cw: pussy drunk perpetua, oral (f receiving), mentions of ovulation, fingering, he keeps the mask AND gloves on
wc: 951 (short n sweet)
The sound he makes as the flat of his tongue meets your quivering hole is pornographic, his eyelids already beginning to droop. Perpetua has waited hours for this, practically salivating since he woke up this morning to the sweet scent of your slick in the air. You’re ovulating, you poor thing. He listened to you whimper in your sleep for a moment before a ghoul came pounding away at the door, telling him he was late for rehearsal and they’re tired of waiting. Damn his obligations, the smell refused to leave his mind. By the time he’s slipping back into your shared quarters, his cock is so hard that it hurts but he just has to taste you first.
He doesn’t expect the first taste to render him so thoughtless, melting into the mattress as his gloved hands wrench your thighs further apart. Your cunt glistens even in the dim light of his bedroom, a mixture of your own slick and his spit coating the surface of it when he pulls back. He watches transfixed as your hole clenches around nothing, the level of observation causing you to whine from slight embarrassment.
The feeling fades fast, however, as one gloved finger comes to graze your opening. The leather is surprisingly smooth, but wonderfully foreign as he pushes it past the first knuckle in. He can’t help himself, your body is just screaming with desire and what kind of Papa would he be if he didn’t indulge you? You have a feeling it’s slightly for himself though as he ruts his hips down into the mattress. Whether he’s being selfish or not, you don’t mind when he surges forward, tracing the tip of his tongue around your pulsing bud. It’s teasing and gentle, but just enough to have you keening, a soft whimper escaping your lips.
He pushes his finger the rest of the way in, groaning in delight as your hand comes up to guide him by the straps of his mask. His warm tongue covers you completely, licking a long stripe upwards that starts where his finger moves obscenely within you and ends at your clit. He sucks it into his mouth then, curling his tongue around it.
You love when he gets like this, where he’s positively drooling just to taste you. With the second half of the tour coming up, it won’t be long before he’s whisked away for multiple months, away from your touch and your smell and you. It drives him crazy with want already, like he has to spend every moment until he leaves between your legs just to get his fill.
Perpetua curls his finger, pushing it against the ridged patch of your inner walls that has you gasping, gripping the leather straps until your knuckles turn white. He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a moan, but the sound is muffled when your hips twitch, grinding down into his finger.
He takes you mercy on your helplessness and shoves another inside, curling them back and forth as his tongue speeds up against your clit. By now, you can feel the tendrils of orgasm sneaking up on you, your belly clenching as you press against his face. This is your favorite version of him - the one that’s so desperate to please because seeing you cum fuels something primal in him. He lays his tongue against your clit and moves his head up and down, collecting the slick that escapes onto his glove. The added moisture has your back arching against his plush bed, moaning pathetically when he sucks you back into his mouth.
He can smell how close you are, can taste it as he laps at your clit desperately, driving his hips down into the mattress. By now, there’s a small wet patch forming in his boxers where his tip grazes the soft fabric, spilling precum. Each little twitch you make, and every sound fuels him closer to some finish himself. The taste of you has overwhelmed him, coating his chin and smearing his face paint as he whimpers some plea against your heated skin.
“Come for me sister,” He pants, letting his tongue fall forward to lick another long stripe up. His fingers never stop moving when he continues, “be a good girl and let your papa take care of you.”
His voice is deep with want, but picks up at the end in an almost whine that has you clenching around his fingers. He’s begging you to let go, his tongue resuming its soft but urgent lapping as you start to convulse. Your entire body arches with each wave of pleasure as Perpetua groans against you. He doesn’t try to fight against you, content to let you shove his face as deeply into your dripping pussy as you need to.
He’s whispering little “yes’s” that send bursts of cool air against your clit, the feel of it so good in contrast to his hot tongue. His eyes never leave yours as his fingers slow, reluctantly detaching his mouth from your bud when you whine from the overstimulation.
Being on stage and performing to thousands of adoring fans was wonderful, of course, but these are the moments that Perpetua selfishly lives for. When you’re lying boneless in his bed, all hazy from an orgasm staring at him like he put the sun in the sky. When he finally pulls his finger from your hole, you whine at the loss but the gentle press of his lips against it, the trail of slick that follows it is enough to leave you quiet again.
He pulls back just enough for the trail to break, before his quiet, murky voices whispers, “Nema.”
Notes: Very short, implied past romantic/sexual relationship between reader and Aether, reader is a backup singer, set during a concert in the impera era, gender neutral reader, no y/n used, heavily inspired by Eminems "superman" (also recommend listening to it while reading), grammar errors.
Humming to the tune of mummy dust, you harmonised with your fellow ghouls, your vocals getting louder by the second, your bandmates followed your lead and you couldn't help but smile. Nodding to your fellow vocalists, holding up your cape in pride. Your foot tapped against the bottom of your microphone before gently holding it in place. It kept wobbling every time you'd jump or dance, it was making you worried. What if it fell? It would surely make a mighty crash.
Rolling your hips slowly to the beat, your hands grabbed onto the microphone stand, your foot returning to its original spot. You hummed to yourself as you danced to the music, but your moment was quickly cut off by a loud guitar riff coming your way. Looking down from your platform you saw Aether, the rhythm guitarist, standing right in front of you. He wasn't even looking at his guitar, he was focused on you. Just you. You huffed, making a 'shoo' motion with your hand.
He placed a hand over his heart, it was like he was saying 'you wound me' with only a motion of his hand. He was definitely laughing, you could see it with the way his chest moved, the chest you used to sleep on. Shaking your head you stuck out your tongue at him as you backed away from your mic, swaying your hips before dancing properly. He seemed to enjoy that, he lifted his guitar up to you before doing an up and down motion with the instrument.
Chuckling to yourself, you merely waved your hand at him, he was definitely trying to convince you to come down from your platform. Wiggling a finger at him, you turned around shaking your hips before jumping, but that action seemed to have broken the camels back. Your microphone wobbled before quickly picking up speed and going down. Turning around you tried to catch but failed, but someone did the task for you. Aether. He spun around the moment he saw the microphone stand coming for him, he raised an arm, catching it in his big hand. The crowd clearly noticed this, they let out little cheers and whoops at his victory.
Rolling your eyes, you took the mic from him, placing it back on your mini-stage. Turning your head to the huge crowd, you raised your fist to them. Making the cheer louder. Another loud riff from below. Rolling your shoulders you made a 'come here' motion with your hand at him. He seemed almost giddy, jumping like a little rabbit, before he made his way up the steps to your platform. Shuffling to the edge to make room for his bigger stature, you raised your cape again, and Aether took this as a signal on where to stand. He slowly moved over and stood Infront of your cape, it almost draped over his shoulders due to how close you two were.
"You know, this will get you nowhere." You whispered in his ear before quickly singing a note, Aether followed in suit, harmonising with you before you both pulled away. "We'll see." He murmured back. "You could always end up in my bed again."
a/n: this is my participation in @lycanthra's Creature Perpetua Month as well as a celebration of our dear @lacrymosa-v's birthday! i hope you have such a wonderful day my sweet <3 enjoy some good old-fashioned monster fucking >:) and thank you april for organizing this!! i had so much fun writing for it :D
ALSO. perpetua is definitely more vampire than anything in this but he has some other fun little features (you know EXACTLY what im talking about)
It's rather easy to tell when Perpetua needs to feed.
The first sign comes from his facial expression and increased irritability ("hangriness," for lack of a better word). He'd never take it out on you, but his pout coupled with exasperated huffs when things don't go his way are all the proof you need. Poking and prodding him about it won't get you far, though. Despite his frown—the handsome allure of his features bent into a vexed display of frustration—he refuses to openly acknowledge what he craves. He'll insist he's alright, keen on avoiding having to broach the topic with you out of shame. He knows it's not normal. He doesn't like think about it.
The next sign is the change in his complexion. Perpetua is already pale but when the hours between his last feed stretch further than he can handle, his skin becomes rather sickly in appearance. It's not necessarily fish-belly white, but you've spent enough time around him to understand that the liveliness of his flesh is heavily connected to when he eats. He also becomes colder, having startled you many times with an icy palm pressed against your frame from behind. It's an unfortunate consequence of the pallor.
This is how Perpetua came to you now, all mopey and ghostly pale. The near-dragging of his feet against the stone flooring only seemed to weigh him down more, weakness already settling uncomfortably into his bones. Through his starved haze, he sees a familiar figure materialize in the distance. With every inch he moves closer his heart flutters wildly. If his tail were out, it would be wagging.
You tend to have that effect on him.
"Hello, my heart." Even the way he said it gave away the status of his well-being, all breathless and faint.
He's found you in one of the more secluded hallways that sprawl throughout the Ministry. More specifically, the one that leads to his usual exit into the woods behind the building. There's sudden, pertinent flash of confusion in his mind. What are you doing back here? How did you know to find him? Just as he attempts to entertain these thoughts, his stomach bellows and cramps. It will have to wait.
You clear your throat. "Darling, I need to-"
"I promise I will listen to everything you need to say to me, angel. And I'll hang onto every word." He's already moving to shuffle past you, footsteps uneven and voice wavering. "Just need a snack, y'know? A little pick-me-up."
You stop him with a hand on his chest, taking note of his lithe form. "That's actually why I'm here."
Something that was also just as easy to discern about Perpetua was his routines. More importantly, when he chose to slink down this hallway and out into the forest to hunt. If he had a lot of time on his hands, he would spend upwards of an hour out on his own, stalking the treetops and lurking in the bushes for his prey. The chase was half the thrill. But if he didn't have as much of an opening in his day, snagging an unsuspecting squirrel would do him just fine. And he never made a big scene about it! When he returned to his papal duties, no one would be any the wiser that his mouth and hands were smeared with blood just a few minutes prior.
