapel, you cannot tell. See me. See me now. Your bowed head snaps up and you find him, once more, staring at you. You blink and a vision of you, beneath him, on the altar unfolds. The congregation, the Papas and ghouls around you disappear. He rams into you, your legs spread wide beneath him; like mortal and pestle, he grinds against you over and over; hard as rock, breaking you apart until you are undone completely.. You cry out and he matches your voice, roaring in unfathomable ecstasy. His mouth on yours. On your neck. Teeth. Over your heart. Lower, lower, he nuzzles into your belly. His mouth clamps down on your - the sound of Papa’s crozier on the stone floor snaps you back to reality. You blink, your hand over your heart, willing to it still while you attempt to control your short, staggered breaths. Your other hand, white knuckled, grips the pew in front of you. Secondo exhales and looks up at the congregation, his glare a bit softer though, present nonetheless.
“Rege Satanas.”
You sink into your seat, thighs trembling, as the rest of the congregation follows suit. You look around and see that no one else seems to be hot and bothered, no one is even remotely uncomfortable. You’re sweltering. And you’re freezing. Your heart pounds in your chest. You’d been to plenty of sermons that Papa Secondo had delivered. Danced in his great hall during sabbats and parties; he’d been present then, too. You’d even gone to a few of his rituals when you were younger and he was head of the Ghost project. You’d been on the barricade. You’d been a little drunk and maybe, or maybe not, had flashed Alpha and sent him tripping backwards. But, never had Papa Emeritus the Second even glanced in your direction. You’d never spoken a word, let alone looked at each other… and certainly not like that.
Blood pounds in your ears like thunder and your heart cracks like lightning, threatening to break right through your sternum the way it beats: hard and fast and wildly out of control. Secondo doesn’t afford you another glimpse but you feel him still. Feel him inside of you; shadows of him probing the edges of your mind. You let him in. It’s all at once erotic - heat coiling in your belly - and terrifyingly invasive. Still, unnameable, uncomfortable thought it is - you welcome it. You fold your hands in your lap and bow your head, closing your eyes. You try to focus on something peaceful: the sermon, the message, Satan. You look down at the shining, black and white, checkered tile floor. You run your fingers over the soft, worn edges of the hymnals tucked into the pew back in front of you. You think of Papa Secondo; tentacles of his power probe and prod. Look at me. Your eyes flick up to his and you can’t hear him preach over the sound of his voice in your mind. See only me. You look away - overwhelmed, averting your eyes and thoughts to anything else. The stained glass windows. Mother Lilith. Papa’s gaze on you. Her demon children. His hands on you. His fingers in you. Gardens. Strong arms. Long legs. Flowers. Chest to chest; his body hair raking against your nipples, sharp against your clit. Bees. Butterflies. Your legs around his waist. Pollination. Pistols. Stamens. Nectar. Pollen. Secondo. Secondo. Baseball! Bats. Balls. Oh, god. Secondo.
Your head snaps up when the organ plays, once more. You blanche: you’d missed the entire sermon and, on top of that, forgotten it was a communion night. You’re too close to the front to get out of it; everyone will see you leave if you bolt now, including the man you’re trying to run from. You huff at yourself, standing and stepping out into the aisle. Legs trembling; the sudden movement makes you very aware of your soaked underwear; the slippery wet between the apex of your thighs. This is ridiculous. Since when are you scared of a little eye contact? And since when did eye contact turn you into a quivering, dripping mess? Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. Since when does Papa talk to you in your brain!? Caress your frontal cortex? You smooth out your dress and toss your hair over your shoulder, noting the sweat that dampens the nape of your neck. Perhaps it’s all in your head. Perhaps you need a good meal, a good fuck and a good sleep. You have been off lately. A little depressed, fighting fatigue and sleeplessness. Feeling lonely. You lift your eyes and are relieved to see that Papa focuses on the person at his feet, kneeling, gazing up at him.
The procession moves all at once too slow and too fast as Secondo hands out the desecrated wafers and sweet, dark wine. Everything in you tells you to just slip out of line and run out the door. Still, your body moves forward on it’s own. One by one. Wafer. Wine. Wafer. Wine. And then it’s your turn; the big ghoul in front of you departs and you find yourself on your knees in front of Secondo, while he works to refill the goblet, his back to you. His thurible hangs off to the side, still smoke; the scent of beeswax candles and incense is overwhelming. The lights, though dimly lit and hardly bright, feel like it’s midday in June; blazing and hot. Secondo’s shoulders work beneath his silks. You lace your fingers together to keep your hands from shaking. When he turns, his gaze flashes with something you can’t name but you know you want more of. Power. Hunger. Perhaps lust but, you might just be projecting at this point. He stands, unnervingly tall, above you. His chasuble hem snakes against your knees. You lift your eyes and avoid him by looking up through your lashes. You open your mouth and push your tongue out. It’s miserably erotic. Visions of him naked, his fist pumping his cock above your face, flash in your mind. His head is thrown back and his balls in your mouth; a wholly different kind of communion hot and thick, running down your face, swallowed with a grateful heart. You gasp when he places the wafer on your tongue instead of spurting ropes of cum down your throat. Secondo bends, putting the chalice to your lips. You can’t break your eyes from his; that mismatched gaze sends electricity, arcing through your body, coiling tight in your stomach. You slip your hands over his and, for a split, hair of a second - his eyes widen. You shiver and sweat and take a long sip of the wine. Maybe Secondo’s looking at you like that because you’re looking a little pale, a little flushed and a whole lot of crazy. And then…
… and then…
He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away the drop of wine that lingers there.The tang of sweet, spiced wine mixes with the taste of his leather glove. You swallow and he smirks; a smile, a grin, should relieve you. On Secondo? It’s unnerving. He holds out his hand and helps you to your feet. “Benedizioni, piccola strega.” Your hand sits in Secondo’s for what seems like a lifetime; his gloved hand encompasses yours. You look up to him and he glares back down at you. You feel your worlds colliding; you pull away but, for a moment, his grip tightens. He lets you go, hesitating, he loses your hand from his. You turn, fast as you can, making your way back to your seat. All the way back to your pew you can feel Secondo’s eyes, boring into you. It’s just as unsettling as his smile; not being able to see him, knowing he’s there. That feeling, though you keep your head bowed, eyes lowered, stays with you through the rest of mass. You run your fingers over your mouth, sure you can still feel lambskin on your lip. Finally, the congregation stands for the final prayer, while everyone else now bows their head, you raise your eyes, slowly. Secondo is there, still. Staring.
