🎃she/her | 31 🖤Unholy daydreamer with a soft spot for Papa Terzo 🧡Living for spooky vibes, sacred smut, and loud guitars 🍬This blog is 90% Ghost, 10% Halloween candy
Welcome, sinners. I’m ghuleshbabe, your local clergy enthusiast, papal simp, writer of sacrilegious nonsense and overall fangirl 🔮
A03 Masterlist
This is a place where I:
• Write sinful little stories about the Papas (especially Terzo 😏)
• Post and reblog unholy thirsts and headcanons
• Occasionally scream into the void about lore, mitres, and ghouls
• Prioritize vibes over canon
• Reblog incessantly
Expect:
• Elaborate ceremonial smut, but make it poetic
• Soft moments between rituals
• Unholy tenderness in the shadow of the mitre
• A deep, undying obsession with velvet robes and the power behind them
• Reader-insert fanfiction
• Soft chaos + unhinged fluff
• Spooky vibes and occasional brainrot
Terzo lives in my head, dances in my dreams, and occasionally whispers filthy ideas into my drafts. If you’re here, you probably understand. Or you will soon.
I also dabble in other Papas, but let’s be honest:
This blog is 90% Terzo thirst and 10% pretending I’m above it.
I take requests, reblog things I find feral, and frequently descend into Papal madness. My inbox is open to your weirdest ideas and deepest Ghost delusions.
Join the congregation. We have wine, sin, and a very dramatic Anti-Pope who kisses like he means it. 💋
📬 The Unholy Request Box
Speak now or forever thirst in silence.
Got a craving for some ritual romance? Want to see Papa Terzo emotionally devastated and kissed on the forehead? Drop your offerings here.
⸻
🔥 What You Can Request:
• Reader-insert fics (fluff, smut, chaos)
• Headcanons & blurbs
• Papal thirsts
• Lore-lite nonsense or canon-adjacent drama
• Terzo being insufferably charming or utterly wrecked
• Moments that make you cry and then blush (in that order)
⸻
🚫 What I Don’t Write:
• Noncon/dubcon
• Minor/adult content
• Real person fiction (Tobias or crew)
• Incest or anything with bad vibes
• Extreme gore
⸻
🕯️ Before You Send:
• Be clear and spicy if you want spicy. 🌶️
• Tell me what Papa you want!
• Don’t be shy. Be deranged BUT polite.
⸻
This box is always open—drop your dirtiest, softest, or weirdest desires. Terzo’s waiting. Probably shirtless. Definitely smug about it.
He wants it like he wants the sun—strawberry silk and sugar on the rim; honeysuckle in a tequila haze. Wants the nails, the skin, the heaving bones, heat squeezed and smothering. The broken worship and ragged mews; the soft-sweet, scraping pain.
If he could live a lifetime at his vice of choice, he would only choose here: kneeled in worship between a snare of warm limbs, reined in and dragged down; wine on his lips, heat on his tongue, glitter under his hands.
He could want it for hours. Could hunger after it for days. And when the feast is done—when he's finally, frantically pulled from it—he'll grin at them: lazy crook at the corner, savored by a flicking tongue.
Feel good? Terzo will burr, low and musing.
Often, often enough it risks going to his head, they'll be too boneless to manage a breath.
But the ones who say Yes, like it's confession: whisper it, shivering, fingers snaking through his hair—
Those are the ones who will have him sliding down, again—and again, after that. As many times as they'll let him: his palm slipping, squeezing on shaking legs: his tongue serpentine, Devilish.
He forgets sometimes the fire it stirs in him. Even if he's crushed on the bed, on the floor; even if he can feel it.
He's too far gone in the snarls, the panting praise.
Breakfast in bed... except you're reclined on a chaise, still slightly drowsy. Your legs drape over Perpetua's shoulders, his soft tongue tracing languid teasing circles over you. Humming softly as he savours you between soft encouragement to 'enjoy your breakfast, love...'
Trying as you might to concentrate on the beautiful spread he's made for you as he enjoys his first meal of the day. Giving in to temptation and winding your fingers into charcoal curls as you grind against his mouth, allowing his sinful distraction to overtake you entirely.
Hearing him growl softly against you as your thighs clench tightly around his face. Feeling his tongue push into you as deft hands work in tandem to bring you to completion.
After what feels like hours of teasing, you feel your release flood out of you as his mouth replaces his fingers, his lips sealing gently around you. Hearing him sigh appreciatively against you as his tongue encourages every last drop from you.
Releasing his hair, you follow the curve of his jaw down into the hollow of his throat with your fingers. Whining, you feel his throat bob with every wave of your spend down his throat. You watch as he pulls away, a delicate string of saliva still connecting him to you.
Breakfast long since forgotten, you yelp as he grabs your hips and tugs you down against the bulge tenting his pyjama pants. His body cages you, warm and wanting, as wicked lips find the shell of your ear. You arch up against him as his arms wrap around you, the scent of you still rich on his breath.
Can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm not feeling super horny right now (WHAAAAAAAAAT?), and I felt like writing something cute. There's a little bit of hanky panky, but it doesn't get very far. Mary is a horny little gremlin, but he is also a gentleman.
Mature (1,601 words) Mary Goore gn!reader (no anatomy, but definite glam tendencies)
[Recreational Drug Use, Meet Cute Weird, Reader is GN But Does Enjoy A Ballgown, He Was A Fairy?, Playing Dress-Up, Drunk Kissing, Silly Fluff, Sleepy Snuggles]
Read on AO3
MARY GODMOTHER
Edibles had always had kind of a weird effect on you. Everybody else seemed to have such a good time, so giggly and loose. But much to your chagrin, and as much as you hated to be such a cliche, you always found yourself sitting unaffected, watching and waiting to feel anything. Then you would inevitably lose patience and take more, and by the time if finally did kick in you never got the fun experience they people around you were having. You just felt panicked and a paranoid, and more than a little sick to your stomach. Worst of all you saw things that made you question what was real and what wasn't. And you shuddered at the thought of ending up in one of those TikTok videos of people calling 911 because they got too high.
But this night was going to be different. The party was in your own apartment, your own safe space. All your most trusted friends were going to be there, and hopefully none of the ruffians you always seemed to end up with after a night of partying. You read the label carefully and took the correct dosage well ahead of time so you wouldn't be tempted to overdose out of boredom.
And it all worked out fine...for most of the evening, at least. Your friends had been dutifully keeping eyes on you on you all night, taking shifts to make sure you were never left unsupervised, but after some hours had passed they were all intoxicated enough in one way or another that they'd mostly forgotten about you in favor of more debauched activities.
It was weirdly surreal sitting there, hands clasped in your lap, alone on your own couch. You might as well have been sitting on a roller coaster with the way your heart was racing. You felt like you were in a detached bubble despite being in the center of what appeared from your spot of observation to be a real barn-burner of a party, isolated in spite of being surrounded by people you knew so well. Well, almost only people you knew...
"Hey, doll." An unfamiliar figure plunked down next to you, lanky and reeking of stale cigarettes and cheap beer, stretching a skinny arm across the back of the sofa and giving your tense shoulders a squeeze like he knew you. "Name's Mary."