Today, you noticed, Perpetua was late for his normal feeding time. It was the opportunity you've been waiting for: a chance to offer yourself to him in the only way you haven't yet.
"Pet, I was wondering…" Your eyes dart away for a moment. It was now or never.
His eyes are glossed over, blinking owlishly as he waits for you to continue. You breathe deep, nerves steeled with the grounding force of the inhale.
"I want you to feed from me."
Perpetua's eyes flare wider almost imperceptibly, shock etching itself into his features, just for a moment. Or was it surprise? Both? The specific furrow of his brow was one reserved for moments of concern. For you, specifically.
"Angel, I don't-" His mouth gropes at the air to try and find the words to say. "'I've never… we've never…" Subconsciously, he almost wants to take a step away from you. Distancing the beast means he won't lose you.
"I know. It's okay." One of your hands smooths up his chest and cups the back of his neck. You thread your fingers into the hair at his nape to soothe him, scratching lightly. "I want this more than you know."
"But what if I h-"
"You won't hurt me." With a gentle pull to his neck, you pull his face so close your noses almost touch. "I'm not afraid. I want to sustain you."
Perpetua lets out a little gasp, hands coming to hold your waist. He needs to steady himself before you give his head any more reasons to keep spinning.
"…Please?"
If he wasn't feeling so faint, he would have sprung a hard-on just from the sight of you. You're fidgeting with the fabric of your clothes, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as the swell of your cheeks grow warmer by the second. The infectious aura of your desperation has Perpetua losing his inhibitions in seconds.
He looks up and down the hall, double-checking the privacy of the moment. Grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, he takes a shaky breath and murmurs against the skin words that would change your relationship forever.
"Let's go."
-
The sky is painted gorgeous shades of orange and pink as the sun tucks itself behind the Ministry. With each minute it sinks closer to the horizon, the humidity of early June dissipates. It's cooled the ground beneath your feet, grass rustling and the occasional leaf crunching under your shoes as Perpetua leads you to the treeline by hand. It's shaking slightly and clammy-cold, but his grip is firm. It always is when he holds you.
He stops at the mouth of the trail, turning to face you. He's panting now as his hunger claws at the pit of his stomach. It's a threatening feeling for him. Like he is running out of time before the beast takes over.
He's never been more nervous in his life.
But he needs this.
Oh, how he needs you.
Perpetua feels his grip on his humanity loosen, a more primal urge to hunt permeating what remains of him.
With what little sound mind he has left, he asks one last time:
"Are you sure about this?"
Worry pools in his gaze, but the further you look into his eyes you see… something else. Have his pupils always looked like that? And when he gives your hand a squeeze, you notice his nails have grown.
This is really happening.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
A low purr rumbles his chest, dark and ominous like a looming thunderstorm. It sends a chill down your spine and a bloom of warmth in your groin.
"Good."
He lets go of your hand, straightening his ascot and looking towards the gaping entrance to the ever-darkening forest. Your head follows his gaze. The gnarled branches seem to reach out from the dim and beckon you inward, inviting you into their twisted grasp.
The warmth of Perpetua's breath on the shell of your ear breaks you from your trance.
"Start running, little rabbit."
And then he's gone. Your head whips around to look for where he went, to try and make sense of it. It's like he vanished into thin air, a concept so fictional and far-removed from reality it triggers a child-like fear in you, however brief.
He's mentioned the importance of the chase to you before, but it's always been in the context of hunting animals. It's a very valuable experience for him, you've learned, satisfying whatever is ancient and unspoken resting within him.
But now, he was hunting you.
You are his prey.
And so, you run.
The worn path sprawls before you, maze-like in nature as it bifurcates, twists, and zig-zags. The frenzied beat of your footfalls against the ground is surprisingly unsettling ambience to your escape. Slivers of light fade from the forest floor as the canopy shields you from what little light remains in the sky above.
You stop in a small clearing to catch your breath, knees trembling beneath you. Adrenaline pumps in time with the pound of your pulse. It's surprising how menacing Perpetua's simple command became, instincts urging you to continue fleeing.
A moment or two's worth of self-recollection is all you get before a tree branch rustles behind you.
Immediately, you pivot on your heel faster than you can blink toward the source of the noise.
"Hello?"
Then, off in another direction, a twig snaps. The silence that hangs afterward is nothing short of sinister. A promise that you aren't truly alone.
He's closing in. He's smelled the blood in the water.
You need to keep moving.
Returning to the pace you moved at before, you pick a direction and book it. Over the pounding heartbeat in your ears you swear you can hear the trees rustle as you pass. It like something was jumping from branch to branch. And quickly.
Following you.
Gaining on you.
As you run your head instinctually moves toward the source of the sound, trying to make out the shape maneuvering through the leaves. Your gaze only left the path in front of you for a second, but the trees worked in Perpetua's favor. A thick root lays on top of the ground like a speed bump, and your foot fails to clear it. The ground is unforgiving to your hands and knees once you fall.
From the canopy, Perpetua jumps to the ground behind you, a crunchy thud you can feel through the dirt.
It feels straight from a horror movie, the way you scramble to sit up as he crawls toward you. His limbs are ganglier than you remembered, bent at uncomfortable angles. His left eye glows an alarming white in the dusk.
"Found you."
A short mewl escapes you. This is really happening.
His canines have elongated and hang over his bottom lip, his nails have fashioned themselves into dark claws, and a long, whip-like tail swishes behind him. There's a wicked gleam to his stare.
What's most apparent, though, is the bulge in his pants. You feel yourself leaking just looking at it.
You're forced to tear your gaze away from his crotch when he stops in front of you, tilting your head upward with a caress of his talon to the underside of your jaw. It scratches just enough to irritate the skin, but the gesture is gentle. Even if a promise of something darker lurks just underneath its surface.
"Done running, little rabbit?"
He sizes you up, eyes roaming over every inch of you with a hunger you would only see before certain doom. Even though you know he wouldn't dare injure you, it still triggers something intrinsic and deep within you. Danger was near and you needed to leave. Your feet move to shuffle further away from him, all you needed to do is gain your footing and-
A strong hand wraps around your ankle and pulls you closer. The meat of his palm is firm against the bone there, Perpetua's sheer strength sending butterflies swarming in your stomach. He tsks at your attempt to flee.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Tantalizingly slow, he moves to loom over where you lay on the ground. There's the occasional stop to grope at your sides or your chest, talons pinching and indenting your exterior.
"So soft…" he breathes, nestling himself between your spread legs.
Perpetua's head is reeling. Here you were, trapped and pliant beneath him, offering the warmth of your flesh to satisfy the starved animal within. He needed to take you in. All of you.
Leaning down to the crook of your neck, Perpetua takes a deep sniff. Your scent is addictive, the overflow of adrenaline offering a sickly sweet note to your life-force's coppery base. His cock grows impossibly harder and his exhale is shaky, chest trembling out of pure arousal.
"Oh, you smell divine… good enough to eat."
A shudder wracks your body as you reach out to pull Perpetua closer.
"Please, Pet. Enough teasing."
You bare your neck for him, exposing yourself to the highest degree.
It's vulnerable.
It's trusting.
He leans in for another sniff, nose grazing your carotid. He doesn't pull away this time. It's like he's searching for the perfect place to latch onto and doesn't want to waste a single drop when he does. He marks the spot with an open-mouthed kiss, swirling his tongue over your pulse point.
"Gotta have you…" he mumbles.
"Then- AH!" Your hands fly to grab him on impulse, fisting into what's left of his shirt.
This is really happening.
The area is uncomfortably hot and stings for the first few seconds as Perpetua sucks the wound to draw out the blood. And once it hits his tongue, he whimpers, your skin buzzing with each little whine that wriggles its way up his throat. His hips rock into yours mindlessly, the taste of you tunneling his vision, his very being, into something that craves to consume. To digest. To take.
The whole thing is dizzying. Losing as much blood as you are is enough to make anyone feel a bit lightheaded, but that's not the sole source of the giddiness. It's the way Perpetua, the dangerous creature stalking you moments ago, is reduced to a needy mess just from the taste of you. His whimpering and rutting didn't cease for the entire 15 or so seconds he drank from you, losing himself in the thrill of the catch. And when he finally does pull away, the papal paint on his chin and lips are smeared with pink.
"Your flavor is exquisite, angel."
The use of the pet name, your pet name, is an indication of his descent back to humanity. It won't happen instantaneously, but the hunger of the beast has been satiated. For now, at least.
Perpetua's hips move against yours again, this time with purpose. "Gotta have you.. gotta have you now…"
He's already working the laces of his pants with practiced fingers and your eyes move to assess his bulge. It seemed… bigger than usual. If not a little longer then definitely girthier. This must be another consequence of his transformation.You shiver in anticipation of how it will feel buried inside you.
Once it's freed, your suspicions are confirmed. It sits against his thigh and ends at the halfway point between his knee and hip, so thick you don't even know if your hand could close around it. You may as well accept your fate of not walking straight tomorrow.
He gives it a few encouraging pumps, massive drops of pre flinging off of the tip, and lifts your hips. He holds you as if you're weightless, no heavier than a feather, and frots his cock against your clothed sex. First it's his thumbs that slide underneath the waistband of your bottoms, then it's his fingers that hook themselves in and pull downward. He sets you down gently as he removes your pants, surprisingly tender.
Your underwear comes down with it all and he groans at the way you glisten, the way the rising moon illuminates your arousal. "Fuck, angel." He lifts the garment to his nose, takes a deep whiff, and moans into the fabric. "You drive me crazy."