Everyone, with their eyes closed and necks bent, prays, dutifully. Secondo only looks at you.
Believe in one God, do weSatan almightyThe uncreator of heaven and soilAnd the invisible and the visibleAnd in his son, begotten of fatherBy whom all things will be unmade
You cannot move. You cannot breathe. You shake in your boots and all the while, Secondo stares. You feel like a prey animal. Caught in an open field, nowhere to run for you will be caught. Nowhere to hide because he’s already seen you. No matter where you go, he’ll find you. You try to pray but no sound falls from your lips. You want to cry. You want to take your clothes off. You want to run. You want to sit on Secondo’s face until he suffocates. You want him. You want him more than you’ve wanted anything in your life: more than peace or solitude or magic or companionship. Most of all, you want to run. This feeling, this heat, this attention. It’s too much. The prayer rises up around you, you can barely hear it over the beat of your heart.
Who for man and his damnationIncarnated, rise up from hellFrom sitteth on the left hand of his fatherFrom thence he shall come to judgeOut of one substance with SatanWhose kingdom shall haveth no end
Secondo glides past you, his eyes still burning into you and you have to grip the pew in front of you to stay upright. As soon as the bells ring and the congregation is dismissed you bolt. You fly past Secondo, avoiding even a moment’s breath, not allowing even a wink of eye contact. Still, you can feel him. All the way home, you look over your shoulder expecting to see him. You take the stairs up to your apartment, two at a time, your fingers shaking while you fumble your keys. You stumble inside and slam the door shut; locking it and giving it a good yank to make sure it’ll hold. You press your forehead to the door, closing your eyes and attempting to catch your breath. You huff out a half-laugh, half-sob.
Because of course the door will hold. And of course Secondo isn’t coming to eat you.
Or fuck you.
You’re ashamed that you’re disappointed in that. The fucking part. Well, maybe the eating part too but, semantics. You have a glass of wine; it’s bitter compared to the dark, sweet stuff in the communion goblet. Worse yet, compared to Secondo’s thumb on your lip. You take a hot shower and, after thinking about Secondo, finish with a very, very cold shower. Because, eat or fuck, the question remains… Why was he looking at you that way? And why is it worming its way into your head? Why is he burrowing down deep in your belly, coiling and heating and making you miserable in more ways than one?
You towel off and slide into bed. Still feeling the heat of his icy glare, you give in and decide you might as well take advantage of the situation. Your fingers sink beneath the blankets, caressing your belly, pushing lower; you imagine it’s Secondo’s hand and your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers light over your clit and for a moment, you let yourself succumb to the idea that this is why he was staring. This is what he wants. Your body. Your lust. He does want to eat you. Drink you. Serve you up as his own, dark communion.
Devour you.
And then you hear it. You freeze; fingers shaking over your sex.
The antique, original wooden floors of your apartment had been a selling point for you. Dark, worn wood. Elegant. Historic. Loud. And now? Horrifying. Footsteps. You hear footsteps. You sit up slowly, the blankets falling away from your bare chest. The air is freezing; far colder than usual. Your breath comes out in panicked, white puffs. Footsteps. Someone is in your home. Someone is between you and the only way out. The floorboards creek as the intruder moves forward. Footsteps and… a familiar pattern.
Step. Step. Thunk.
Step. Step. Thunk.
Tears fall, running down your face, fear pulses ice cold - as biting as the air around you - in your veins.
Step. Step. Thunk.
Italian leather shoe. Italian leather shoe. Crozier.
Harmonizing with it, the whisper of silk. You stare at your bedroom doorway. The dark - pitch black, far darker than it should be - hallway beyond it. You’re sure you see shadows move. See the figure making all that noise. See him creeping down the hallway. But there is nothing. Nothing at all but the sound of your horrified, whimpering breaths.
You reach out, never taking your eyes away from the hallway, fumbling for the light on your nightstand. Your hand shakes so hard you knock over your glass of wine, the romance book next to it soaking up the red puddle. When you finally do get the light on, you gingerly slip out of bed, wrapping a sheet around yourself. You step into the hallway. “Hello?” You call to the dark corners, peeking around the door into the bathroom. As if a poltergeist or murder would greet you back. You flip on that light, too, and see nothing. You thank Satan that you left the shower curtain pushed back, hanging open. Nothing is amiss. You walk down the hallway, slowly, carefully, pressed up against the wall. So much so that the floorboards make no noise at all. When you turn on the lights in the little living room and kitchen, your eyes fall on the door: still locked, still chained. Your lip trembles in frustration, tears well in your eyes.
The floor creaks behind you.
Step. Step. Thunk.
You whirl around, crying out and see… nothing at all.
The next few days and nights go on like that. A few hours of sleep, always interrupted by whatever - imagined or real - papal specter has taken up haunting your home. Footsteps.The sound of a billowing silk chasuble and alb. The crozier. The thick aroma of Emeritus incense. Deep, rasping whispers. He calls your name. Every so often, they echo down the hall as if he is simply peeking in, having a check on you. You want it to be endearing. Romantic, like the silly books you read. Like “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir”. “The Ghost Papa and the Horny, Terrified Woman”. Perhaps a part of it is romantic. In the books you read, having a ghost haunt you would be erotic. Electrifying. In reality, it is terrifying. The cold fear it invokes. The distress of having an uninvited, otherworldly creature in your home. A powerful one. The confusion of unease, the constant fight or flight and the lusty, needy ache that settles like magma in your belly. Your body - so full of adrenaline - it is not your own. Exhaustion creeps in. You hear him at home. At the coffeeshop. Shadows slip in and out of your peripheral. At least it’s just in your head, you think. You can get a prescription for this. At least, touch grass. But even in the park, sitting in the sun, trying to read - trying to rest - you hear him.