You blinked a few times but didn't turn to face him, eying him with your peripheral vision. Tight ripped jeans. Mud-caked boots. Black, spiked hair. Smudged skull face paint and fake blood streaming from his thick Scandinavian brow along the long column of his pale neck. You did not know him, and you certainly would remember all that if you did, but you tried not to think too much about it, focusing internally on whatever the fuck was going on inside your own body and brain. "M'tryin' to have a good time," you mumbled, talking to yourself more than him. "Tryin' to do this right and have fun this time."
"Well if a good time is what you're looking for, I'm y'guy." He leaned in a little too close, taking in the scent of your shampoo and letting his nose brush against the sensitive spot under your ear. "You wanna be Cinderella at the ball, consider me your Fairy Godmother."
"Cinderella?" Your eyes were wide open now, finally meeting his directly though he was only half-listening to you.
"Yeah, babe..." He was nuzzling more deliberately, kissing softly along your neck between slightly slurred words. "Who knows? I might even be your Prince Charming..."
But your focus was elsewhere. It was like he'd unlocked some long-lost memory of a simpler, more innocent time. "Prince Charming...Fairy Godmother...WAIT...I have the perfect thing..." You grabbed him by the wrist and took off abruptly, yanking him to his feet and forcing him to run after you towards your bedroom, leaving him just enough time to glance back over his shoulder with a smug wink to his buddies.
You locked the door behind you, giving him a rough shove onto your bed where he tumbled with a bounce and a lusty chuckle at your eagerness, already fumbling with the heavy buckle of his studded belt.
"Stay here," you ordered emphatically, pressing both hands into his shoulders before ducking through the curtain into your closet.
"You got it, hot stuff." He tossed the heavy leather aside dramatically, already stroking himself through his dangerously tight jeans, thanking his lucky stars at how little convincing you'd taken. Not a bad outcome for crashing some randos' house party on a whim.
When you made your entrance through the curtain with a loud, "TAH DAH!", his jaw dropped. Your appearance was...not what he was expecting. Maybe even the exact opposite, in fact.
The gown was made up of a pretty lavender satin corseted bodice and tiered baby blue and ballet pink tulle netting tutu, fluffy like an oversized cupcake, beaded and sequined befitting a true princess. You'd bought it years ago for shits and giggles and for next to nothing when you'd stumbled across a bridal shop going out of business at the mall, mostly to get a good laugh from your friends but secretly hoping you'd have an occasion to wear it someday. It would appear that today was finally that day.
"Whatcha think?," you asked with a theatrical twirl.
His mouth was still hanging open, the skin around his green eyes crinkling with barely contained laughter. "You look...Y'look stunning, prinsipessa."
You lunged at him without warning, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck kissing him hard. But when he tried to snake his arms around your waist to pull you into his lap with a low moan, you pushed yourself away. "Wait, wait, wait..." Your cheeks were flushed, genuinely jubilant excitement painted across your face. "M'not done yet." Your face morphed into a serious expression, brow furrowed, finger wagging at him judgmentally and poking at his bony sternum through a dingy tank top. "Prince Charming has to be dressed for the ball too. This ain't gonna cut it."
You disappeared into the closet again, leaving him to sit slack-jawed and very confused before you returned, producing the purple sequined blazer you'd procured for the last concert you'd attended. He stood dutifully, letting you dress him without resistance. Once you'd smoothed the jacket out over his broad shoulders, you took both his hands and held them out wide. "Aw, look at you..." With a swoop of your arm you spun him around before pulling him into the center of the room and guiding him into a ballroom embrace, peppering his handsome face with tiny kisses between hazy words of praise. "You look so pretty, baby. M'so proud of you."
Just like that you fell into lazily swaying, hips grinding teasingly against each other, dancing to music that only you seemed to hear while you relaxed into his arms and let your head fall to his shoulder.
He followed your lead, slowly realizing what he'd gotten himself into. "You're, uh...You're really pretty out of it, aren't ya?"
"Mmm hmm...," was all you managed, your head aimlessly lolling from side to side.
He tried his best to hold you steady within the rhythm you were setting, but it was getting harder by the minute. "Y'on something or just drunk?"
"Lil' bit a'both..." Your voice was sing-song and giggly before you sighed heavily with eyes closed and legs starting to wobble under you until you finally went limp.
"OOOOOO-kay, baby...Let's get you outta this thing and into bed, huh?" He struggled to keep you upright and when he reached around to undo the zipper and slid it down to the floor, you deflated like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The dress had apparently been more load-bearing than you'd realized. When you went no-bones he ducked down so you flopped over his shoulder like a rag doll.
He plopped you down onto the mattress as gently as he could, pulling sheets and blankets over you so you wouldn't catch a chill wearing only your underwear. Rustling through your cluttered closet he hung up the costume you'd squeezed him into and managed to find an old, faded band tee, and he searched out a cup in your bathroom to fill with cold water. After he'd wrestled you into the shirt and let you fall back to the pillows, placing the drink on your bedside table, he gave you an affectionate peck to the top of your head and turned to leave, but you caught a hold of his arm, making him stop in his tracks.
"Mary..." Your eyes were big and glassy, your bottom lip quivering a little as you bit at it. "Stay with me?"
He cocked his head to one side, taking in your pitiful appearance, visibly fragile and so darned cute. "Okay...A'right..." He kicked off his boots and laid down next to you. "Over the covers though...Don't want you to freak out in the morning when you wake up next to some dirtbag..."
You latched onto him with a contented hum, leg wrapping around his, draping across his chest and hugging tight around his muscular neck. "Mine."
He chortled to himself, stroking the curve of your back as he felt your breathing slow and your unintelligible muttering turned to quiet snoring. He wasn't looking forward to whatever your reaction was going to be in a few hours, but for the moment, falling asleep next to you wasn't a bad way to end his night.
The hardest part of touring is always being away from the one you love, so an intimate morning with his favorite girl is exactly what Perpetua needs to prepare for the show of a lifetime
I wrote and posted this last year on AO3 but forgot to ever post it here. Oopsies!
18+ Explicit (4,106 words) Perpetua x fem!afab!oc TW Mild Somnophilia
[Established Relationship, Married Couple, Fluff and Smut, Mild Somnophilia, Hotel Sex, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Squirting, P in V Sex]
Read on AO3
.
Perpetua rarely saw his wife asleep, to the point that her potentially being a vampire was a constant joke between them. As much of a workaholic as he was, with a sleep pattern that could only be called erratic, she always seemed to be up much later than him at night and somehow awake and working again when he woke up in the morning. When he was busy in rehearsal with the Ghouls or spent parts of the day in Clergy meetings, she would crash completely and take naps that felt like miniature comas. Months of his being away on tour over the years had taught her one thing, that when he was back home at the Ministry, she didn't want to miss a single second with him.
When Mira arrived at LaGuardia it was the middle of the night. Her initial flight had been delayed, so she'd missed her connecting flight altogether. She found herself at the ticket counter, exhausted and emotional, pouring out practically her life story to the poor employee who listened patiently while she struggled through hiccupping sobs to explain why it was so important for her to get to New York that day. They must have taken pity on her, because they managed to get on stand-by for several flights, the third one finally successful in squeezing her in. Where her luggage had ended up was anybody's guess, but it didn't seem that important anymore.