The underwear gets tucked into his back pocket. For safe keeping, obviously.
He picks you up again, this time looping your arms around his neck so he can hold you upright, hands cupping your ass. The tip of his weeping cock teases at your entrance, coating it with even more lubricant. He bounces you gently onto the head, conscientious about the fact that you've never fucked while his cock was this huge.
But it's okay. He can be patient.
Anything for you.
Feeling him prodding little by little inside you sends you into a frenzy, still delirious from the blood loss. His cock felt so heavy and it wasn't even all the way inside you yet.
"Please," you whine. "I need you deeper, V."
He throws his head back and moans without reserve, laying you back down on the ground so he can mount you properly. Hooking your ankles behind his waist you pull him closer, almost squealing as the movement presses him further into you. He thrusts shallowly, pushing in a little further with each forward motion, and pushes your knees up to your chest.
The mating press.
Eyes scanning your face the whole time, Perpetua pushes the rest of the way in. A keening whine rips from you without warning, sinfully harmonizing with Perpetua's cry of relief after he's fully sheathed himself.
"Gonna— fuck, you're so tight—gonna take what I want from you, yeah?"
All you can do is whimper in response and nod your head, just as lost in the throes of pleasure as he is. He's already started pumping into you, slow at first to help you adjust to the stretch. Not even his bestial form could remove his consideration of your comfort.
He's holding your ankles together with a single hand now, your legs out to the side so he gets a perfect view of your face. He needs to watch you come undone beneath him. And what better way to make it happen than to pick up the pace?
As he quickens his rhythm he experiments with the angles he's hitting you at, determined to find that special spot that makes you scream. And when you cry out with a curl of your fingertips in the dirt, he knows he's got you wrapped around his finger.
"FUCK! Right there, oh my God!"
Perpetua hums—or is it a purr?— and grabs your cheeks with his other hand, forcing your attention back onto him. He's still towering over you despite his skinny frame and as he speaks his fangs shine with an aura of savagery.
"God won't be able to help you here." His hips are snapping into yours now, the slapping of skin-on-skin only making you leak even further onto his cock. "Let Papa take care of you."
It's then that you feel it. That familiar heat blooming through your groin, those little jolts of pleasure growing in intensity. His cock felt so good pistoning in and out of you and you swear you're going to cum from this alone, just a few more strokes and-
What the hell is that?
Every time he bottoms out you feel that his base has… thickened. Like a plug that threatens to push its way past your entrance and keep him locked inside you forever. It only just brushes against you, but your curiosity takes over and you look down to wear your bodies meet. All you can do is gasp once you see it.
He has a fucking knot.
Perpetua notices your staring, face flushing with embarrassment. He even slows down a little, nervous that you've been turned off. He would never forgive himself if you were.
"I'm sorry- I don't have to put it in, I'm so sorry. You're just so beautiful and I couldn't help myse-"
"Put it in."
His lips part, brows quirked upward as if what you said almost made him finish on its own.
"Really?"
"Fill me, Pet, please."
His thrusts grow frenzied and his whimpers return in full force, overwhelmed with pleasure and gratitude for you, his love. He hides his face in the same spot he fed from, licking and nibbling at the wound to get just one more taste. One of his fangs drags against the fresh scab and a small dribble of blood settles on the blade of his tongue.
He's enraptured. Unable to resist any longer. He pushes all the way in.
You wince as the knot pushes uncomfortably past the ring of muscle, but you never once step back from the edge you're teetering on. He fucks it into you, moaning and twitching as his orgasm also quickly approaches.
"Gonna fill you up, angel. And you're not gonna waste a single drop, just like how I didn't."
His once perfect rhythm becomes inconsistent. His moans and whimpers become louder. He's going to cum and he's going to do it inside of you.
This is really happening.
"I'm so close, I'm so close, fuck!" His voice is wet, like he could cry.
You've never seen him this desperate. It's enchanting.
"Oh- oh oh oh!" His hand holding your ankles pushes your knees further into your chest. "I'm gonna-"
And he roars. Not like a human either. It's polytonal and seems to shake the trees around you. His tail—previously swishing and thrashing behind him—wraps around your thigh, squeezing. You can feel his seed spurt into you, hot and heavy, and it flings you over the edge too.
You've never seen him his free from his self-imposed restraints. It's beautiful. He's beautiful.
His bellowing dies down into a satisfied chitter and his hands roam over your body, caressing you as you fall back to earth. But the realization of what just happened hits him like a truck. Did he go too far? Did he hurt you too badly? He tries to search your blissed-out expression for an answer.
But you know when people joke about cumming so hard you pass out?
It's not a joke for you this time.
Your vision fades in and out as you reach for Perpetua weakly. As if you were made of glass, he holds you gently to his chest.
"It's okay, I'm here. I've got you."
You only half-remember him helping you put your shorts back on before it all fades to black.
-
Silken sheets and plush pillows cradle your body now, the scent of floral tea wafting through the air. You reach to your neck once you remember the evening's events, however rudimentary, and find that it's already been patched up with gauze. Sitting up, you blink away the bleariness that's settled in your eyes and realize you're in Perpetua's quarters. And, as if on cue, he enters from the ensuite bathroom.
Gone is the tail, gone are his fangs and talons, and gone is that wild look in his eye. He's back to being Perpetua. Your Perpetua.
"Oh, sweetheart, you're awake!" He rushes over to you, sitting on the edge of the bed to take one of your hands in to his. His thumb rubs comfortingly on the back of your palm.
"Mmm, you okay, Pet?" Your voice is hoarse and speech a bit slurred still, eyes fluttering closed.
"I'm alright, darling. You did so good, took it all so well for me. Thank you." A firm kiss plants itself onto your hand, then your forehead. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Your thoughts are still jumbled as you try to conjure up a response, eyes opening a little to connect with Perpetua's. "Of course. You're amazing. All of you."
His heart swells. All of him?
"Get some rest, angel. I'll be right here when you wake up."
"Mkay."
And just as he's about to get up from the bed, you reach out for him one last time before exhaustion seeps in. He stills.
"What is it, love?"
"I mean it."
There's a beat of silence, but his face says it all.
Hello again, lovely writer! It's a new day, and I have a new idea for you. Especially since you did such a beautiful job bringing my previous ideas to life. Thank you for that <3
How about the ghoul of your choice being locked away in their room during their heats/ruts because they become a bit feral during that time, and what if reader accidently got locked with them ? How would that go down ?
(Again feel free to ignore this if you wish <3)
Hii! I'm so so glad you liked the others, that means so much to me!! I wanted to try something new with this one, so I've put them into headcannon form, so I can do multiple ghouls, so I apologize if it's not the best. This includes all the current ghouls/ghoulettes because why not.
(NSFW, ruts/heats, gn!reader for the most part but there is some fem!reader, reader gets tied up, some dub-con elements if you squint, theres a fuck-machine, threesome/gangbang mention, possessiveness, knotting, some dom!reader. I think this is it!)
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰
• Now we all know that he's already aggressive and ungodly horny,
Dewdrop/Sodo
• Now times that by 10. He goes insane during ruts.
• Humping everything, constantly hard, he's more grumpy and stompy than usual as well. All because he's horny and has blue balls lmfao.
• So.. now we've added his favorite person, you.
• He's on his knees. Begging for you to let him fuck you, breed you, touch you. Basically, anything his horny brain can come up with. (heavy on breeding, even if you can't get pregnant, he'll still try.)
• He has a constant possessiveness to him during his ruts, so once you're in there, you're not getting out until it's over. Don't expect to walk after.
• He has no glamor or mask on at all during his rut so if you really want to rile him up so he'll rail you, pull on his horns while he gives you head or tug on his tail. He'll go absolutely bat shit insane.
• He'll cover you in hickeys and bite marks so everyone knows you're his. Like I said, possessive.
• He'll knot you, and he won't stop knotting you until he thinks it's the one that'll get you round with his kits.
• I'm sure that if you ask nicely, he might sub for you during his rut. He hates to admit it, but he probably gets off on the thought of being a sub. Tie him up, sexually torture him, and humiliate him. He loves it.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊
• Where do I start.. he's going to he so whiney his whole rut. He might even spam call/text you because he needs you.
Rain
• Obviously, you're not going to give in, you know the rules.
• But if you did, by accident or on purpose, he's going to go insane.
• He'll do anything you ask of him. He gets off on your pleasure. But if you tease him, he may lose his patience.
• If he does lose his patience, he'll fuck you into the mattress, he might even tie you up if you're into that, he'll mark you like crazy... he's a horny bitch (just like me frfr.)
• So let's say you've found yourself with a Rain in a rut. Good luck. He'll rail you like there's no tomorrow, because to him, there's not, he thinks you will leave at any second so he won't stop until you physically can't anymore.
• His stamina is INSANE when he's in a rut.
• He could probably smell you from a mile away, so if you do accidentally find yourself locked in the same room as him, don't try and lie to him, or do.. who knows, maybe he'll punish you.
• If you don't have a dick, grab a strap on, he'll be the subbiest little bitch for you. (he's probably into fem doms). And he probably has a dildo/strap that he uses on himself anyways. He could probably cum just from the thought of you on top of him, and he will.
• Huge on your tits by the way. You're a guy, it doesn't matter, you're flat, he doesn't care, you have bigger tits, he's begging for you to ride him so he can watch them. He loves your tits.
• MARK HIM BACK. Please. He loves to feel you sink your teeth into him. He loves to see the marks the day after even more thought, a reminder of how he's going to pay you back with twice as many marks.
• Aftercare king, though. Even during a rut. I mean, you have to be in good shape if you're going to be the one to have his kits.. right?