Perhaps you’re tired, you think, laying back, letting the warm, spring sun kiss your face. You close your eyes against the bright light and sigh, sleep falling heavy over you - the lack of it makes the drowsiness impossible to fight it off. You let yourself succumb - for a moment, you think you are safe from it. From his attention. Out in the light, out in the open. People around. Normal, sane people who are not hearing or seeing anything paranormal. The breeze carries his voice, a purring murmur. He’s smug, you think. To find you here. The sunbeams turn into his touch. Soft leather, ever so light on your cheek. Across your lips. “Dormi, mia dea. ” His touch glides down your neck, “Sleep.” Over your chest. “Sogno. Dream.” You suck in a breath, his gloved fingers toy with your already hard nipple. “Sognami. Sognami.” You arch up into his embrace, his fingers tracing the waistband of your long, linen skirt. “Sì, sì. Sentimi. Senti il mio tocco. Non puoi scappare da me. You cannot run from me. You are mine. Mio. Mio. Mio.” You gasp, crying out and sitting up straight. You wheel yourself around the picnic blanket, your things scattering around you. In the air, the scent of incense and leather and magic hangs heavy. Panicked, you look around you, turning, sending your things into further disarray.
You are alone.
You feel yourself slipping - waxing and waning between deep, unwakeable sleep to insomnia and fatigue. You can’t distinguish between your need to avoid the haunting altogether and the carnal throb it invokes; the heated need for it to continue.
When you’re awake, you hear him. You’re sure your things are moving around; disappearing here to only reappear, a few hours or days later, there. Your book is always on a different page than you left off on. You wonder if he’s reading the silly, smutty story or just toying with you. Your mug of coffee is just out of reach; far further than you would have set it down. On more than one occasion you’d poured wine all over the counter because your glass had vanished from beneath the spout of the bottle. When you step out of the shower, your towel is gone. Your robe, too. Forcing you to walk - dripping and naked - to your bed; the silent, icy air of his presence lapping at your ankles. At night, when you can’t sleep - out of fear or frustration or desire, you can’t tell anymore - you sit in your living room, the lights turned low, listening to the footsteps. You watch the door. You watch the windows. Over and over, again you can see that you are - physically - alone. But out of the corner of your eyes - shadows move in onyx and emerald. Whispers caress your ear. Fingers, strong hands gloved in leather, slide over your own, lacing with yours. He holds you.
He reminds you that he is here.
And when you do sleep? When you’re too exhausted, too spent from the now, near constant jolts of terror? When soft whispers and erotic touches finally, after too many nights of sleeplessness, lull you into a deep, dark slumber?
Then, you shudder, he comes to you.
He walks down the hallway, in your dreams it’s longer than you remember and it takes him an eternity to cross the threshold; robes billowing, dark and swirling like mist. Shadows follow in his wake, leaving nothing but cold, black darkness behind. You cannot move. Pinned to your bed, he approaches, white eye glowing. You’re aware that you’re naked only because the bedding seems to touch you everywhere and nowhere; making you painfully cognizant of how absolutely needy you are. Your core aches, the apex of your thighs smeared with slick that betrays the ice cold fear that sits heavy in your chest. Your heart pounds, erratic; making it hard to breathe. Tears slide down your temples, soaking your hair; you can’t pinpoint why you’re crying - the fear of him, the need for him - you feel everything on a grand, overwhelming scale.
After what seems like hours, he stops at the doorway to your bedroom.
You whimper. “I’m dreaming.”
He nods.
The covers, your blankets - the last thing that keeps all of you from all of him - slide off the bed, pulled by invisible hands. He remains perfectly still, save for his eyes, following the sheets lower and lower as they slip away from your body; his gaze ravenous though he does not move. The shadows that swirl around Secondo invade your room, snaking along the floorboards, sliding up the walls. Secondo steps across the threshold and the temperature - already falling from his impending arrival - plummets. He stands at the foot of your bed, so tall he almost reaches the ceiling. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, or lack of it. Perhaps it is because he is not real. He doesn’t look quite like the Papa you remember at that last mass; he leers down at you, all pretense of care or warmth gone. You squeeze your eyes shut. He is not real. He is not here. You lay naked, ready, terrified but willing, in front of him. He is not real.
“Mi guarderai.” He rasps. “You will look at me.”
You open your eyes and he is still there. Not real. Still there. You swallow; your throat aches and your eyes burn with tears. The confusion you feel is overwhelming: lust and fear. Secondo clucks his tongue and shakes his head, glowering. “This will not do.” He moves to stand next to you and then slowly, so frustratingly slowly, he sits on the edge of the bed.
“Please.” You whisper and you don’t know if you’re begging him to fuck you or get the hell out of your house. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He ignores you, leaning his crozier against the wall. He takes his mitre off and sets it on the nightstand. It seems like he should shrink, without staff or crown but, he remains uncomfortably large. He brushes out invisible wrinkles and plucks nonexistent fuzz from his robes. He clears his throat, ever nonchalant, straightening his sleeves, tightening his leather gloves. All the while you are immobile, falling deeper into whatever madness surrounds you, invades you, settling deep inside you. Every inch of you prickles with need. Every nerve ending, every hair, sparks electricity; arcing between you and Secondo. Still, you shake in excitement, cry in terror. Your body is not your own, this dream, this haunting - however lusty - still feels nightmarish. You realize, as he picks and primps at himself, not offering a single glance, or noise that he is teasing you. Frustration of a new sort bubbles up inside of you, heat flushes across your chest. He is a cat and you are a mouse and you have been thoroughly caught. He’s playing now. Torturing.
He rakes his eyes lazily up your body, his gaze meeting yours. “Why?” you whisper.
“Why not?” Secondo puts an arm over you, his palm on the bed, caging you in. He leans down close, goosebumps prickle down your neck, across your chest. Secondo chases them, inhaling your scent while he presses his nose against you, sliding shoulder to shoulder. His paints smear grey on your skin. His tongue follows, leaving a searing line of heat behind it. When he comes back up, below the heavy line of his brow, his glower is somehow darker, colder. “You fear me?”