Several times he'd tried to convince her to let him get her on a private flight instead, a bigger expense for sure, but she wouldn't be at the mercy of the airlines. She refused emphatically, saying 'the private jets are the ones that crash'. He pointed out how insane that sounded and that commercial flights crash too, which really did nothing to help his case as she was pretty nervous about travelling by plane in general. The phrase 'I'm not a strong swimmer, but I know for damn sure I can't fly' was used more than once over the years. He'd finally let it go, but now he paced his hotel room wondering if she'd arrive in time at all, if he should have pressed her about it one more time. Maybe even laid on some guilt, saying it would make him too nervous for the performance if he was worrying about her, which was the absolute truth. But it was too late now.
When he got the call that she was finally on her way, he breathed a sigh of relief, finally able to relax. He phoned the front desk making sure her key was waiting for her and telling them to go ahead and send her up no matter what time it was. He called back again as soon as he'd hung up to confirm their breakfast for the morning, but maybe an hour later under the circumstances. Only then was he able to feel how truly exhausted he was. The Boston show had taken a lot out of him and he was suddenly aware of a dull headache forming. He took a handful of aspirin and forced himself to drink a whole glass of water, smiling to himself at the realization that when he woke up she would be there. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
.
It was late enough when Mira touched down in the city, and tracking down her luggage had taken even more time. When the cab dropped her off at the hotel, the whole city felt weirdly silent, though some of that may have been because her ears were still slightly blocked from the long flights. The clerk at the front desk was a welcome friendly face and offered immediately to have someone take her various bags off her weary shoulders and directly to the room, and offer she accepted with profuse thanks. Just as Perpetua had suspected, she had a moment of pause where she said she thought maybe she should wait until morning to go to the room so as not to wake him, but the clerk assured her that he'd made her promise not to let her do that. She rolled her eyes. She should have known there was no way he wouldn't have anticipated that.
She was pleasantly surprised that even when she entered the hotel room dragging her bags with her from the hallway, he was fast asleep with no sign of waking no matter what noise she made, ghostly pale and peaceful to the point that she checked to make sure he was still breathing. After slow, careful unzipping of her suitcase, slow, careful latching of the bathroom door, and a quick shower to rid herself of the grungy feeling of traveling and the shakiness of too many hours without sleep, she felt refreshed, or at least as refreshed as one could feel at that hour. She crawled under the covers, careful not to jostle the bed or get too close to him. She wasn't sure how long she lay across from him, watching the untroubled expression on his face, the rise and fall of his naked chest with every slow breath, but it can't have been more than seconds until her breathing echoed his and she was out like a light.
.
When the bright sunlight finally beamed through the spaces between the curtains enough to wake Perpetua, he picked up his phone to check the time. It was later than he'd slept in ages and it felt wonderful, positively luxurious. He rolled over and found her exactly where he hoped, her body draped in his favorite black satin nightgown, her head turned slightly away from him, exposing her long elegant neck, her hand carelessly resting on the pillow, tangled in her long brown hair that fanned out across the white sheets. There was really only one scenario that left her sleeping so soundly next to him, and that opportunity hadn't arisen in months. Just the thought of it had his blood already rushing south, leaving his head fuzzy for a few moments, just long enough to inch closer to her.
As much as he loved to watch her sleep, the comforting sight of his beautiful wife so relaxed, he couldn't fight the urge to touch her, having her so close after so long. He started gently enough, pressing tender kisses against her shoulder, content to just enjoy the soft feel of her warm skin against his lips without rousing her. It wasn't enough for long, it never was. He slid the strap down, kissing her shoulder with a bit more pressure, letting his fingertips brush against her nipple and feeling it tighten rapidly against the cool satin. Her body was responding, but her breathing never changed. He took a chance and pulled the strap down lower, finally exposing her breast to the cool morning air. The sudden sensation made her squeeze her thighs together, evidence of her growing arousal, but still did nothing to wake her and he fought back a moan that was threatening to rumble through his chest.
Her breasts were much more ample these days than when they'd first started dating, decades ago, when they were little more than kids. Sometimes now she'd show signs of self-consciousness over what she called 'the ravages of time', but he always assured her that the way they felt in his hands, in his mouth, pressed against his chest was softer and more inviting than ever, and the way they bounced when he fucked her was the hottest thing he'd ever seen. That usually resulted in her practically smothering him with them, so it was a win-win all around. As a performer he understood all too well how the way you're perceived affects how you perceive yourself, and in turn how you're able to give yourself to your partner, and even the smallest compliment or reassurance only made her cling to him tighter and her orgasms even more intense.
He leaned down to circle her nipple with the tip of his tongue and it made her rub her thighs together, her back arching gently, her breathing getting slightly faster, but her eyes stayed closed. He was getting impatient now, suddenly sucking her nipple and a decent portion of her breast into his mouth, letting his teeth graze against the tight bud. That did it. Her eyes fluttered open. "V...Fuck...Hi."
He let her breast fall from his mouth with a loud pop. "Good morning, my angel. I hope you do not mind me waking you in such a selfish way." He pressed a rough kiss against the swell of her breast, so soft and warm against his face, sucking hard enough that she knew she'd have a bruise later. "No...I can't say that I do," she laughed, making her head fall back against the pillow, giving him even more access to her neck, which he took full advantage of kissing his way up her chest until he found the spot under her ear that tickled her so and made her giggle and squirm under him. "But I'm barely awake, V. You've got to slow down."
But there was no chance of that and he didn't even hear her. He had only one thing on his mind that morning and she'd just need to catch up. Ordinarily, if they woke in an amorous mood she'd rid herself the unpleasant taste of morning breath by replacing it with the familiar taste of his dick in her mouth. That usually did the trick and knocked all other thoughts out of her groggy head. But he was already too clingy, she'd never be able to fight him off for that long.
"Hold on, V." She reached awkwardly for the nightstand, rustling amongst her strewn belongings for a tin of mints, not an easy feat with how tightly he'd latched onto her neck. He squeezed her tighter, growling and nipping at her. "Down boy," she giggled, tossing a few of the candies into her mouth. "Alright, Prince Charming-"
Whatever she was going to say, he didn't let her finish, pressing her down into the pillow with the force of his kiss. When her lips parted he got a rush of peppermint, a shock to his senses he wasn't fully prepared for. He was wide awake now and she knew she was in trouble.
When he finally pulled out of the kiss, she was wide-eyed and gasping for air, clutching at his sinewy shoulders, feeling his lean muscles tense and twitch under her fingers. He trailed sloppy, frantic kisses down her neck and across her collar bone while she fought to catch her breath. He paused with his lips pressed against the soft skin between her breasts. "Do you want me to make you feel good, angel?"