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊
• Big boy, and not with just his height.
Mountain
• But if you happen to stumble upon a Mountain in a rut, it's not that someone's locked the door from the outside or something.. no, he's locked the door. You're not leaving until he's done with you.
• All this man is thinking about right now is how fucking hard he is, and how good you'd feel around him. So he's not going to be nice.
• He might degrade you.. but that's okay, because he'll apologize by fucking you until you're dumb.
• You better hope you're not wearing any expensive clothes, the second he gets his hands on your they're torn up and on the ground. He'll replace them when his rut is done, though, don't worry.
• Pull his hair. That's it. You want to get railed into oblivion, pull his hair. It's a one way ticket.
• He probably won't sub, but on the off chance he does, he will put up a fight. Now, if you've found yourself locked with Mountain in a rut and you want to keep your ability to walk, you can get him to sub for you, and he gets super sensitive when he does so, please, edge him.
• He'll knot you, and there's just so much. He'll whisper to you about how this'll be the knot that'll get you round with his kits.
• If you call him Sir, it could be out of fear/intimidation, or you're just teasing him, you're done for. There's no way you'll be able to walk after, so I wish you luck.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊
• Already horny ghoul, somehow, even hornier (is that even possible??) you're in for a wild ride (literally and figuratively).
Swiss
• You're in a room with him. Before you can even say anything, he'll have you pinned to the ground, and your clothes will be off.
• Mating press, missionary, cowgirl. Anything where he can see your face as he fucks you dumb you'll be put in, doesn't matter if your flexible or not, he'll find a way.
• You want to rile him up even more (again, is that even fucking possible?!) beg for him, get on your knees and beg. He will go insane, and you won't be able to walk, but it's not like he was planning to let you go. No, no, you're his now.
• If and when he knots you, it's inevitable he will, he will probably fall asleep with his cock half-hard inside you and if you fall asleep as well ans shuffle a bit with him inside you, sweetheart now he's wide awake and ready for round two.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊
• Omfg. He's so needy. He might as well be worshiping the ground you stand on, he loves you and he needs you.
Phantom
• He needs you to sit on his face, btw, now that he's in a rut it's just doubled.
• So you've found yourself in quite the predicament. You've found your way to a rut Phantom, so what's the next step (back to where you came from, turn around, and leave), honestly, just you acknowledging him during his rut could probably make him cum, he's that needy.
• He'll bend you over any and every surface known to man. Don't expect to be safe anywhere.
• If you're kind enough to help him through his rut, then he'll, probably get on one knee and propose, do anything you need him to as long as he gets to fuck you when you're done.
• Rub his horns, and he'll bust. Trust me.
• He's dominant during his rut, so don't expect normal subby, needy, Phantom. No, not you've got, dom, needy, and unbearably horny, Phantom whose prepared to stuff you full of his seed in every hole you'll let him.
• He's going to knot you. This isn't even a question. He will. It doesn't matter if you can't get pregnant because you don't have the proper biology, he will try his absolute hardest, and you won't complain because this means Phantom constantly breeding him, he has a breeding kink.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊
• I'm in love with her.
Cumulus
• She's quite dominant. She has a strap on, probably one of the double-ended ones, too.
• If you offer to use it on her, she might just go crazy. I hope your stamina is good because she won't be letting you go for a while.
• If you have female anatomy, scissor her. I beg of you, she'll beg you too. He might reward you by eating you out after..
• Her tits are ungodly sensitive during her ruts, so any type of touch on them, and she'll immediately be on top of you.
• Please let her tie you up. You'll look so pretty tied up and begging for her.
• She's going to mark you, so don't be alarmed when you see the dark marks the next day. And she will mark you anywhere she can, your neck, thighs, tits, anywhere.
• If you're good she might get Cirrius to fuck you along side her, and don't worry, Cirrius is just as good, and she's mean so you better be ready. (I'm head over heels for both of them, I love women.)
• She will overstimulate you until it hurts. She's just so mean sometimes.
• She will make you squirt. That's her goal. Even in a rut, she's still determined to see you squirt.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊
• She's mean. That's it.
Cirrius
• She'll tie you up and attach a vibrator to you and she will fuck herself as she watches you writhe.
• She might even put a gag on you if you start to get too loud.
• Once she gets her hands on you, she won't let you go until she's had her fill.
• If you call her mommy, get ready for a night full of fun because, baby, you've just fucked yourself. She won't let up. Her stamina is insane, and it combats Rains.
• So, if you ever find yourself locked in a room with Cirrius in a rut, don't expect to leave any time soon. Even after her ruts over, she might keep you there.
• If you're being good for her, maybe just maybe if she's in the mood for sharing, she'll get Cumulus or Swiss in there. (maybe even both)
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊
• I unfortunately don't know too much about her, so I apologize if she's ooc.
Aurora
• She's got a pretty firey personality as it is, so now she's got that personality AND an unbearable feeling of being constantly horny, and you'll be the only one on her mind.
• Okay.. now you're with her, she might sub..? If you ask nicely, that is.
• But she will also fuck you dumb with a double-ended dildo. So be ready for a wild night. She has a bunch of things you've only heard of, and she plans to use them.
• It's not a question that she'll tie you up. We already know she will. But if you're into it, she might put you on a fuck-machine while she rides your face until she's satisfied.
• You can probably turn the tables and switch positions, and if you do, expect her to be loud. It's okay though, she sounds so pretty.
• She will scissor you. She probably can for hours. So by the end of her rut, you'll be sore and marked, and everything will hurt. But it will be worth it.
A/N: Stg if I ever see this purple fucking freak darken the doorway of my mind, I'm going for his kneecaps. He will never be able to slut about on the floor again, and then what will he do? Thanks, y'all, for being so patient as I almost daily had a meltdown over the structure of this. And HUGE thanks once again to @angellayercake for being my ever-patient beta with amazing input and ideas!! I hope I did our bastard boy some kind of service.
Word Count: 8.8K. Sorry, this bad boy is a hydra: For every sentence I deleted, more words would come in its place
CW: Reader has a vagina, hurtful comments from past relationships, reader's mental state is kinda fucked at a few points, hints at extremely uncomfortable interactions to "make the relationship work". Sooo...Vaginismus and its delightful conditions, I suppose. Oh, and a hint of Google Translate Italian. I'm sorry, I tried referencing @/foxybouquet's ever so helpful guide the best I could but alas, I am still a moron. MDNI
Papa III was a notorious flirt, even by the standards of the sexually liberated Church of Satan.
Everybody knew this, from the Clergy to Sister Imperator to the ghouls to his many, many lovers. And yet, when his sights finally fell upon you, everyone knew: Something in him had changed. At the very least, his methods sure had.
Secondo raised a brow when he first saw his brother lightly jogging up to you in the hallways, panting for you to wait up. Primo sported a knowing smirk when he watched the normally suave man sheepishly inquire about the meaning behind certain flower arrangements. Quite the departure from his usual bouquet of red and white roses, the older man couldn't help but note.
A startled Copia quickly became suspicious when the brother that tended to tease him the most came to his office one day, armed with top-shelf juice boxes and nutty chocolate bars – just the starting price for whatever info he was willing to give his dear old fratello about his new favorite Sorella.
The ghouls had a field day whenever they came upon the old man either sulking or even swooning over how a recent interaction had gone. One even swore they had scrounged through his wastepaper basket (don't ask, it’s not worth it) and found crumpled up drafts of sonnets. Sonnets!
It was the Siblings, however, who seemed to take the most notice of his antics. And, unfortunately, the most offense.
Certainly, plenty of the congregation had received a bouquet or two from their beloved Papa Terzo. Many had been wined and dined, and some were even whisked away for a night of passion and excitement in a glamorous metropolitan hub. Terzo had gotten around, and he would probably continue to get around until he either died mid-orgy or until his dick fell off. (And even if the latter did happen, it probably wouldn’t slow him down. Not until his fingers and tongue followed suit, anyway.)
It was cyclical: You would be an interest for a week or two before your time would be up, and you would part ways as he turned his attention to another, leaving you with memories of a whirlwind dalliance to reminisce about for years to come.
This was simply something that was understood and accepted without much of any animosity amongst Siblings. This was just how things were. Or at least up until now.
They must have noticed there was something about the way Terzo pursued you. For starters, nobody could ever recall a time when the man actually needed to really pursue anyone, let alone to the extent and care he currently displayed.
They could tell when a peer was actively trying to heighten the tension, turning their back to him but still glancing over their shoulder to shoot a heated stare. An invitation for him to keep it coming. Really putting the “play” in “playing hard to get”. But generally speaking, most of what Terzo needed to do was snap his fingers and whichever Sibling or ghoul he had his eye on would eagerly crawl into his lap and then into his bed.
Maybe they saw a shine in his eyes that wasn't there when they had him. Or maybe they thought he leaned just the slightest fraction of an inch closer to you than he ever did with anyone else. Or maybe they swore his voice sounded different when he spoke with you. Lighter, but not out of an upturn in pitch to sound friendlier. It was more like it carried less weight. Almost as though he felt less burdened by some unspoken thing. Some thing he never cared to share with them.
Granted, you didn't help matters by actually enjoying the odd conversation or two (or over a dozen) with Terzo. (And by "odd", this meant the animated discussions that borderlined two-person seminars on subjects like the Hays Code, or how viewing certain films through a gendered or queer lens could enhance the suggestion of the story.)
And anyone who spotted you alone on the quad sharing a snack would've been convinced you were on an impromptu picnic, rather than the fact Terzo had found you and offered you pickings from his secret snack pocket.