You nod.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward but his glare remains the same. His tone softens though he is, absolutely, still toying with you. “You shouldn’t.” He lowers his head, turning his face towards your feet. His hand is on your ankle, sliding up towards your knee. His eyes come back to you. He holds your gaze, eyeing you, watching you react without being able to move. “You should crave me.” His hand stops at the juncture of your thigh and hip; his thumb dangerously close to where you do crave him. Secondo leans down, again, and this time his nose brushes your cheek. “I can smell your fear. Taste it.” He whispers. “Your need, too. You are,” he inhales and groans; his tongue traces the shell of your ear. “Non sei poi così spaventata, piccola strega.” You close your eyes, again, whimpering. His hand is still there, still unmoving and the pounding, aching throb between your legs is growing worse, wetter, by the breath. “You are not so scared.”
Secondo takes great, gulping breaths - drawing in your scent. He licks at you - moaning against your skin and the tears start coming out of an aching vexation now. Your arousal is incomprehensible. Your fear, indomitable. You have never felt such carnal need in your life. “It hurts.” You sob. “Please. It hurts.”
You feel Secondo smile against your skin. He whispers. Smug. “Not so afraid.” He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tugging at it with his teeth. When you cry out he pulls away; brush his lips over the pebbled bud. “I crave you, too, you know this?” You shriek, embarrassingly loud, when Secondo palms your pussy; the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.
And then, you wake.
Drenched in sweat, you bolt upright, your breath coming out in wheezing, crying sobs. Sun streams in through the windows. You’ve overslept. Your alarm didn’t go off and, you look over, that’s because your alarm clock is gone. But much to your relief, there is no sound at all. No alarm clock, no whispers, no footsteps. You lean over and open the drawer, pushing around the years worth of stuff to find your vibrator. Only to find that, that too, is gone. Tears sting your eyes and you huff out a wet laugh.
There is a breath on your ear and you freeze, your back straightening.
“Crave me. Only me. Solo io.”
And you do. Hunger turns into obsession; fear into longing. Still, you are unsettled, the haunting induces a certain terror: footsteps continue, shadows move. The scent of leather and incense lingers. Icy air comes and goes. Whispers. Caresses. Hands on your throat, on your chest, on your thighs - everything, everywhere all at once. And then gone, lending a certain air of psychosis to it all. Every night he haunts you until you succumb to sleep and then, in your dreams, he teases you. Tongue and hands and fingers and teeth; touching you everywhere but where you need him. Testing you to the point of pain and pushing you further. The thought crosses your mind: perhaps you should go to the abbey. Seek help. Confront Secondo. But what if he has nothing to do with it? What if it’s all in your head? You’d rather have a Secondo-esque monster tormenting you than suffer the embarrassment of accusing him of lustfully haunting you and your apartment. Worse yet, stealing your vibrator.
So, you turn to your faith. Which is equally confusing: your sexuality is your own, your body, your mind. All of it your own. You are made of magic and blessed by Satan. And you are in control of it all. You’ve had demons in your home, in your bed. Booty calls. Ghouls who you - willingly - brought back from the abbey. You’d fucked and laughed and shared cold, drunk McDonald’s meals in your bed. Why was this so scary? Siblings, too. None of this should be as alarming as it is. So why is it? Why are you so fearful, so full of anxiety?
Why are you so confused?
You sit in front of your altar; the evening sun turns your living room a warm shade of orange, the suncatchers in the window throw rainbows across the room. Sage burns. A feeble attempt to exorcise whatever - whoever - haunts you. Candles flicker amongst artfully arranged crystals. A fresh pomegranate, expensive wine, a bouquet of vibrant flowers are all laid out as offerings; you, on your knees, sit before it.
Step. Step. Thunk.
You close your eyes and try not to cry. You can feel him kneeling next to you. His hand on your shoulder. “You think burning leaves will keep me from you?” His hand slips down, over your collarbone; his arm wraps around you and pulls you back against his chest. His mouth clamps down on the curve of your neck, tongue lathing, teething biting; threatening to break skin. Your tea falls from your hands, burning your thighs; the mug tumbles across the floor. Secondo’s spit runs over your shoulder, down your chest, dripping off your nipple. It’s searing. He keeps you pressed against him, his mouth roving over your flesh, face nuzzling into your hair, he inhales and he exhales a needy groan. His other hand opens your legs, pushing them wide and you mewl. He teases the swollen, wet lines of your flesh; his leather clad fingers are warm and the lambskin leather slides like silk against your pussy. Your clit aches and he does well to avoid it; he’s good at that. You hate him for it. And like he demands, you crave him. You are breathless, clinging to Secondo’s arm, wrinkling his silks, pressing your mouth to his wrist to muffle your cries. “You think I am but a simple ghost?” His nose presses against your cheek; nuzzling sweetly. His hand never stops moving, never stays in one spot for long. You lean back, your head on his shoulder. “I can smell you on the wind, amante. I can taste your need from miles away - you belong to me.” His gloved thumb circles your clit and you moan, jaw hanging slack. “Io sono tuo, strega. E tu sei mia.” His teeth rake along your shoulder. “You are mine.”
In that instant, he is gone. The room is dark, the sun long set. You fall forward, gasping for air.
Each night, just like that, over and over, he comes. As soon as your eyes close he is there. The hallway elongates by miles. Secondo growing to a monstrous, unnatural size. He comes to you, his shadows restrain you, silence you, while he brings you to the very, aching edge of it. Tormenting you. And then he leaves.
“Crave me.”
Your alarm clock was eventually returned, on the kitchen table next to a coffee mug that had also gone missing; Sunrise incense hanging in the air, curls of smoke wafting though you’d lit no stick. You decide to go out. Perhaps fresh air will do you good. Though you know that, after weeks of it, it will not. The highs of adrenaline and then, the lack of it, had left you exhausted. The aching need between your legs, no matter how hard you tried, couldn’t be quelled. You pull on your coat, freezing, despite the warm, spring air. He’s watching now. As you open the door, you catch a flash of green and black, slipping down the hallway, towards your bedroom. You have half a mind to stay, to undress, to crawl into bed and fall asleep and let him have you. Though he never brings you to your end - never, ever lets you come - just the thought of his touch is enough to make your mouth water.