"Mmm, yes please." She arched her back dramatically, urging him on and he moaned, continuing his mouth's descent across her soft, satin-covered belly, pushing the covers aside and flipping the bottom half of her nightgown up to her waist. He moaned again, louder this time, taking in the sight of her, freshly shaven with a neatly trimmed triangle of chocolate brown hair. He leaned down and inhaled deeply, the musky smell of her arousal mixed with vanilla and coconut. He pressed a kiss against the soft curls, just above her clit and she flinched with a nervous giggle. He smiled against her, always pleasantly surprised by how sensitive she was to his touch. He recalled how in the beginning she'd always been completely clean shaven, covered in baby powder, so nervous in her own skin as they learned to be intimate with each other. An odd thing, looking back, because this seemed much more erotic. And the friction of her soft hair mingling with his prickly stubble only heightened the sensation and made her squirm even though he'd barely touched her.
He lifted her thighs with both hands and raised his eyebrows, asking her, "May I?" She rolled her eyes in response and nodded, biting her bottom lip. Why he still felt the need to ask permission anymore was almost comical. She was ready and waiting for him whenever he wanted her and he knew it, but sometimes he could be such a tease when he knew he could get a rise out of her.
He parted her legs, positioning himself between her thighs and she let out a relieved sigh, feeling him finally inching towards where she needed him most. But he didn't move, frozen in place with a furrowed brow, just seemingly studying the sight of her wet, swollen folds, already dripping down onto the sheets.
"What...What's wrong?", she asked tentatively.
"Not a thing, lamb," he said casually. "I am just planning my next move. I am trying to decide whether I want to make you cum hard and fast, or take my time and draw it out...Perhaps even make you beg."
Her cheeks flushed red and she slammed her head back down onto the pillow. "Jesus fucking Christ, Perpetua. I traveled for forty-eight hours to be here and I already feel like I'm about to burst. Now is not the time for taking it slow. If you don't make me cum right now I'm going to have to do it myself, and then I'm going to come down there and smack you."
"Ok, God damn," he laughed heartily at her eagerness. Such an impatient little spitfire, as always. "Hard and fast it is." He ran his tongue slowly up the length of her slit, gathering her wetness before swiping around her clit in deliberate circles, coaxing a ragged moan from her open mouth. He pulled back to admire how her entrance twitched and quivered with need, licking the line of tensing muscle along her inner thigh. He was teasing again, he couldn't help himself, and she lifted her head to narrow her eyes at him. Her lips twisted slightly in a smirk, but it was a warning just the same. "Ok, ok, I am sorry, angel. I will behave," he chuckled.
He brought his mouth back to her clit, pursing his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking it gently and stroking it with the tip of his tongue, feeling her heartbeat throbbing rapidly through her heated flesh. She gripped the sheets with white knuckles, her thighs starting to shake in his tight grip, and he knew she was close. Moving his face lower he pressed his nose against her clit, thrusting is tongue deep into her wet heat, feeling her walls flutter against it as she cried out, bucking her hips against his face in a desperate attempt to pull him in deeper.
When the waves finally subsided, he continued lapping at her with tiny, gentle strokes to continue to coax aftershocks through her. It was clear he had no intention of stopping unless she managed to wriggle out of the grip he had on her thighs which was only growing tighter, as if he was reading her mind.
When his mouth finally left her she sighed in relief until she felt him slide a finger past her entrance she inhaled sharply, her muscles clenching around him. He peppered wet kisses along each inner thigh, pumping into her gently. Once he felt her inner muscles shudder and relax, a second finger followed, making her bow off the bed with a loud whimper that turned into a yelp when he brought his tongue back to her aching clit. "Shhh, baby," he whispered against her trembling flesh. "I know there is no way my girl is satisfied yet and I have got all morning."
She half-laughed, half-sobbed at the implication that he might spend the better part of the day keeping her like this, so painfully overstimulated already. "Shouldn't you be saving that pretty mouth for your adoring fans, Papa?"
"Not a chance. This tongue is for my wife first, them second. Always." There was no reasoning with him when he got like this. He'd complain about the lingering effects later, but in the heat of the moment the ache of his jaw, the mushy fatigue of his tongue, the cramping in his hand only spurred him on to see how much more she could take before she was begging him to stop, fuck-drunk and shaking.
He kept steady pressure with his tongue on her clit, rocking it back and forth in unison with the pumping of his fingers into her, grazing against the spongy patch along her inner walls that swelled under his skilled fingertips with every stroke. She was coming unraveled and reached for his free hand, fumbling to intertwine their fingers in an attempt to ground herself, to feel even more connected to him. He thrust his fingers deeper into her, holding his hand still and feeling her already tight opening clenching against his knuckles as he pressed his tongue down harder onto her swollen clit. Just when she was sure she couldn't take any more he brought their clasped hands to her stomach, pressing down against his fingertips that were rubbing tight and fast against her g-spot.
She came sobbing, her climax hitting her harder this time, gushing and violent as tremors rippled through her body. He looked up at her with a satisfied grin at first, glistening with her release, but a concerned expression washed over his face when he saw tears running down her cheeks. He crawled up to lie beside her, his fingers quiet and held deep by her tight grip, still feeling her internal spasms coming in waves, using his free arm to pull her in close. "Talk to me, Mira. Was it too much? Did I hurt you?"
She laughed weakly, wiping tears away. "I'm fine...I'm fine, I promise. I just wasn't prepared for how intense that was." He pressed his forehead against hers, enjoying the warm, snug feel of her walls that clenched around him occasionally, letting him know she was not ready for him to stop. She was the first to move, almost imperceptively rocking her hips, the feeling of fullness with even just his fingers inside her far to addictive to ever want it to end.
"That's my girl," he murmured in a gravely tone when she started moving her hips more deliberately. But there was no denying that when he went to curl his fingers inside her his hand cramped immediately and she pulled back, stopping her movements when she heard him hiss. "It's ok," he said, wincing slightly. He pushed his muscular thigh between her legs, pinning his hand against her soaked pussy. "Use me. Ride me. Make yourself feel good until you cum on my fingers." Her hands twisted into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, pulling him in for a feverish kiss and starting to grind against him. She was tightening around him fast, her hips already moving erratically. She took a large gulp of air, holding her breath until her face turned pink when she found the perfect spot, her body practically vibrating. "Let go, angel. Let go now." She exhaled with a loud squeal, contracting against him and burying her face into his neck. He rocked her against his leg, easing her down gently until she released her death grip on his waistband, patting his arm with a shaking hand. "I'm tapping out, V. I've got no more in me."
He chuckled as he pulled his fingers from her quivering walls, bringing them to his mouth to clean them and she shuddered from the sudden feeling of emptiness. "Do you want me to let you rest now, lamb?", he whispered against her ear.
"I never said that," she answered quickly. "I expect you to fuck me properly...Just don't expect me to be able to move."
He laughed out loud, the kind of laugh that made the skin around his mismatched eyes crinkle in the most appealing way. She was putty in his hands, as always. "Fucking insatiable woman. I will never survive."
"Mmm, but what a way to go...," she moaned, draping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a deep, sensual kiss as he repositioned himself between her legs on his knees. He was no longer in any mood to tease, to draw it out further, his sweatpants already visibly soaked with precum from grinding into the surface of the bed for the better part of an hour. He was raw from the friction of the fabric against his sensitive skin and when he pushed the waistband down just enough to free his cock, needy and dripping against her thigh, he let out a long sigh of relief before resting the angry red tip into her soft folds. He pushed into her slowly, letting his head fall back and his eyes flutter closed, lost in the sensation. She could feel every inch of him, every ridge, every beat of his heart, her pussy so overly sensitive from orgasm after orgasm. He lowered himself over her, tangling his fingers through her soft brown hair and when he felt her trembling grip on his back tighten, he started to move. His strokes were painfully slow and deep with a slight snap of his hips at the end, causing her breath to catch every time. It was intoxicating and it was already making his head spin. "You feel too fucking good. I am not going to last long," he grunted.