Sure, it was just a sandwich baggy of cheese doodles, but the point still stood: You had Terzo's full attention, his intrigue, his consideration, his snacks, and you hadn't done a damn thing to deserve them! Any interaction between the both of you, every awkward joke, every instance of eye contact, every exchange of a genuine honest to Satan smile, had the Siblings of the abbey biting and clawing at the walls in envy.
You did your best to appear unaffected by it, preferring to keep your head down and say as little as possible when around them. Nothing to suggest you felt superior to them (not that you did anyhow). Regardless, you were fairly certain that, if it were up to them, they would bring back human sacrifice for the sole purpose of getting you out of the picture.
Thank Satanas, then, that none were present to witness the latest event.
There Terzo stood, his normally focused and powerful gaze fighting hard to be maintained. It was abundantly clear that he wanted to look anywhere but at you. Still, he resolved to keep that nervous on his face. His gorgeous, paintless face.
It was startling to say the least. Actually, no, scratch that: To truly say the least would be to just stand there, gaping like a goldfish as you failed to find the right words – any words – that truly encapsulated even a fraction of what you felt. Which, for better or for worse, was exactly what you found yourself doing.
After all, almost nobody outside of his own family had seen Terzo without his papal paints. They may as well have been tattooed on him the moment he’d perfected the design all those years ago! Not even the paramours he’d collected since then had gotten a glimpse of his bare face, despite the many opportunities they’d had from the nights spent in his quarters. The mystery as to why this was left plenty of room for speculation and imagination, creating a juicy mystique that Siblings and ghouls loved to salivate and chew on.
Admittedly, you yourself occasionally wondered what his deal was, but you ultimately chose not to ponder on it. If Terzo liked how he looked in makeup more than he did without, then that was his business. Honestly, it never even really occurred to you to ask him about it even as the two of you grew closer.
But as you took in the visage before you, you felt you had a good theory going: If Terzo went about the Ministry like this, he’d never know a moment’s peace again!
"Is . . . Is it . . . okay?" he asked quietly. Okay? Okay!? Satan’s taint, if it weren’t for the very apparent tension, you might’ve thought the man was teasing you! The man looked like an old movie star, all debonair and dashing!
The fight to respond in a timely (and coherent) manner was difficult, but you managed to stammer out, “More than okay.” You gulped down some shakiness. “Y-you’re very . . .handsome.”
Internally, you cringed at how wobbly you’d come across but thankfully that seemed to be enough. The warmth in your cheeks intensified as the nerves in his smile carefully evaporated, along with a slight tension in his shoulders.
Unfortunately, the consciousness did not remain, and almost immediately you found yourself delegating focus to other things. Like the beauty mark that lay just beneath the right corner of his pleasantly pink lips. Lips that were saying, “— if you would be interested, of course.”
You blinked. Were you interested? Wait . . . Interested in what, exactly?!
“Y-yeah, sure. I’m down,” you chirped before you could stop yourself.
While you tried your damndest not to look mortified or embarrassed, Terzo looked delighted. Possibly even elated.
“Oh, eccellente!” he clapped his palms together before offering you a mix of a nod and bow. That sharp characteristic of his eyes returned once more, pinning your form as he purred, “I look forward to it.”
Oh, fuck. “Can’t wait!” you replied. Of course, now the concept of urgency settled in.
As you walked back to your room for the night, you knew three things to be certain: The first was that that face of Terzo’s would likely be making many appearances in your dreams tonight. The second thing, branching off this, him showing you his face was a sign you’d let things get far too far.
And the third thing? You had to put an end to your exchanges ASAP.
Sure, you’d peppered this into your thoughts many times before, but after this? This moment of extreme vulnerability on Terzo’s part? No more peppering: It was time to actually pile in everything you had and outright reject Terzo’s advances. No room for stuttering or bending or swaying or swooning and second-guessing!
You repeated this like a mantra over and over, praying that the resolution would still be there in the morning. And it was – but only after you took an icy shower. You’d been spot on when you anticipated that gorgeous, gorgeous face invading your dreams. What you hadn’t counted on, though, was the nature of what all went on:
Snowflakes catching on his lashes as you ice skated on a pond (the power of dreams erasing his waking world clumsiness); his lips smiling around a forkful of the pasta you’d just cooked together; his broad nose nuzzling lovingly into your hair during a quiet night in; those entrancing eyes focused on the movie playing before you as his arm settled warmly around you. It gave you further comfort as you pressed into his side, so perfectly slotted that it was as though you only ever belonged there, right next to him.
You regretted disregarding the alarm bells that blared at the start of this whole nonsense, and now look where that got you: You needed a cold cleanse just because you saw a man’s unpainted face! You were worse than a pent-up Victorian! Did you really want to prolong things until you’d start to "feel" those smirking lips pressed against the column of your neck, or “feel” those large hands skirt along your form, leaving a deliciously pleasant fire in their wake?
Certainly, that might’ve made for a good night’s sleep in theory. But in reality? It was a nightmare in the making!
It was bad enough just wanting to do all those dreamy things and more with the equally dreamy Papa. But that, of course, meant the "more" part would eventually come around. After all, your waking life already wasn't too terribly far off from the things that went on in the dream.
Your days weren't filled with skating on the pond or chatting over romantic dinners but at this rate, they very well could be a possibility. In an ideal world, the wait for these things to happen would be filled with anticipation. But the sad, shower-cold reality was that this wait was weighed down by dread and predictions of what was to come. After all, for all Terzo's patience and kindness, even he had limits. Sometime soon, his patience with your inexactness would run out and he would come to collect. Experience told you that was just how it was.
You may not have had a pursuer as passionate as Terzo, but you’d had enough instances that ran about the same: There was that high, that thrill in an almost honeymoon period-like chase. Then there came the actual vulnerability where you’d tell them of the conditions that came with a relationship – the conditions that came with you. And yeah, they’d start off insisting that nothing about that changed how they felt about you . . . But then they’d realize your condition would outlast their gimmick.
You felt your face twist with displeasure as sentences of the past began slipping through the cracks and into the forefront of your mind.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Calm down already.”
“Just relax already.”
Then came the pain (both kinds); the giving up; and then you were right back where you started: Alone together, with a body that hated you that you hated right back. The only real difference would be how much your weariness increased, making you more and more reluctant to play along with the idea of any potential romance. Meanwhile, to them, it was a game: You were just playing hard to get, that was all. But you’d surely stop when they and they alone were able to conquer you, to cure you.
Did you really want to wait around and see Terzo become like that?
Your stomach twisted at the thought.
No. Absolutely not. You weren’t sure your heart could bear it, much less your body. Besides, if word got out that he’d shown you his face, then it’d be all over for you. You’d rather incur the wrath of rejecting what many would kill for than face what might happen if they learned how far you’d gotten by doing nothing at all. At least with the former, there was a chance the Siblings let you keep your bones intact.
You had a plan as you prepared yourself to step out and face the day: Keep calm and function as normal until the chance to say those simple words hit you: “Terzo, I am not interested in you in any way, shape, or form. While you are attractive, I am not attracted to you. Please leave me alone from now on.”
A devastating lie, perhaps, but a necessary one. One you would need to deliver by tonight.
But hey, the day was still quite young. There was plenty of time for you to find the courage, right?
. . . Well, you didn’t find it in the hallway when you heard that oh-so familiar, cheerful call of, "Buongiorno, Mia Sorellina !", prompting you to pick up speed and disappear down a different corridor. Nor was it there when you caught sight of a black flutter of robe. It could’ve been a wandering Cardinal’s cassock but you weren’t prepared to stick around and find out.
And even though you spent nearly the entirety of afternoon mass, head bowed, praying for the Dark One to simply grab the strength and shove it into you, you didn’t feel any more emboldened. Apparently, your body meant it when it didn’t allow for anything to enter it – intangible things included, it seemed.
You groaned inwardly from both disappointment and discomfort as you lifted yourself off the kneeler and back into the pew. There was also the added stressor of feeling sets of multiple eyes on you: From Siblings stewing in envy; from ghouls who wanted to take a gander at the Sister who had flirty Papa III wrapped around her finger; and, worst of all, from Terzo himself.
The one time you dared to look up at his seated form on the altar, you caught a hint of a small smile directed at you.
You tried to return it, at least enough to suggest to him you were fine and happy to see him despite your earlier actions, but the sorry attempt lost any pretense of pleasantness when your eyes got caught on something: Even in the sea of his dark robes, you could make out the dull shine of leather gloves poised in his lap. Helping them to stand out more, however, was how each fingertip was adorned with a golden nail.
Correction: A golden claw. The fine barbs would fit right in on the hand of a ghoul or perhaps some other dæmonic creature.
Normally you were fascinated by the accessories but in your increasingly unwell state, these gloves intimidated you. It was like you had been reduced to a fearful prey animal and all you saw was a threat.
A thought, sharp as those gilded talons, slashed beyond your imagination and into the walls of your most sensitive place. They pierced and drilled into the intimate area just long enough for you to know they were there – both in your mind and your body – shanking their way into a place nothing was meant to enter, let alone something so dangerous.
Although a primal need to defend yourself shot through your nervous system, you were too incapacitated to do much more than body-jolting inhale. Your only defense, you had long-since learned, was to freeze. Your brain buzzed in an unpleasant manner as you started to come down from the imaginary fingering.
“You’re overreacting,” scoffed the voice of a past partner. “It’s just a finger.” You hadn’t spoken to them in years, but the disregard in their voice remained fresh, further embittering you to the fact that that was what managed to creep into you rather than the bravery you so desperately needed.