You feel like you’ve gone mad. Running from him. Dying for him. You walk, hands in your pockets, head down. Your feet carrying you, the heels of your boots setting a dull, hypnotic pace. The breeze blows through the fresh, green buds on the trees. Birds sing. Daffodils and hyacinth bloom along the sidewalk; their scent is sweet but all you can smell is leather. Incense. Musky sex. All you can feel is cold breath. Slick, wet lambskin. You plod on, your steps lulling you into a trance as you walk to the coffee shop down the street.
Across from the abbey.
You don’t remember ordering or paying or picking up your coffee. You don’t remember the hours after that, all slipped away. You gasp, inhaling the night air; the scent of rain hangs heavy on the wind. You stand in front of the abbey gates, a cold to-go cup of coffee in your hand; so frightened, you crush it - the papery cup gone soft after so many hours. The cold coffee spills, splattering on the ground, soaking into your coatsleeve.
How long? How long have you been here?
You hear nothing but the cars passing by. The ding of the coffeeshop door across the street. Rain clouds hang heavy in the sky, the stars and moon hiding behind them. It is so dark. And you feel so very alone. Your head pounds from exhaustion and lack of caffeine. Your thighs are slick with the embarrassing evidence of your need. Your body feels too heavy, too tired to walk back home. If you could even do that. You stare at the abbey, lit warmly; windows bright, laughter and music echo across the lawn. And the realization hits you. Your body shakes, trembling at the thought of him.
He is there. He is in there where it is warm and happy and bright and you are here completely undone for and because of him.
“Crave me.”
When you wake, you think only of Secondo.
Reality seeps in and you realize you don’t remember returning home. Your hair is washed, you wear a nightgown and, as far as you can tell, you have slept well. Peacefully, even. You recall no dreams. No voices. Rain taps on the window and the wind blows; lightning and thunder flash and pulse and rumble, shaking the windows. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him. After a while, you start to wonder if he’s not coming. You exhale - half in relief, half disappointment. You relax. You sink into your pillows and listen to the storm. You let your vision go hazy. Your body goes limp. And just as you let your guard down is when you feel him, when you’re just on the edge of sleep, his hand sliding up your chest. Gloved fingers wrap around your throat; cold air, his searing kiss presses to your ear. “Come to me.” He rasps. His grip on your throat tightens, your breath wheezes in and out of you. Your eyes roll back. “Come to me now. It is time. I can wait no longer.”
His presence is there one moment and gone the next and you feel a supernatural - although, what is or isn’t supernatural is beyond you at this point - pull to stand, to leave, to go to him. Him. You slip on your bathrobe which, against the storm that blows outside, seems ridiculous. The whole thing is, really. But the voice of reason inside your head is muffled, subdued, stroked tenderly into submission by Secondo’s voice. All of your needs will be met when you get to him. You know this; you will want for nothing, crave nothing.
You’re rain soaked and aching before you get to the end of your block.
You see the iron topped brick wall that protects the property that surrounds the abbey. Down a ways, is a gate. Beyond it, the old cemetery that once belonged to the faithful christians that kept the church before the Emeritus family; now, to walk through the headstones - barefoot, nightgown soaked and revealing everything, wind whipping the satin around your legs - it seems deliciously blasphemous. Despite the nerves, despite the fear, to have a Papa’s voice in your head, to know that part of you is no longer your own, that your body responds to his call on a base, animalistic level; it thrills you. Your fingers pass over the weather-worn, moss covered headstones. Your hair whips in your face. You shiver - your thighs are slick, your core fiery hot - you know it isn’t from the rain.
Through the woods you walk and you hear ghouls calling, chittering over the storm - they raise a raucous, their infernal noise masked by the storm. You feel warmth, a friendly, familiar warmth at your ankles and a dark shadow slides up your legs, across your belly. A growl and snap of sharp, ghoulish teeth makes you smile. Not tonight, you think and Dewdrop heats your skin once more, lapping at your neck, nipping at your ear before leaving you.
You make your way through the woods that separates the abbey from the rest of the world. The earth is soft and cold and wet but, you pay it no mind. Secondo’s voice, probing every part of your mind forces one foot in front of the other. You put your arms out, reveling in the storm. Mud coats your feet and legs. Soft grass wipes it away, smearing it over the sopping satin of your nightgown. Flashes of lightning reveal the dancing shadows of the ghouls; they run and fight and fuck all around you and it makes you smile. You spin and cackle, the impending relief has you almost hysteric, throwing your head back against the spring downpour.
Through the trees, you can see the abbey. It’s late enough that the only lights you see are warm, glowing windows in the dormitory wings and towers; Siblings up late. You emerge from the woods and make your way through the winding labyrinth that is the garden and the statuary. You come here, sometimes. To pray. To have a safe, quiet spot to practice during a full moon. To enjoy the bonfires on Beltane. And the party on Samhain.
You run your fingers over the thick, waxy leaves of the rosebushes. Over the silken alabaster of a statue’s robes; the wearer you have no gumption to look up and see. Your mind is singular and the closer you get to the abbey, the harder it is to focus on anything else. Your heart pounds in your chest, echoing his name: Secondo. Secondo. Secondo.
Over the soft, manicured lawn you walk. Twirling, dancing, amongst the oaks and maples that stand sentinel; the sounds of the ghouls fade away, the constant, hard rain drowning them out. The storm hands directly overhead - a sane person would not be out in the middle of it - lightning cracks and, immediately, thunder follows; shaking your ribcage. But you are not sane. Not in the slightest. Not tonight, anyway. A few weeks ago, at a Satanic mass, you might’ve been somewhat normal. But, Secondo - ghostly or not - is a man you know you’ll never recover from. You will never want another.
You scale the stone steps to the massive, dark, oaken doors. You push them open and step inside, the warmth of the foyer greets you like the lover you seek. For a moment, you stand there, breathing hard; taking in the dark room. Usually, it is lit and full of Siblings when you enter for mass. The fire across the room - surrounded by a few overstuffed chairs and coffee tables, burns low but hot. Above the mantle, a portrait of the current reigning Papa looks down at you. Perpetua, in all his glory, does not look impressed that you’re dripping and muddy and on the verge of a carnal, lusty breakdown right in front of him, right on his pristine floors. You look down one long hallway; you see no shadows and hear no whispers. You’re acutely aware that the only sound you hear is that of the storm behind you, the abbey doors still open wide.