"I know...I know...Don't hold back," she panted. His thrusts got faster, his grip on her hair tighter, and he was whimpering now as he gained speed. She could feel the tell-tale twitching of his cock inside her that signaled the end, but just before it hit him he reached down between them, pressing tight, sloppy circles with his thumb against her clit. He came with a choked sob and the feeling of his hot seed shooting against her cervix sent her orgasm crashing through her, screaming more than loud enough to be heard throughout the hotel.
He collapsed onto her with his full weight pressing her into the mattress, his body soaked with sweat, still whimpering quietly. He used the last bit of strength he had to ease himself off of her, letting his softening cock slide out of her with a lewd squelch that made them both groan, lying back and pulling her in to drape across his chest.
They passed what was probably minutes, but could just as easily have been hours entwined, fingertips tracing lazy, soothing patterns across each other's skin, mumbling the occasion inarticulate words of affection and devotion, drifting in and out of consciousness. It was a long time before the room stopped spinning and he could catch his breath enough to speak. "Thank you for not beating me up, by the way."
She chuckled and it echoed through his heaving chest. "Well, I couldn't have you doing your big, important performance with everyone wondering who gave Papa the busted lip."
"You think you can take me, huh? You have no idea the strength these spaghetti arms contain." He was back between her legs again pinning her knees up to her shoulders, gripping her wrists together over her head. She was laughing and trying weakly to squirm out of his grasp, but the tingling in her core was already building. And how was he already hard again?
There was a knock on the door and they both froze.
"Room service," the voice on the other side said.
"Just leave it outside the door please," Perpetua called out, before turning his attention back to her with a devilish smirk. "I am not ready to let you go just yet."
But she noted the state of his voice, hoarse from the cries and whimpers of their lovemaking, and pushed him off of her with what little strength she had. "No way, rockstar. I heard that. You need hot tea, and lemon juice, and honey, and lots of it before tonight." He watched her as she righted her nightgown over her soft curves, bite marks and bruises already starting to form across her pale skin. He leaned back on his elbows as he admired the way her pert behind swayed as she unpacked the supplies for her remedy from her suitcase, pausing for only a moment to return to the bed and press a tender kiss to his swollen lips. "Besides, I need to keep a little something for you to look forward to as your reward for being a good boy out there."
His eyes crinkled again, a lovestruck grin spreading across his face. "Yes, dear."
After a ritual meant to enhance his power goes wrong, Papa III finds himself split in two—control and desire made flesh. Trapped together within the ritual chamber, Terzo is forced to confront the parts of himself he’s long kept buried… and discovers they may be impossible to resist. 🔮 📖🕯️
AO3
Coupling: Papa Emeritus III x Papa Emeritus III
Word Count: 4,781
NSFW UNDER THE CUT - This has themes of selfcest which is apparently considered dead dove…this is solely Terzo x Terzo but the warning still stands 🕊️
The chamber is much quieter than it should be.
Not exactly silent- but quiet in a way that feels off. Almost as though the sound has been pressed flat against the walls and just left there to suffocate. Lit incense smoke lingers low and heavy, clinging to stone in sweet resinous layers that should feel familiar…comforting even. Tonight it is settling differently. Too thick. Perhaps even watchful.
He remains after others have all gone. The last echoes of black mass hum and linger faintly in his bones- devotion turned reverence turned something hungrier- something he always carries along with him when the pews empty and the doors close. It clings to him as stubbornly as incense smoke, threaded through velvet and skin alike.
He has not fully undressed. His chasuble hangs open, hanging loosely but not removed, dark fabrics shifting gently in candlelight when he moves. His gloves are long gone- discarded carelessly on the altar he now stands before. The paint at the edges of his mouth is faintly smudged, worn just slightly enough to betray the hours behind him. Still papa. Still spectacle. Just less contained.
Much more honest.
A single candle flame bends near the edge of the ritual circle, as though disturbed by breath that isn’t even there. He watches it for a moment longer than necessary, and then steps forward.
Bare hands go first- always bare for this. Rings glint in the low candlelight as his fingers hover over the carved surface of the altar, not quite touching. The symbols etched are old. Older than him, and older than the ministry itself in any form he cares to acknowledge. They have answered before, and they will answer again.
“Just a little more,” he murmurs, voice low and indulgent. Not pleading- he has absolutely no desperation in him tonight. Merely curiosity.
Appetite.
Hunger.
His smiles curves dangerously, slow and knowing.
“Si può sempre migliorare.”
One can always improve hm?
The Latin that follows is softer and far less performative than what he typically gives the entirety of the congregation. It curls from his tongue like second nature. With familiarity rather than showmanship. It is not meant to impress, but rather to invite. Each word deliberate. Every syllable being placed with extreme care.
The air shifts. Subtly at first.
The candlelight dips. Not extinguished, but drawn inward towards his form in the middle of the circle. As if something unseen has leaned closer to listen in carefully. Shadows stretch just a fraction too far, pooling where they should not.
Nevertheless, he continues.
There is a rhythm to it now- a rhythm he knows quite well. He has walked this line more than once before. Flirted with something just beyond the veil. Letting it brush against his consciousness just enough to sharpen his performance. Always controlled. Contained.
Tonight, Terzo pushes further. Not recklessly. Intentionally.
“Vieni,” he breathes, much softer now, coaxing rather than commanding. “Fammi… migliore.”
Come. Make me better.
The temperature drops. Not cold in the typical sense- something much different. The warmth in the room retreats, leaving something much sharper behind. Something that pricks along his skin and settles beneath it. His breath catches just slightly, more from the sensation than actual surprise.
There.
That’s it.
Exactly what he’s looking for.
He tilts his head, half lidded eyes still locked on the symbols on the ground. He’s savoring it. The feeling of being observed. Touched, almost, but not physically. Not quite yet.
“Così,” he whispers.
Yes. Like that.
The pressure is building slowly.
It begins somewhere indistinctly that he cannot quite place- perhaps the chest, spine, the space between his ribs- and then it spreads. Not outwards. Inward. Folding in on itself. Folding in on him. He inhales sharply, fingers bracing and pushing into the concrete altar beneath him.
This is something new. Interesting.
His lips part as another phrase begins forming- something to try to guide, shape or direct it-
–but the words catch.
The pressure spikes.
Not a presence entering. Something…else.
It pulls.
Not forward. Not back. Not inward.
Apart.
His breath is stuttering into something sharper, a fractured exhale that echoes strangely throughout the chamber. The sound returns to his ears a fraction too late- a fraction too wrong.
The candlelight flickers violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadies.
The pressure peaks- and breaks.
Heavy silence follows. Immediate and absolute.