You had to pray once more that Terzo hadn’t noticed anything. A change in your already shifty demeanor, the way your legs twitched inward but not out of lust (not when Primo’s sermon was focused more on wrath today), or how your body’s momentary lurch. Much like your prayer for strength, though, you suspected this plea went ignored. You didn’t need to look up and see Terzo’s smile falter to think that.
The moment Papa Primo dismissed the congregation, you made quick work of the camouflage offered by the uniforms of habits and lace.
When a quick glance back allowed you to catch sight of a confused-looking Papa Terzo, you forced yourself to swallow the pathetic truth: You were never going to find the courage to even say sorry, let alone that you no longer wanted to see him.
What you did find – or rather, what found you – was an overwhelming torrent of grief and frustration as you flung yourself into your room and back into the bed where your day had started with a massive hitch. You shoved your face into your flattening pillow and hoped there was just enough down still left in it to muffle up your screams. And tears. Belial, you told yourself you wouldn’t cry over this sort of thing anymore. Over anyone. You should’ve been used to this type of thing by now, so what was the use in wasting energy like this?
What was the point in dwelling on how nice it all was, how nice Terzo made you feel, or how you secretly looked forward to your conversations, no matter how bizarre or intellectual? You gained nothing but the label of immature whenever you indulged in the schoolgirlish feeling of letting Terzo accompany you in the halls. Indulgence might have been encouraged by the Church, but not when it hurt or disrupted the paths of others’ own pursuits.
There was absolutely no way what you had done wasn’t going to inevitably end in pain of some kind, be it physical on your part or mental and emotional on Terzo’s.
But then again, maybe . . . Maybe you didn’t have to do this after all? Maybe you could make peace with where things were headed. You wouldn’t be able to let him inside of you in the traditional sense, no, but surely that just meant that you would just have to . . . adjust things? Yeah . . . Yeah, maybe that could work . . .
Maybe I could earn his love in other ways? Prove that I’m not ungrateful and won’t waste his feelings? Intrusive visions of you “earning” that love projected onto the walls of your mind. Under more pleasant, more normal circumstances, some of the ideas would’ve been a delight for you in some way. Par for the course of a healthy relationship.
But the possibility that these might be the only ways to grant you worthiness, to allow you to deserve Terzo’s attention and love, to deserve Terzo . . . It felt tainted. It felt like an even worse lie to perform. It burned like a poison through your mind and heart before becoming incorporated with all the other pains rising to the surface.
The knock at your door was a welcome distraction, but only long enough for you to forget the possibility of it being Terzo on the other side.
You contemplated pretending that nobody was home before a muffled voice said, “I can smell you through the door, y’know.” Ah. A ghoul. Better in that it wasn’t Terzo, but worse in that you couldn’t avoid them. To your chagrin, the trek from your bed to the door wasn’t nearly long enough to look presentable or like you hadn’t been crying.
You could practically feel their eyes through the mask, studying your tear-stained ones as they smelled the salt that had settled on your cheeks. Nonetheless, they continued ever professionally with, “Papa III has sent me to come retrieve you.” From the way they barely contained their tail’s amused wagging, it was clear that they were getting a rise out of the insinuations of the invitation.
You may as well have been off to the gallows (or worse, Sister’s office) with how dour your disposition was. Being a part of the Emeritus line, Terzo’s chambers were further away from your humble digs in the Siblings’ quarters. Still, it felt as though there wasn’t nearly enough time from your door to his for you to concoct whatever it was you could say or do. Which, to be fair, wasn’t really much to begin with anyway. You were screwed, your fate sealed the moment the ghoul knocked on one of a pair of the large, wooden doors.
“Entrare,” the room’s occupant answered. Your heart beat icy pumps as you and your escort obliged.
You’d never been inside Terzo’s quarters before, not that you hadn’t been invited. Granted, the first few times had been in the very beginning, before he’d realized that his usual tricks weren’t going to work on an unusual suspect. He never brought it back up again, even as the two of you appeared to grow more comfortable with one another.
It was a shame, then, that you were too possessed with anxiety to properly take it all in: In another, more pleasant mental space, you would have adored the large, framed vintage posters that decorated the rich purple walls, or giggled at just how much purple and gold this guy actually used in one admittedly spacious but still single space.
You couldn’t properly see it, being in what appeared to be more of a lounging area (really, how big was the average Emeritus’s room compared to the lowly Siblings’ quarters?), but you could just make out what appeared to be a bedroom down a small coridor. From what little you could see, there was a bed made of rich, dark wood with a velvety canopy.
Dramatic, but fitting for someone like Terzo, you mused in a split second of clarity before the gravity of the situation returned with ten times the weight as before. After all, here you were, standing in the boudoir of the man whom you’d been avoiding all day. Avoiding because you’d failed to do your due diligence and warn him against pursuing you. And there was his damn bed right freaking there – !!!
That prey animal instinct from mass began to skitter back as you instinctively began to look for ways out of this. Maybe you could leap out that Satanic Tiffany glass window? You’d be killing two birds with one stone if you did: You could get out of a confrontation, and the action would surely unnerve Terzo enough for him to draw back, right?
However, the make-believe agility and will to do so quickly dissolved out of you the moment you heard the voice you’d been avoiding all day once more. “Grazie, Wisp,” he addressed the ghoul. From the sounds of it, he must’ve been in a room off to the side, away from view. Despite Terzo not being visible to them, the ghoul still offered a bow in respect before taking their leave (though not without their nosiness prompting them to sneak one last look into the room).
You winced in sync with the door clicking shut, the soft padding of footsteps on the plush carpeting thundered in your ears as Terzo made his appearance. Even though he made sure to keep some space between the both of you, you still felt increasingly like a trapped animal.
As much as you wanted to cast your eyes down and pretend to be intrigued by the fact that the flooring was black instead of some shade of purple, acting as though nothing was amiss was your best course of action. Even if you felt your breathing hitch both with uneasiness and infatuation over the fact that, yet again, the man’s face was bare of his usual paints. It did, however, carry a small look of concern. While you felt guilty, perhaps him being worried would be easier to work with than him being outright upset?
You tried to predict the sort of things a concerned Terzo might say and what responses would be appropriate when you noticed something else about him: His clothing. You didn’t expect Terzo to be lounging in his own living space in his robes but even then, he tended to favor going about in his suit. This was the first time you’d seen him in anything that could be considered casual and not relating to his position as a Papa. The first time you’d seen him in pants that were actually tailored, actually! It was questionable if a men’s blouse made from what might’ve been silk could qualify as “informal”, but your brain was currently unable to drum up that inquiry.
Instead, it was too busy focusing on how the top was being worn: With only the top two buttons undone, the edge of what was more likely than not an absolute thicket of black chest hairs was visible. (If you were a stronger person – a better, more functioning one – you would’ve absolutely braved that thicket like a safari explorer.)
You gulped, realizing that maintaining eye contact was going to be harder than usual. If you were quicker about keeping your wits, you might’ve tried to speak up first. Maybe with a “Hi, Papa. How ‘bout that afternoon mass, amirite?” But Terzo beat you to it.
“. . . How are you?” he inquired. Surprisingly, there wasn’t even a hint of accusation in his tone. “Are you doing alright today?”
I’m anxious to the point of sickness and contemplating vandalism with your window, you wanted to say.
“’M alright. Just tired, I guess,” you shrugged. Judging by the way Terzo’s lips pressed into a thin line, he probably didn’t believe you. However, if there was anything you’d learned in your time together, it was that Terzo wasn’t exactly the type to prod. It was easy to assume from the flamboyant persona that he was far nosier than he really was. But the unfortunate and lovely reality was that Terzo trusted you. Worse was that he trusted you enough to both see his true face, and to tell him how you felt when you were comfortable. Your stomach dropped when you remembered the fact you’d been crying before this. Were your eyes still reddened and puffy? Did he notice?
“Vedo,” he replied before slowly crossing his arms. "Well, if that is the case, then perhaps we must do a bit of a raincheck for the evening, yes?”
Your brows lightly twitched in a nonplussed fashion. It was then that you finally noticed the full scope of the room you were in. It was more like a den than an actual lounging area, complete with a TV on a DVD loading screen and a couch sat before it.
You forgot to blink as it hit you. This was what Terzo had been referring to during his face reveal yesterday: He was asking you to watch a movie with him! And you, in your lovesick stupor, had agreed wholeheartedly to it!
Logic (and a sense of cowardice self-preservation) would have dictated that you leap at the opportunity to leave. You needed time to regroup. Maybe make a sacrifice to Satanas in the hopes that that might win you some courage to do what needed to be done.
But before you could commit to it, you reminded yourself: You needed to act unbothered. You’d already aroused suspicion in Terzo as it was. If Terzo thought you really wanted to watch a movie with him, as you had outright stated, then you needed to watch a movie with him. All you had to do was sit down at a reasonable distance and appear completely invested. Too invested to possibly think about how you wanted to tangle your fingers into his chest hair. Or how you absolutely shouldn’t want to do that at all.
“N-no, I’m good!” you insisted a little too eagerly. “I can stay up, I’m not that tired.”
He quirked a brow but questioned no further. “If you insist. Come: I have a small setup.”
The setup being an oddly-shaped popcorn bucket (why . . . did it look kind of like a pope hat?) filled with cheese doodles and a bottle of red wine to be shared between two glasses. You took only the smallest handful of doodles to be courteous but turned down the wine under the claim that you were trying to cut back. The reality was you couldn’t risk letting alcohol lubricate you into either melting down or melting into his lap as you both settled in.
The Man Who Laughs, read the title card. A name just vague enough to sound familiar though you didn’t really know a thing about it. When Terzo briefly explained that its main character, Gwynplaine, had been the visual inspiration for The Joker from Batman, you expected some early horror flick. Perhaps being treated to an hour or two’s worth of a spiteful man seeking revenge and wreaking havoc on the innocent. Odd choice in what you could only describe as a movie date, but you were already in too deep and far too high-strung to comment.