You look to the left and he is on you; gloved hand around your throat, the other between your thighs; the leather and wet fabric of your nightgown clashing, keeping him from you. His mouth crashes hard onto you, harder still you hit the wall; Secondo’s body dwarfs yours, engulfs you. For a moment, he is in your mind and outside, up against, of your body; spectral, ethereal and - at the same time - so very real, palpable, heated. His teeth bite at your lips, his tongue forcing entry and you sigh, arching forward, pressing into him. Your mouth hangs open, your legs spread for him, your arms come around him - to touch him, just to feel him soothes your mind; mends the edges that have gone ragged after weeks of his bedevilment. Secondo pulls at your nightgown, the straps pop and disappear as he yanks the top down, exposing your chest. His mouth, hot and eager, finds your nipple and you cry out. His hand tightens around your throat and the lack of air sends jolts of pleasure from your scalp to your curling toes; you see emerald stars dancing amongst onyx cosmos. You shiver beneath his mouth, your hands on the back of Secondo’s head, on his neck, keeping him tight against you while he bites and suckles. He groans against your flesh; he grips your hips, grinding them up against him. His height forces him to hunch over you, his mouth kissing its way up to your neck, biting and sucking dark, perfect marks over your pulse point. You will wear the shape of his mouth for weeks.
Secondo’s hands slip back and he, so tightly it hurts, grabs your ass; he lifts you up, your legs finding purchase around his waist. You think he is going to take you to his bed but he simply sinks to his knees. The cold marble floor shocks a moment of sense into you and you let out a sob of need, of frustration, of weeks of fear. You scoot backwards until you meet the steps and struggle, wet and flustered and shaking, to scale them. Secondo crawls towards you, eyes on fire, brow heavy as he glares. His hand finds your ankle and you think he’s going to pull you back to him but, he just lifts your muddy, wet skin to his lips. He inhales and leans forward, planting a kiss on the back of your knee. You shudder. “Papa.” he freezes and his unreadable eyes flick up to yours.
In an instant, his hand is back on your throat, his breath a growl against your jaw. He drags his mouth up to your ear. He presses into you, grinding hard; the stairs bite against your back. You cling to Secondo, arms around his shoulders. “You.” He growls. “You have vexed me. You have put a spell on me, strega?”
“N-no, Papa.”
Your answer earns you another growl. His teeth clamp down on your neck like a feral dog; you fist his silks, crying out. If you thought the ache for him was terrible before, when he was just a specter, this is incomprehensible. Your mouth hangs open and you take great, gaping gasps of air; Secondo’s hand works furiously, struggling between your wet nightgown and his chasuble. You shake, your entire body convulses, legs spread, dying for him. “Please.” You whimper.
He doesn’t stop and he doesn’t go faster. He makes no move to penetrate you. No, he’s enjoying this, watching you. “Do you know the four stages of demonic possession, “la mia bellezza? Hm, my beauty?” You shake your head, releasing a fresh round of tears. His thumb presses against your lips and you open your mouth - the taste of leather and sex blooms over your tongue. “I will tell you.” Still his hand moves, the leather slides against your skin, your puffy flesh slides between his fingers. Still, he makes no move other than the gentle, tender back and forth. Up and down. The heel of his hand slips over your clit, the tip of his fingers tease your entrance, and then, down to your ass. Almost there. Not nearly enough. “The first stage,” Secondo growls, his middle finger sliding up to your clit - his other fingers delicately, elegantly splayed so that nothing else touches you. “Infestation.”
“Papa. Papa!” You sob. His fingertip rings around your clit send sharp - near painful - jolts of pleasure through your legs. It echoes - aching - deep in your thighs. Makes it hard to breathe. Like everything else has been, it is as exhilarating as it is excruciating.
He shushes you, muffling your sobs with his mouth, moving his finger just a breath away - alleviating the severity without stopping. “Infestation is like,” he pauses, gazing off into nothing. Contemplating as if he doesn’t know the answer. When his eyes come back, there is a sparkle in them. “It is like a haunted house.” He smirks down at you. You gasp for air, the brief moment of relief he gives you leaves room for that frustration to slither back in.
“I thought I was going crazy.” You hiss and Secondo answers you by pressing his palm hard against your clit. You shake and moan and the rest of your anger dissipates, again.
“You hear noises. Footsteps. Whispers.” He goes on as if he’s teaching one of his classes. Nonchalant to the point of annoyance. “You see shadows, yes? You know it isn’t real and yet, it seems so. Doesn’t it? Did I seem real, my darling?” He asks, leaning down. His tongue traces the open circle of your mouth. “I can tell you I was there… I was,” he moans, matching the sound you make. You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or praising you or joining in. “Yes, yes - I am sorry to put you through it. But I was there. I was.” The tips of his middle and ring finger circle at your entrance and your hips buck, a weak attempt at getting him inside you. He pulls away, not moving at all. You still and he waits a moment before resuming. Your pussy clenches on nothing as he presses just at the entrance; just enough to tease the tender flesh, to pull and stretch it for just a moment. “The second level is oppression - oh, it is one of my favorites. To see you at night, sleeping so peacefully? To slip into your dreams?” He groans and leans down, biting at your nipple. “And now, to be able to finally touch you? Do you know how miserable it was for me?” Your eyes flutter open and your brow knits in confusion. “Ah, you do not know? I forget you are not one of my ghulehs, not one my flock.” He sighs and for a moment, slips just the tips of his fingers inside of you. He grins. Your reaction - your legs slamming together, your voice pitched as you cry out - deemed worthy. “I cannot feel you, my love.” He teases you now, pumping the tips of his fingers in and out of you. “I could touch you, tease you, drive you mad but I could not feel a thing. Not like that. Now? Now, though,” he sinks his fingers into you and he smiles, watching you with great pride. “Now, I can touch you. Now,” Your pussy flutters around his fingers and he sighs, leaning down to lap at the fiery spot where your body wraps tights around his, drinking you up like a fine wine. “Now I can feel you.” He looks up, nuzzling against your belly. “Finally. Finally,” Secondo’s voice breaks - a crack in his otherwise cold, calculating, powerful facade. And it costs him. The sound your body makes while his fingers pump in and out of you is wildly lewd; wet, loud - almost as loud as you - you wonder if anyone in the abbey is awake, wondering if anyone is thinking that someone in the foyer is getting murdered. Or perhaps, a pipe has burst; either way, you don’t care. “The third level of demonic possession,” Secondo says, letting go of your neck, pulling his hand from your pussy. He sits up straight and brings his fingers to his mouth. You watch him, your own hands replace his, wandering over your body. You watch him suck your slick, milky and shining, from his fingers; eyes closed, throat bobbing.