For a moment, Terzo doesn’t move. His hands remain planted firmly against the altar, fingers splayed, rings cold against the stone. His head is bowed, dark stray strands of hair falling forward obscuring his expression. The world in this moment feels distant…muted at the edges.
Something shifts in the atmosphere behind him. With a slow deliberate exhale, he regains control in the only way he knows how: by taking it.
His shoulders straighten, spine snapping into alignment, every inch of himself settling back into the posture he wears as naturally as his own vestments.
Composed. Untouchable. Papa.
“Interesting.” He murmurs to himself aloud, voice smooth once more despite the lingering echo of strain beneath it. It did not feel like possession. No weight settling into him. No foreign will pressing against his own. No. His brows furrow, ever so slightly.
It felt like-
A soft sound interrupts his thought. Not loud or abrupt. Simply…present. A breath. Behind him.
He stills.
Slowly- so slowly it borders on theatrical- he lifts his head. The movement is measured. Controlled. Betraying nothing of the sharp awareness now thrumming through his entire being. One hand leaves the altar, then the other, as he turns with a deliberate precision as though he expects nothing more than an afterimage. A trick of whatever it is that he has stirred.
He turns and stops.
There is someone standing with him in the circle. Close. Closer than anyone should be.
For a single, suspended moment, his mind refuses to resolve what he is seeing- not out of fear but sheer disbelief refined into something much sharper. He takes in all the details at once:
The posture.
The silhouette.
The fall of fabric, dark and familiar.
The face.
The eye.
Recognition doesn’t come in stages. It hits all once like a freight train. No confusion or panic.
Understanding.
His own gaze meets his. Not mirrored. Not reflected. Returned.
The other him is already watching. Already aware. Already- amused.
A slow smile curves across that identical mouth, much less restrained and far more indulgent. The other tilts his head, studying Terzo with an intimacy that no stranger could ever replicate.
When he finally speaks, the voice is all Terzo. Just looser. Lower. Unburdened by any restraint.
“Oh.” The other Terzo murmurs softly, eyes flicking over him with open, unapologetic interest.
A pause. A breath. Then-
“Well,” he says, almost pleased. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Terzo doesn’t step back. For most, it would instinctual to recoil, to demand that explanation, to panic. To try to break whatever strange illusion has taken shape in front of them.
But he is not like most.
He watches. Studies. Consumes.
The other him stands comfortably within the circle, as though he has always belonged there. Shoulders loose, weight shifted slightly to one leg, head tilted with open curiosity. There is no urgency in him. No confusion. Merely interest.
“Have I been hiding?” Terzo replies smoothly, though his voice carries something quieter beneath it now- sharpened by the way his gaze tracks every minute detail of the other.
The angle of his own smile just slightly different. The looseness of his posture, completely absent of the careful control he himself maintains. The absence of restraint.
The other Terzo hums low in his throat as if considering the question seriously.
“Mmm. Perhaps buried.” He corrects, while stepping closer. The movement is unhurried, deliberate…and too close. Terzo doesn’t retreat. He should. He doesn’t. Instead his chin lifts just slightly, defiance threading through the stillness he holds.
“And you believe yourself uncovered?” Terzo challenges the other.
A flash of teeth- his teeth- answers him.
“I believe,” the other says softly, “I am what you avoid.”
The words land heavier than they should. Terzo knows the other is not wrong. The air between them immediately tightens, something unseen pulling taut like a wire stretched to its limit.
They stand there facing each other- mirror and distortion- and neither looks away.
It happens without announcement. A shift. A flicker of intent. The other Terzo reaches first. Not abruptly- no, nothing about him is abrupt- but with a quiet certainty as though the outcome has already been decided and he is simply following through with it.
His hand lifts. Familiar. Yet foreign. Fingers brush Terzo’s wrist. The reaction is immediate. Sharp. Not painful, but something much brighter. Something that cuts straight through composure and settles deep, too deep, as though the sensation does not stop at the skin.
Terzo inhales sharply.
So does the other.
They both still. Eyes snap simultaneously to where they touch. For a moment neither moves. Then slowly, Terzo’s fingers turn just slightly enough to press back into the other’s wrist. Testing. Confirming. The sensation doubles. Not mirroring- but shared. A quiet startled sound escapes one of them. Neither can say who it is first. Both pull back a fraction, not far, but enough to break that point of contact. The connection snaps.
The silence is thicker than before. Hearts steadying. Breathing just slightly uneven.
“Incredible.” The other murmurs, much softer now.
Terzo says nothing, but his gaze changes. They do not leave the circle. Neither suggests it. It feels contained here. Held. Safe, in a way that makes no sense. Dangerous in a way that does.
“You feel it.” The other says, watching Terzo carefully now. Not teasing- not quite. More observing.
Terzo exhales slowly, forcing the last remnants of that reaction back under control.
“I feel,” he replies, measured, “that something has gone…unexpectedly.”
A soft laugh. Low and knowing.
“Oh, don’t do that,” the other chides gently, stepping closer again. “Don’t pretend you dislike it.”
Terzo’s eyes narrow, just slightly.
“I don’t indulge every curiosity,” he says.
“No.” The other agrees easily. “You suppress them.”
The words land close. Too close. Before Terzo can respond, the other leans in—enough that the space between them disappears entirely.
“You always have,” he continues, voice dropping. “Even when you didn’t want to.”
Terzo holds his ground.
But something in his posture shifts.
Not retreat. Something more fragile.
“And you,” he counters quietly, “lack the discipline to be anything more than impulse.”
Another smile. Slower now. Sharper.
“And yet,” the other murmurs, gaze flicking briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes, “you invited me.”
That lands, because he did.
It becomes harder to ignore after that.
The space between them widens—just a step, maybe two—but the effect is immediate.
Wrong.
Terzo feels it first as a dulling. Like something vital has been turned down just slightly too far.
The edge he carries, the sharpness, the awareness—it softens in a way that irritates instantly.
Across from him, the other shifts, expression flickering—just briefly. Unsettled.
“…You feel that,” Terzo says, before he can stop himself.
The other exhales through his nose, annoyed.
“Yes.”
A beat.
Neither moves.
Then, almost at the same time—They step closer again.
The sensation corrects itself instantly.
Sharpens.
Aligns.
The difference is unmistakable.
Silence stretches between them, but it is no longer uncertain. It is… understanding.
Something clicks into place. Not comfort. Not yet, but rather recognition of something necessary.
“You’ve divided us,” the other says quietly, more thoughtful now.
Terzo shakes his head once.
“No,” he replies.
His gaze lifts, steady, certain despite everything.
“I revealed us.”
That draws a different kind of look. Something deeper. Something that lingers.
The space between them is gone again.
Not gradually.
Not cautiously.
It closes in a way that feels less like a decision and more like gravity—inevitable, unarguable, already set in motion long before either of them acknowledged it.
They stand too close. Breath shared.
Awareness sharpened to something unbearable.
For a moment—just a moment—Terzo holds onto it. Control.
Posture straight, chin lifted, every inch of him still wrapped in the authority he wears so well. The version of himself that commands, that performs, that never needs.
Across from him, the other watches. And waits.
He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push.
That, more than anything, is what cracks it, because he knows. Of course they both know.