But as the film progressed, you found yourself surprised. Not only because the plot was far from what you’d predicted, but also because you also hadn’t been expecting a sense of solidarity. Sure, you’d never been a stage performer whose disfigurement made him a laughingstock to the pauper and nobleman alike. But nonetheless, Gwynplaine’s plight resonated with you. Something about being an introverted, soft-hearted person who feared their worthiness of love was thwarted by something they had no control over.
When you’d settled on the couch that evening, your goal had been to merely pretend to take the movie in. But the tenderness exhibited by the film’s two main love interests made that all but impossible for you. You now existed in a strange and uncomfortable middle ground: Too invested to keep your wits, but too aware of how uncomfortable the relation was. If this were some vintage horror flick, there might’ve arguably been a chance to hide any visible anxieties as suspense-born fear.
But between the “smiling” man swooning into the beautiful Dea’s touch, to him hiding into himself when his insecurities got the better of him, you just kept being reminded of your own circumstances, and how Terzo had given you his full face when you couldn’t even give him the truth.
A wave of self-directed disgust began to boil in you, causing you to briefly tic. Otherwise, though, you remained stiff. It was a fair film, after all, and it was a shame that you were corrupting yet one more thing that was dear to Terzo by equating it with your own problems.
But inside you were the beginnings of a nor’easter of biblical proportions: Deluges depicted you forcing yourself through your fears in a pathetic effort to prove to him he could still love you; the voices of failed relationships past split through your mind like thunderclaps; even the howling winds sounded like your whimpers whenever you trapped yourself in the bathroom, determined but failing to conquer Q-tips and dilators and even your own pinky finger. The flood they all created sloshed and battered about your insides and squeezed at your lungs, brutalizing your mind.
Just relax already, they said.
You’re just being difficult! they had accused.
Quit holding out! they demanded.
The film became less and less visible to you as you tried to steady your breathing and cling to something inside. Please, Dark Lord, great Old One, you prayed once more. Did you want silence? Freedom? For the moment to end, or for everything to pause? You couldn’t tell with all this noise. Please –
Forget it.
Despite being born from the storm, it hung over it, breaking through everything and silencing all. Even your prayer felt muted compared to how deafening the command sounded in your head. The voice did not belong to the Dark One, however. It didn’t even belong to the other Big Guy. You knew this voice, actually. It had been years since you’d last seen or heard from its owner, but you still heard it nearly every day since. And they always said the same thing every time:
No one is going to put up with this if you can't fix it!
You fought to contain any reaction from reaching the surface, but you failed: You shuddered. Violently so. You had to quickly cover it up with an overcorrection of tensing, but you thought you’d managed.
You didn’t even have time to make up an excuse when you caught Terzo moving from the corner of your eye. He was getting closer – no: His arm was getting closer. Angling to wrap around you.
There shouldn’t have been anything intimidating about the idea of Terzo, coming at you with 30% of his hairy chest out, possibly aiming to get some over-the-shoulder action. Unfortunately for you, at this point, you were beyond intimidated. This was made clear with your reaction of jerking away, emitting a gaspy, yelpy whimper you never knew you could even make.
And for a moment, everything but the film froze.
It was an odd juxtaposition, the swelling orchestral music playing as you both just stared at one another without a single hint of romance. You truly were like Gwynplaine now, hands covering your mouth as your eyes stared wide. Terzo’s own eyes being wide was rather commonplace, but the way he stared at you now made you feel uneasy. It was almost as though those big eyes of his were suddenly seeing everything in high definition, able to see now see every crack in the structure that was you.
The soundtrack could’ve played on for an eternity before his low voice quietly spoke above it.
“Mia cara. . .? Are you okay?” He sounded even more uncertain than he did yesterday when he asked you about his face. When you failed to respond, he tried much softer: “(Y/N).”
Your breath hitched, icy and cold in your burning throat. You could count the times he’d used your actual name on one hand. Nearly all of them had been during the very beginning of your interactions. Back when he was trying to prove the extent of his interest. Otherwise, it was always a term of endearment: “Mia sorellina” or “Tesoro mio” or “Piccina mia” and so on.
Always “mio/a”. Always his, even when you had no right to be. But now, as he stared at you, having to resort to using your actual name, he must’ve been starting to realize that . . .
Even though it had done you no favors this entire evening, you let panic guide you to spring into action. You stammered and struggled for words as you tried to make yourself untense.
“I-I’m – I’m sorry, I was just so enthralled –” Did that word even fit here? “I was really into the movie, the sudden movement startled me and –” But it wasn’t so sudden, was it? “I’m really sorry, I just –”
But you just what? You did not know, and it was extremely apparent the more you talked.
“I thought you were cold,” Terzo gently reasoned once your words tapered off. At this, the arm you’d feared was coming to corner you shook gently. In his hand was the edge of a throw blanket you’d been leaning against. “I was going to offer you some cover. I thought you’d been stiff this entire while, and then you shuddered, so I . . .”
His movements were notably slower now. Felt the need to be more careful, even if all he was doing was reaching for the remote to finally pause the ongoing show.
His eyes were less wide as well, but what they left in their wake was a firm yet troubled stare. It wasn’t meant to make you feel so afraid, but the feeling was there regardless.
“(Y/N),” he stated carefully. “If you are not comfortable, then I need you to tell me. I am a big boy, I can understand boundaries. If I’ve been moving too fast or made you uncomfortable in any way, I –”
“The problem isn’t you, it’s me,” you interrupted. God. Satan. Whomever had stuck around to witness this travesty. Being the truth didn’t make it seem any less lame. And judging by how Terzo’s demeanor shifted into being unimpressed, he clearly thought so as well.
“To be brutally frank, Sorella, I was hoping for a bit more . . . honesty.” The delivery of that last word faltered somewhat, but it was more than enough to provide a healthy punch to your gut. Actually hearing Terzo express disappointment towards you was far more devastating than anything your mind could have concocted. He’d already implied on multiple occasions how he’d often found himself on the shorter end of a seemingly mutual trust. Now you were just another person who’d failed to uphold their end.
While true, something in you felt the need to still fight back.
“No, you don’t get it,” you hoarsely insisted against the tightening of your throat. Your fingers immediately set to biting into your arms as they crossed.
“Then help me to!” he finally demanded. “You’ve been acting strange ever since yesterday, so what? Is it me after all? My face? What?!” The frenzy, while warranted, made everything inside you curl inward. Everything suddenly felt too big, too loud for the decreasing space inside you. Your lungs couldn’t expand enough, and you could practically feel the hurricane inside you banging at your eyes to be let out. Your teeth sank into your lips just as your nails sank even more into your arms. Anything to bite back and fight back what was quickly becoming inevitable.
He must have realized what he’d done, or perhaps he just used his eyes to see you practically shrinking. His expression uncrumpled into something more tender and apologetic, but creases of quiet frustration remained.
“Cara. (Y/N),” he corrected, his more patient voice from before returning. “I apologize for my outburst. Really. I do. But . . . Please: What is going on?”
If you opened your mouth, you were fucked.
“I cannot fix things if you don’t tell me what needs to be fixed.”
Soft like dynamite. The dam splintered, it cracked, and then it collapsed entirely. Your body was never one to take things in or hold them, after all.
“You can’t fix me . . .” It was quiet and light and it weighed down on your insides like no other.
Terzo’s brows gathered. “. . . Perdono?”
“I said you can’t fix me, okay?!” you repeated, your sentence made jagged and uneven by its sobbing delivery. The sudden explosion left the normally calm Papa taken aback. His lips parted, surely about to question what you could possibly mean, but the flood was unrelenting as it poured from your eyes and lips.
“I’m sorry! I lied! I lied, I lied, I lied, okay!? My body doesn’t work, okay, it’s fucking broken, and I knew it all along but I couldn’t tell you because I’m a f-fucking coward a-and I’m s-s-elfish – And – !” But this point, though, your throat far too tight and painful to even try continuing. Besides, you’d said all of what mattered, right? That you’d lied to him by omission, that you were broken, and that you were a goddamn selfish coward for pretending otherwise.
The truth hurt but you deserved this pain, having only yourself to blame that you were experiencing this on this man’s couch instead of in the privacy of your room. Everything in you screamed to get up and run back there, in fact, but you lacked the will to do anything other than stay put in a near-blinding fit of crying, probably fucking up the sofa with all the tears you were leaking onto it. You might’ve stayed that way even longer if it weren’t for a sudden nudging at your knee.
Apparently at some point during your pity party, Terzo had taken the opportunity to get up and . . . retrieve a box of tissues? Not leave? Or call for a ghoul to come and get you? Actually, that made a bit of sense: He was too much of a gentleman to kick somebody out while they were crying, no matter how awkward the circumstances.
As much as the punishing part of you wanted to reject it, the suffocation of your snotty nose was intolerable. You accepted the tissue box and dug in until your face stung with how much you had to wipe at it.
Terzo meanwhile resumed his seat, making sure to allow you space as you let out whatever nonverbal emotion you needed to let out. He didn’t force you to talk – not that you could, remaining a coughing, hiccupping mess even as the emotional tempest began to recede.
In fact, he himself didn’t say a word until you’d managed to work yourself down to pathetic, wet sniffles and tremors.
“. . . You know you’re not broken, right?” he asked. You almost didn’t hear it about you
You sniffled, perplexed. Terzo watched patiently as he continued, “Look: I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But what I do know is that you make me laugh. I like talking to you. I like talking with you. I just. Like you. So clearly, something about you must work, si?”