You calm, a little. Though the painful need is still pounding between your legs, you can catch your breath. Secondo’s paints are a mess, his robes wrinkled and sopping wet; from the rain or from you, you can’t tell. You feel good about it, either way. Again, your mind is singular and you don’t care much. The stairs are wildly uncomfortable but they weren’t meant for sprawling or fucking; you chalk up most of your pain to your position: laid out, legs splayed open, bare to the world. You push yourself up on your elbows. “You aren’t a demon.” Your voice is hoarse and you glare at Papa. All of these dramatics, all of this pain and suffering and want and aching; all of it in the name of… demonic possession? “You aren’t a demon.”
“And yet,” he growls. One second he is sucking his gloves dry, nursing every drop of you off of him. Then next, his hand is on the back of your neck, mashing your face against his. He kisses you, fiercely, while he speaks. “And yet, I wish to possess you all the same.” His growls turn into moans, turn into whines. “The third stage is obsession. Obsession. You think only of me. You want only me. You crave,” His eyes are squeezed shut, hands still on your neck, only our face, keeping it against his. “Only me.” Your hands find their purchase on the hem of his silks and you yank them up and out of the way. You find his belt and button and zipper and wonder what kind of male - human or infernal - wears so many damn layers. He pushes your chin up, forcing you to work blindly. You meet his mismatched gaze and find all traces of that cold glower gone. Now, his eyes search yours - the white and green are full of need, full of soft, loving warmth. “I wish to possess you.”
You work at his belt. And his button. And zipper.
You push his pants and underwear over his ass, freeing his cock. It’s hot and hard and pounds with his pulse beneath your fingers. “I want to possess you and I want you to crave me. Me, only.”
You shift your hips beneath him. You shiver. You rub the head of Secondo’s cock along the length of your pussy; both of your mouths fall open. “What is the fourth?” Secondo presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed.
“Fourth what?” Secondo’s voice rides on an exhale, low and breathy.
“The,” Your mouth pressed open to the corner of his. “The fourth level… fourth stage. Demons.”
Secondo smirks and then dips his head, kissing your neck, licking along your collarbone. “The fourth stage is,” He rolls his hips and you release your grip, letting him sink into you. You both let out loud, borderline obnoxious, sounds of relief. Groaning and crying, clinging to each other.
“Possession.”
Your jaw hangs slack and Secondo’s mouth finds purchase there, his tongue dancing with yours. You whine and sigh. His touch wildly relieving. You sob. “Finally.” Secondo fucks you, slowly. He hardly pulls out; simply grinding into you and you spread your legs, welcoming him in. The stairs bite at your back, at your ass; tomorrow you’ll have splendid bruises to show for it. Everytime Secondo rolls his hips, pushing into you, a delicious ache blooms deep. Still, he will never be deep enough; he has planted in you a craving that he will never satiate. “You made me wait so long.” You whimper. “So, so long. And it hurt, it hurts, Papa.”
He coos, purring against your cheek. “I am here now, I am here. I am yours.”
…
You lay on the floor, having slid off the stairs, and by some Satanic miracle, rolled and fucked and writhed your way in front of the open foyer doors. You lay on top of Secondo, your nightgown torn and still wet, hiked up over your waist, tangled; all of you exposed. Still muddy. His pants are still around his ankles, his silks bunched up, thrown and twisted over his head; a blasphemous pillow. You rest your head on his chest, your heart over his ear. You both stare out at the storm, watching the trees sway and bend in the wind, the lightning and thunder dance overhead. “You and I,” You start and then pause, frowning, struggling to find the words. Secondo’s fingers tuck under your chin, pulling your gaze to his. “We’d seen each other a hundred times before - at mass, all the sabbats. Why was that mass different? What’s different now?”
He shakes his head, brow furrowed. He pulls you up to his mouth, kissing you softly. “I… do not know. I tried, for a short time,” He smirks, “To understand such a sudden and severe pull to you. Only that, one minute I knew you in passing. A witch in my congregation. The next moment, the Dark Lord saw that - like Primo, perhaps,” he taps a finger on top of his head, “Struck by it.” He hesitates and you kiss him.
“Tell me.”
“Love. It is my time," His voice breaks and he clears his throat. His cheeks turn pink beneath his sex-mussed paints; he’s blushing. He swallows and you realize after all of this, he’s nervous. And that he is, very much, a man. “I, too, can love.”
You bite your lip and grin. “But first you thought I put a spell on you?”
Secondo’s frown turns into a soft, sheepish smile. He wears it well, humility. Embarrassment. “I was,” he kisses you, whining quietly against your mouth. “Scared, at first. How much I wanted you.” You snort, smiling, bumping your nose, against his. Again, he reminds you - has if you’ve forgotten. “I, too, can love.” You kiss his chest, nuzzling into it, pressing your lips over his heart. You take Secondo’s hand - pulling it from your cheek and, finger by finger, you take off his glove. You glance up at him; he watches you, silent once more. You eye him.
“You’re really here?” You ask, nuzzling into his palm. You kiss it. “This is you?”
He smirks. “I am truly here. I am yours.”
You press his hand to your lips and your eyes flutter shut: warm. He is so warm. You kiss his fingertips and, turning his hand over, you nuzzle into the back of it, reveling in the dark hair there, your fingers trace it up his arm. You sit up and take his other hand, bringing the leather to your mouth; you grin and bite it - carefully - pulling it off. You bring that hand to your mouth, giving it the same, slow attention as the other. You press them to your chest and lower them over your breasts. Your eyes meet and you smile. Secondo gives your chest a squeeze. You smile. “You know,” you laugh, quietly. “All that work? You could have just asked me out to dinner.”
being a creepypasta fan is wild. like what do you mean I've been in the Fandom since I was 11? what do you MEAN im turning 21 in less than three weeks?