A slow exhale leaves Terzo, quieter than it should be.
“Say it,” the other murmurs softly.
Terzo’s jaw tightens.
“I have nothing to—”
“Say it,” he repeats, gentler this time, but firmer. Certain.
The words hang there, suspended between them, heavy with everything unspoken.
Terzo’s gaze flickers—just once—to his mouth.
That is all it takes.
The other Terzo smiles.
Not wide.
Not mocking.
Just… knowing.
“I know you feel it,” he says, voice low enough that it barely carries, meant only for him. “Every time you hold yourself back. Every time you decide restraint is somehow…dignity.”
A step closer.
If that’s even possible.
“You’re tired of it.”
Terzo inhales sharply.
“That is not—”
“—true?” the other finishes for him, tilting his head slightly. “You want me to lie to you?”
The question lands differently. Not a challenge.
An invitation.
Silence stretches—tight, thin, fragile.
And then—
Something in Terzo shifts. It’s subtle from the outside, but inside, it fractures clean.
The careful distance he maintains—the line between indulgence and control, between performance and truth—slips. Just enough.
His hand lifts. This time, there’s no hesitation.
Fingers catch in the front of the other’s vestments, pulling him in—not gently, not cautiously, but with a certainty that borders on frustration.
The reaction is immediate.
A sharp intake of breath—shared, again, indistinguishable in origin. When soft lips meet, everything they’ve been holding—every suppressed impulse, every restrained reaction, every indulgence denied—it crashes together all at once, overwhelming in its clarity. The other grabs Terzo under the jaw pulling him in closer, and slipping his tongue between waiting parted lips. The other hand is snaked around black raven tresses that tugs just enough to illicit soft groans from the normally stoic Papa. Terzo is closing any distance by pulling the other as close as possible, tongue and hands moving with an urgency that has been building since the ritual broke him open. The other takes hold of Terzo’s vestments and gently pushes him to the floor in the middle of the ritual circle.
Within a few moments they both momentarily pull away, while identical hands paw and peel clothing away messily tossing it away carelessly. The other crawls on top of Terzo, straddling his legs,
“Tonight, you are both priest and offering.” The other breathes, lips ghosting over those of Terzo. “Let me show you what devotion feels like.”
Terzo pulls the other by the back of the neck towards him, crashing their lips together in a frenzy. The space between them disappears again, but it’s no longer abrupt. It’s drawn out, savored, every inch of closeness felt twice over, every shift amplified until it borders on overwhelming. The other is slowly drawing soothing circles with bare fingertips along Terzo’s ribcage and down his sides, causing the beauty below him to shiver. Terzo is firmly gripping and kneading handfuls of ass on the other, while both are groaning into the mouth of each other. Hands move in tandem—not aimless, not frantic, but purposeful in a way that only comes from knowing exactly what will elicit a reaction, and exactly what will undo it. The other pulls away, moving to situate himself between Terzo’s legs.
“You are starving.” The other pants softly, fingers gently tracing the puckering hole displayed so prettily in front of him. With the other hand he gently cups Terzo’s face, thumb smudging the edge of his paints further. A finger slides inside, then two, gently hooking upwards in a come hither motion. This is his body. The other knows exactly where his own spot is. Terzo groans, back arching off the concrete ritual circle, while fingers perfectly inside of him.
“Look at you,” the other murmurs, voice velvet-soft and utterly merciless.
Terzo’s breath catches.
A pleased smile curves over an identical mouth.
“There you are.”
Their foreheads rest together for just a moment.
“You can keep the crown, amore,” he whispers. “We both know who truly has you.”
Terzo’s composure fractures.
The other smiles wider, eyes dark with certainty.
“I am the part of you that refuses to go hungry.”
The other continues to work his fingers flawlessly against the spot that is leaving Terzo a trembling mess. Sure, the other could milk the now submissive papa with bare fingers alone but the other Terzo knows exactly what the Papa wants. The other recognizes every weakness and every restraint Terzo has, refusing to let him hide behind his usual composure.
Slowly, the other withdraws his fingers, gripping plush ass which causes a needy whimper from Terzo and his hips to buck upwards in search of friction. The throbbing and leaking erection bobbing on his stomach only further gives him away. The other chuckles darkly, and slowly lines up his tip with Terzo’s entrance.
“You cannot shock me, amore. I am you. I know every thought in your pretty little head- and I know exactly how much you want this.”
“You think you know me so well but—“
The other makes momentary eye contact and slowly slides his length inside of Terzo.
“Cazzo,” Terzo moans, eyes rolling back into his head.
“Mm, now that is what honesty sounds like.”
The other starts to grind his hips, guiding Terzo on and off his length with the harsh grip he has on his ass. Terzo is reduced to a whining whimpering mess beneath him, while the other is holding deep eye contact with him. Terzo is leaking precum all over his belly. He could practically be milked this way alone, every snap of the others hips hits that spot better than anyone or anything else ever could.
Terzo yelps loudly when the other spits all over his angry cock and takes it into his free hand. The sensation is overwhelming.
“You are not escaping me. You are becoming me. You don’t get to hide from me anymore.”
The pleasure is building rapidly and neither can last much longer. The other Terzo’s thrusts are becoming more erratic, his hand and saliva are working the Papa at a punishing pace.
“You’ve been holding yourself back your entire life.” The other pants, “Let go, Terzo.”
Both simultaneously loudly cry out- Terzo explodes all over his own stomach and chest making himself a mess; The other feels Terzo’s hole tighten around him, pulling him inward, and he spills ropes of his own explosive release deep inside. It takes a moment for each to catch their breath before the other rolls off of Terzo to lay beside him on the cool concrete.
The chamber is quiet again, but it is not the same quiet.
The air feels… disturbed. Shifted. As though something has been pulled open and not fully closed again. The incense still lingers, but thinner now, threaded with something warmer—something lived-in.
The candles burn lower. Steadier.
Time has passed.
How much—neither of them could say.
They have not moved far. They cannot, not entirely.
Terzo exhales slowly, the sound uneven in a way that would be unthinkable beyond these walls. His head tips forward, resting briefly against the other’s shoulder—not from weakness, not quite, but from the simple fact that holding himself upright, composed, separate, feels like more effort than he is willing to give just yet.
Across from him—around him—the other remains close.
Not crowding. Not withdrawing. Present.
A hand lingers where it last settled, not gripping now, not demanding—just there, as though removing it would break something newly formed between them.
Their breathing begins to steady. Not perfectly. Not evenly, but closer. Synced. Of course.
Terzo lets out a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh, though it lacks humor.
“…Curious,” he murmurs again, softer this time, the word less controlled, more felt.
The other hums faintly in agreement.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” he asks, voice low, edged with something that might have been teasing earlier—but now sits deeper, heavier.
Terzo lifts his head slightly, enough to look at him. Really look. The differences are still there. Subtle.
But now—
Now they feel less like contrast and more like… familiarity brought too close. Like seeing something usually kept just out of reach and realizing it has always belonged to you.
His gaze sharpens. Something unspoken passes between them—quick, instinctive, understood without needing to be named.
Terzo stands up, straightens slowly. Not pulling away entirely—but enough to reclaim space, to test it.