You shook your head. No. No, that’s what they all said. Maybe not like that, but they all said one of two things:
Either they claimed this didn’t bother them and that they could work with your condition, only to later realize they couldn’t keep up the lie; or they would ask to go your separate ways. He hadn’t done the latter yet, but after everything you’d put him through, he at least deserved specification to make that decision.
“No, I mean,” you took in a deep, shaky inhale. Mostly to calm the discomfort. “I mean. My body – It literally doesn’t – I have a condition, Terzo.” You paused just enough to let the words sink in – for the both of you. It never got easier to say no matter how many times you said it. “I can’t have sex. Not in a normal way, anyway. So, like. No penetrating or whatever. Not even, like, a tongue. Shit hurts so I don’t – I can’t bother with it. And like.” You twisted your fingers. “That feels kind of antithetical to the whole ‘living deliciously’ vibe or whatever you’re supposed to be promoting. So . . .”
So there. That was it. In a sick sort of way, you did feel somewhat of a weight lifted. The heavy, gross feeling of rejection still sat within you, but you had a familiarity with it. In time, it, too, would fizzle back into the recesses of your mind. You could . . . live with it there . . .
“. . . So what?” Terzo practically huffed, barely fighting back a smirk, one you couldn’t tell if it was from his own words, or in response to the stunned expression you now wore. “First off – and forgive me for missing any point – but you do realize that the whole of that whole ‘living deliciously’ shit comes from making choices, right? If sex is what you’re talking about, I don’t necessarily need sex. Is nice, yes, but. It’s not my whole fucking life, you know.”
. . . Well, no, but . . . To be fair, that rockstar persona certainly made that easy to not consider. Before you could argue this, he continued.
“Second off,” Terzo held up two fingers. “You do realize sex is more than just insert-dick-in-pussy, yes? Your Papa is . . . Well, he knows he is no blushing virgin, we shall say. No offense.” (At this, your expression blanked. Bemusement was superior to distress, though, you supposed.) “But do you really think that I think there is only one way to make sex count? Cara, per favore: Sex is sex! So long as everyone is having fun – and consenting! – then what is there to worry about?”
“E in terzo luogo,” he added a third finger before giving all three a wiggle, “do you really think that I would do all this if all I wanted was a quick fuck? I mean, think about it, piccina. Give me more credit.”
Well, when he put it like that . . . Your cheeks and ears burned less from humiliation, but from a much softer breed of embarrassment.
“Well . . . no . . .” you admitted. “B-but going back to the choice thing – I thought the idea was to make choices that don’t hurt anybody.”
He nodded with agreement. “Questo è vero. But here we are. And no one got hurt, si?”
You bit your lip, “But . . . I lied to you. I wasted your time, and – ” At this, Terzo’s hand rose, signaling for you to shut your yap.
“I’m gonna stop you right there, dolcezza,” he spoke, his features tame but stern. “You did not waste my time. Okay? I gave you my time. And I wouldn’t ask for a moment of it back. And do you know why?” He didn’t even allow you enough time to make a snarky response: “Because I chose to spend it with you. Even if I’d known, I’d choose you. And why would I not? Sei una bellisima compagnia, and I already love what we do together, even if it’s not fucking. Now, have I thought about us fucking? Yes! Often!” (You felt your blush deepening at his rather blunt confession.)
“But I have also thought about things we have talked about; things I would like for us to talk about; things I would like for us to do – besides each other, I mean. But it here’s a fourth thing.”
No fourth finger this time. Just him offering you his hand. You felt every particle in your abdomen squish and flip over the simple gesture, but curiosity made you pushed through to accept it. Even as his other hand came over on top of yours, any trapped feeling you might’ve had mere moments before never came forward. If anything, you felt . . . here? And for as buzzy as “here” felt, you didn’t want to run from it.
Terzo gave your hand a grounding squeeze as his eyes remained locked with your own. “I’m never gonna do something that hurts you. Alright?” he swore. “And if I do? Then I need you, I beg of you to tell me. Because if you don’t want to do anything, then we don’t do anything. We do nothing but enjoy one another’s company. That is plenty enough for me, dolcezza, I can promise you this. Do you understand?”
You gulped. You didn’t even realize your eyes had widened until you found yourself needing to blink back a fresh, much smaller batch of warm tears. You could practically feel your mind scrambling, trying to reference past experiences that could help you work off of this. Maybe proof he was lying, an argument you could present – something to make this all make sense!
But it found nothing of the sort. No one, in all those times, had ever offered a third thing, let alone one where you felt like you had an actual say in how things went.
Should . . . Should you nod? Could you be trusted to make the right decision here? You nodded. It was uneasy and uncertain, but the smile it gave Terzo seemed to be the proper answer.
“Good girl,” he affirmed. Oh. Yep. That was the right answer, you decided with a jittery exhale.
“Now!” Terzo exclaimed before giving the back of your hand a gentle pat and releasing it. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to finish our movie. Call me a firm nerd but I’ve waited all night to hear your thoughts on this, no joking.”
The change in atmosphere was dizzying as Terzo readjusted himself into a more comfortable position, as though you hadn’t just bared your soul and literal intimacies to him and had him respond in the most genuine and affirming way possible. Not as though it were nothing, but more like it was just not nearly as distressing as what you’d prepared yourself to face. With the storm settling and the fog of anxiety clearing, it became increasingly apparent just how discolored your thoughts had become by your past experiences. Of course Terzo wouldn’t be so rigid about sex: It went against everything he stood for, everything he was!
Of course, complete acceptance on your end wouldn’t be immediate. But you could work with this. Though, there was admittedly one last concern you had before movie night resumed.
“B-but.” You stopped short as Terzo turned his attention back to you. You had to remind yourself that the nerves you felt now were nothing compared to before. You could do this. “But . . . What if I . . . do want to do something?”
A bushy brow at the insinuation.
“N-not now! Not immediately,” you clarified. Suddenly the fringe of the throw blanket required your attention as you began fidgeting with it. “I just . . . You know.” You gave an awkward shrug and glanced up at him, a look of pleading twinkling in your eyes as you hoped he understood what you meant. Not any time soon, perhaps, but . . . Some day? You watched as the right corner of his mouth, the one where that darling beauty mark lay, rose up into a smile.
“Then, cuore mio, we talk about it,” he answered simply. “And, if you still want to ‘do something’ after?” He leaned in, the warmth of his smile heating into a devilish smirk.
“We do it. Whatever that may look like for us.”
You nearly blacked out when the bastard had the audacity to wink at you.
He then clicked play, shifting back into place as Gwynplaine and Dea came back to life. By the time you’d managed to regain your composure and refocus on the movie, Dea was cradling Gwynplaine’s tearful face in her hands. Assuming you hadn’t missed anything, this was the first time the poor soul had actually ever let her touch his face in all its deformed glory. And judging by her jubilant reaction, Dea couldn’t have been happier.
Good for him, you quietly delighted. It was absolutely what he deserved after all that time spent torturing himself over nothing. As you resituated yourself back into the cushions, you briefly noted how the voices from before, while still there, were much quieter. They lacked the power provided by the storm, and any time one of them seemed to try and get louder, you’d hear Terzo’s voice smother it out.
I’d choose you, he affirmed.
Good girl, he praised.
You know you’re not broken, right? he reminded.
It gave you goosebumps, though not the kind that the throw blanket could pat out. But you had a theory.
It seemed that the Old One had finally chosen now to put some courage in you. Better late than never, you supposed as you began to inch closer and closer along the couch until you could feel the heat radiating off Terzo’s body. The proximity in itself was thrilling enough, but the boldness didn’t stop there.
You tested the waters, leaning a little further into him, only for his arm to calmly come around you. Whatever space that remained was quickly closed as you felt yourself being tugged and cushioned into his side. You had only a nanosecond to catch the barely-contained smile on his face before you practically melted into place. Terzo’s touch, his scent, his warmth, his everything flooded into you, filling you with a simultaneous calmness and a vigor you hadn’t felt in years.
Your dream from before had been right after all: You belonged here, right next to your Papa.
A/N: I wrote this to calm myself down about having a panic attack over my dad having cancer, but I kept this general so it can be read as any panic attack or intrusive thoughts
Breath
Hiccups, sobs.
Try to breathe again.
No, it’s not working,.
It’s picking up again, damnit, the tears won’t stop.
The thoughts pick up too. What if… it’ll happen…
No, stop.
Keep breathing.
You run your hands through your hair, trying to ground yourself again.
The tears keep coming, despite the tireless efforts to clam yourself down. Remember your therapist’s words. None of this is real, none of those thoughts are real.
You’re okay, you’re safe, nothings wrong.
Time passes quicker than you can process it, curled up in bed and tears staining your face.
Quick breaths, in, out.
And again, before you process, another presence, one you surely knew was going to come if you were still in the right headspace. You must’ve forgotten by this point.
Another person’s body beside you, their weight and warmth grounding you back to reality, the soft sheets below you, the small sound of a fan going somewhere in your room.
A familiar presence, a familiar scent, a familiar touch.
He’s here with you, shushing you, filling your head with him, leaving no room for those awful thoughts.
It’s just him.
Every hiccup, every sob, every explanation is quickly shushed.
Theres a bounce in the way he holds you, almost as if comforting a crying infant.
Your breath evens, tears slowing, exhaustion slowly taking over fear and anxiety.
The presence pulls you closer, his arms tight around you, almost like a weighted blanket.
You close your eyes.
And he slowly lowers you to bed, still shushing you.
No words are spoken, none are needed.
He tucks you in, his fingers running through your hair, making sure to keep that pressure on you.