11 year old me would be pissed if she saw me where I am. im still reading fanfics, but im not a proxy and im not living in the Slendermansion with all the pastas. my headcanons no longer involve masky being a cheesecake loving twink, hoodie being a silent sweetie type, Toby loving waffles, and my self insert oc isn't this all powerful girl with different colored eyes and hair that's stronger than Slenderman and Zalgo.
Royalty AU - Marriage Law - every royal must marry a commoner chosen by the advisor to keep the bloodlines clean
Mythology - Foretold by the gods
Mythology - The prophecy said, so Person A and Person B are here to get hitched!
Mythology - Hades and Persephone AU
Regency AU - Either Person A or Person B is in danger of being ruined socially
Regency AU - Person A inheriting Person B’s father’s estate and the only way to keep Person B’s family out of the poor house is for Person B to marry Person A.
Regency AU - One of them compromised the other
Old West AU - Mail Order Spouse(Person A) to keep Person B’s house bc Person B is a dirty single person and a mess alone
Old West AU - Person A needs money to pay off their debtors, Person B needs a spouse for decency’s sake. Also, there are horses.
Old West AU - Person A’s parents sent them out west to marry someone. That someone is Person B and Person B is also the only sheriff round these parts.
It’s the law (Marriage law with chosen partners)
Medieval AU - To unite Person A and Person B’s houses
Medieval AU - Person A’s father chose Person B, also it’s the law
Medieval AU - to End a feud
Viking AU - Person A is traded to the Vikings for safe passage and is subsequently married to the jarl’s oldest child, Person B.
Pirate AU - Person A’s crew raided the village and their cut of the booty is a locked chest. With Person B inside.
Fae AU - Person A’s hapless parents promised them to the Fae King (Person B)
Fae AU - The Fae King (Person A) tricks Person B into eating something in Faerie.
“Don’t worry, I would never touch you.”
“We’re all the other has now, we’d do well to play nice”
my autistic ass can NOT be quiet and mysterious. one you get me talking, suddenly you're getting my entire life story and random facts on things you never knew existed.
having such a shit day i just need that older man to take care of me beyond physical intimacy. give me some words of comfort. little forehead smooches. make me gARLIC BREAD. GIVE ME A REASON TO NOT BREAK DOWN CRYING RIGHT NOW! ANYTHING!!!!
hate it when sequels to movies make the obvious butch lesbian female lead randomly into a feminine stereotype because she found a man
or when they kill her off/make her a mother (bonus points if both. looking at you Halloween franchise)
baby i might be aroace and extremely fluid with my gender to the point where it's more like a gas leak that can't be contained, but i am her WIFE. we are LESBIANS. she's called the final girl for a reason and i'll be DAMNED if they change her. i do NOT care if tw!tter users get upset that they can't get off to her and whine about her not being 'feminine' enough, she's for the GAYS.
these two make me siiiiiick, affectionately. as someone who is aroace and on the autism spectrum, i'm unable to feel or experience romantic attraction at all. so relying on fandoms and their characters are usually my go to as a sort of placebo (which i have been told is normal. it's like learning by example, though i'm never going to feel it outside of said example) but these two? i have never felt this giddy over fictional characters EVER! they're so well written, they're not automatically flirting or conveniently in a situation where they are so close to having a kiss/intimate moment of any kind. this show was MADE for these characters. they're real, they're steady, and they're not the cliche will they won't they with any cliffhangers. they're just THEM. if that makes sense?? there's no pressure, there's no "oh many they were so close to kissing until someone walked in and they had to part" type of situation. it's just Morgan and Karadec, doing their job and getting to know each other. going through things and finding that they're not at odd ends like they started out. it's growth, it's slow burn, and it's real. and THAT is how you not only write a duo, but how you write a character. they're complete opposites that fit each other better than yin and yang ever could.
(also look at that image. i'm not pushing them into a ship or anything, i just think it's nice how he looks at her. not as a woman, a cleaning lady, or a potential love interest. but as an equal in her own way.)
Flaws/Quirks in Friendships That I’m BEGGING Writers to Explore part three
✧ Friends who constantly argue over the dumbest stuff. Pineapple on pizza? Who gets shotgun? Neither will back down, and it’s beautiful.
✧ The friend who always shows up late, but with snacks. Yes, you’re annoyed, but also you’re eating fries, so… forgiven.
✧ Friends who speak in their own weird language. Inside jokes so cursed even they don’t remember how they started.
✧ The “planner” and the “chaos goblin” duo. One has a color-coded schedule, the other forgets what day it is. It just works.
✧ Friends who roast each other so hard outsiders think they hate each other. Nope, that’s just love in disguise.
✧ That one friend who adopts stray animals (and sometimes stray people). Their house is chaos, but it’s home.
✧ Friends who share clothes but have wildly different styles. Nothing like borrowing a crop top from your goth bestie and showing up to brunch like a vampire Barbie.
A/B/O fanfic where everyone else is an alpha, beta, omega but the main character isn't and no one realizes it. they just assume that they're an omega yet can't detect their scent. said main character has traits like nesting, eating strictly their favorite foods over new ones or others, becomes distressed during situations where the room is too loud or they're just having sensory issues in general so the pack immediately goes into protective mode for their "omega" and does everything to support them. going crazy because they haven't had their heat cycle at all.
"what? you need more blankets and pillows for your nest? a few weighted blankets? of course! anything for you! <3"
"you don't want anyone to touch you? you do look like you're in distress so for your well-being we'll step back for a moment. :("
"hey, i got you this (insert some type of merchandise for special a interest)! you seem to like things like this a lot so i thought of you! :)"
"i know you don't like certain food because you say the texture is awful so i got you a few more of your favorites! you need to stay fed and taken care of! :)"
aka a group of werewolves have accidentally taken in a normal person outside of A/B/O dynamics and is actually just neurodivergent.
(someone on tiktok pointed out that some neurodivergent individuals, such as myself who has autism, do nesting (which i do and just never realized it until it was pointed out) and proceeded to call someone an omega as a joke and then this idea popped up into my head for some reason.)