The distance stretches—
And immediately, something in his expression tightens.
That dulling again. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Across from him, the other shifts as well, the ease in his posture faltering for the first time since his appearance.
There’s a moment.
A shared realization.
Then—
Almost instinctively—
They step back into each other’s space.
The tension eases.
Not gone. Never gone, but righted.
Terzo exhales through his nose, quieter now, more controlled—but not untouched.
“…That is inconvenient,” he says.
The other huffs a soft laugh, closer to breath than sound.
“Is it?” he counters. A tilt of his head. “Or is it honest?”
Terzo’s gaze flickers.
Annoyance sparks first—reflexive, familiar—but it doesn’t hold. Not fully.
Because the truth of it lingers, undeniable.
He looks away first. Not far. Just enough to gather himself. To attempt, once more, to reconstruct the version of himself that exists outside this room—the one that commands, that performs, that contains, but the edges don’t sit quite right anymore.
Something has shifted beneath them.
Something he cannot simply fold back into place.
“…This was not the intention,” he says finally.
The other steps closer again—slow, unthreatening, inevitable.
“No,” he agrees softly.
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“But you felt it.”
Terzo’s jaw tightens. He does not answer. He does not need to.
Silence stretches—but it is not empty.
It hums.
Alive with everything that has already happened… and everything that now lingers just beneath the surface, waiting.
The other watches him carefully.
Not pushing.
Not teasing.
Just… there.
“You will try to undo this,” he says after a moment.
Not accusatory. Certain.
Terzo’s eyes flick back to his.
“Yes,” he replies.
A beat.
Then, quieter,
“I should.”
Another pause. Longer this time. He doesn’t move or step away. He doesn’t break the space they’ve closed again.
The other’s expression shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. Knowing.
“And will you?” he asks.
The question hangs between them.
Heavy.
Important.
Dangerous.
Terzo holds his gaze.
For a moment, the answer almost forms—automatic, expected, safe. But it doesn’t come.
Because he already knows—
Undoing it would mean giving this up.
This clarity. This intensity. This completeness he hadn’t realized he was missing.
His voice, when it finally comes, is quieter than before. Less certain.
“…Not yet.”
That is enough. More than enough.
The other smiles—not sharp, not teasing, but slow and satisfied in a way that settles deep.
“Good,” he murmurs.
The word lands like a promise. Or a warning. It’s hard to tell which.
Terzo exhales slowly, tension coiling and settling all at once.
The chamber feels different now.
Not just altered—
Claimed.
What happened here did not end.
It lingers.
In the air.
In his body.
In the space between them that refuses to hold distance for long.
He glances once toward the edge of the circle. Toward the door beyond. Toward the world waiting outside. Then back. To him. To himself.
They feel it at the same time. A shift.
Terzo stills where he stands, the faintest tightening in his posture betraying it. Across from him—no, within reach of him—the other mirrors it, expression sharpening as something unfamiliar threads through the space between them.
The connection changes. Not weaker or fading.
But… pulling.
Like a current reversing.
Terzo exhales slowly, controlled, though his gaze has already locked onto the other’s.
“You feel that,” he says quietly.
It’s not a question.
The other tilts his head, listening to something neither of them can hear, but both understand.
“Yes,” he answers.
A pause.
Then, softer—
“We are not meant to remain like this.”
The words should sound like relief.
They don’t.
They settle somewhere deeper—heavier.
Terzo’s jaw shifts, tension flickering briefly before it’s mastered. “No,” he agrees, though the word comes slower than it should.
Because separation had been wrong.
But this—
This feels like something else entirely. Not loss.
Not quite.
The space between them narrows again, instinctively, as though both are resisting the pull even as it strengthens.
“Stay,” Terzo says before he can stop himself.
It slips out—low, immediate, more honest than anything he’s said since all of this began.
The other stills.
Not surprised.
Not mocking.
Just… aware.
“I am,” he replies.
A faint smile touches his mouth, softer now, stripped of its earlier edge.
“I always was.”
The pull sharpens. Not painful, but certainly undeniable. It draws them closer—not step by step this time, but all at once, like breath being taken in.
Terzo’s hand lifts, catching at him again—not with urgency now, but with something steadier. Grounding. Holding. As though he could anchor the other here through sheer will.
The other’s hand meets his without hesitation.
Familiar. Perfect.
The contact flares—brighter than before, deeper, no longer overwhelming but instead aligning. Every sensation slots into place with a precision that makes his breath catch.
Not doubled.
Not shared.
Becoming singular.
Terzo’s eyes flicker, something unreadable crossing his expression as the realization settles.
“You’re—”
“I’m not leaving,” the other murmurs, stepping closer—closer—until there is no space left to measure. “Not the way you think.”
The words are barely spoken before the shift takes hold.
It starts at the point of contact. Where their hands meet, the sensation deepens—not pressure, not heat, but something that defies both. A merging of awareness, of presence, of thought that folds inward instead of outward.
Terzo inhales sharply. Not in pain, but in recognition.
The edges blur.
Not visually—not entirely—but in the way distinction loses meaning. Where one ends or the other begins becomes harder to define with every passing second.
He does not pull away.
He could try.
He doesn’t.
This feels right in a way the separation never fully did.
The other’s expression softens, something almost fond flickering there as the distance between them dissolves completely.
“You don’t have to divide yourself to hold both,” he says quietly.
The words settle deep. Deeper than anything else has.
Terzo’s eyes close.
For a moment, there is only sensation—not overwhelming now, not chaotic, but complete. Every restrained impulse, every measured response, every indulgence, every ounce of control—it all folds together, aligning instead of conflicting.
Not fighting.
Not competing.
Existing.
Together.
The last trace of separation slips. There is no dramatic break. No flash. No sound.
Just—
Stillness.
The chamber goes quiet. Truly quiet, this time.
Terzo stands alone within the circle. Exactly where he had been. Exactly as before. Not at all the same.
His breath is steady. Measured. Controlled.
Beneath it, something else lingers—something sharper, fuller, no longer dulled by suppression or fractured by restraint.
His fingers flex slightly at his sides, as though testing the boundaries of himself.
There are no boundaries. Not like before.
Awareness settles in layers.
He can feel it—every instinct he used to temper, every indulgence he used to ration, every thought he used to refine before allowing it to surface.
They are all still there.
But now—
They do not need to be buried to be controlled.
A slow smile curves across his mouth.
Familiar and not.
“…fascinating,” he murmurs, though the word carries something richer now, threaded with quiet satisfaction.
His gaze drifts to the altar, then to the edge of the circle, then back again—as though seeing it all with a clarity he has never realized he lacked.
He understands now. Not just what he is, but why he is.
The control was never the strength.
The restraint was never the power.
It was the balance.
And now—
He has it.
Fully.
Completely.
Intentionally.
Terzo straightens, shoulders settling into place with effortless precision. The last remnants of disarray—physical or otherwise—fade as he reclaims himself.
Not as he was.
As something… refined. Whole.
He turns toward the door.
Pauses. Just briefly.
A flicker of something crosses his expression—amusement, perhaps, or anticipation. He chuckles deeply.
“Well…apparently I really did have to go fuck myself.”
